The Reluctant King

by Jill Williamson

  “Anything yet?” he asked.

  She glanced over her shoulder, then calmly resumed her original posture. “No.”

  “Why not voice Barek for an update?”

  “Voicing is an amazing magic, Your Grace, but sometimes I simply want to use my eyes and ears and practice patience like a normal person.”

  Oli stopped beside her and set his hands on the stone crenellation. One hand of flesh and blood, another carved of wood, now scuffed and worn. He well understood the desire for normalcy and knew how little she liked this new magic. “That is why I came up here, rather than voice you.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Again she did not come. I waited half an hour.”

  Inolah’s shoulders curled inward and she sighed softly. “She is suffering. We all are.”

  Sorrow crawled up Oli’s throat then, threatening to consume him. He forced it down. Rosârah Zeroah could hide away as long as she needed to, but he could not. There was far too much to be done at present. “What can I do if she won’t come?”

  “I’m sure you have other tasks, Your Grace,” Inolah said. “Work with the boys?”

  “Teaching her to shield was the last thing he asked of me.”

  “And you will do it, when she is ready.”

  “We are talking of Zeroah Barta-Hadar. She might never be ready.”

  “She might look frail, but she has bones of bronze. I promise she will surprise you.”

  Oli doubted that. He had known the newly widowed queen since she was a child. She had always been predictably Sarikarian—temperate and pious. She might have bones of bronze, but she had a disposition to match. She was not a woman to give way once her mind was set, and like Inolah, she disliked the voicing magic.

  “I am far more concerned about my youngest brother,” Inolah said. “I don’t know Trevn at all. They say he is a troublemaker. That he plays more than he works. I did not see that in his behavior aboard the Seffynaw. He proved the opposite of every rumor. Still I wonder . . . can he handle this burden?”

  Oli did not think so, but he would never speak such things aloud. “It is unfortunate he trained for the priesthood. We could use a military man at present.”

  She cocked an eyebrow his way. “Like you?”

  Warmth spread through his chest. “That is not what I meant. I have no desire to rule.”

  “Neither does Trevn, I daresay. Barek is afraid someone will kill him and is determined to increase his guard. He says Rosâr Wilek should not have had only one guard with him when he died.”

  “Even with five dozen guardsmen, one cannot predict what will happen in the heat of battle. Rosâr Wilek made his choice to try to rescue Miss Onika. It was a noble and righteous decision, and I will not fault him for it.”

  Inolah looked back out over the lake. “A lot of good it did anyone.”

  “She is alive,” Oli said. “That is something.”

  “They never planned to kill her,” Inolah said. “Had Wilek let her be, he might be alive now.”

  It was true; he might. But Oli did not expect a woman to understand decisions made in the chaos of battle.

  “Have you communicated with Miss Onika lately?” Inolah asked.

  “Not since yesterday, but I can sense her awareness.”

  Inolah huffed. “I think you imagine that you can sense a person’s awareness.”

  “I knew you were on the roof, didn’t I?”

  “You could have found me by making inquiries.”

  “I made no inquiries. I sensed your awareness, just as I sense hers.”

  “Where is she, then, Your Grace? Use your magic, if you can. Because if we cannot find her, my brother died for nothing.”

  Oli closed his eyes and sought out the pale prophetess. His mind’s eye traveled thorough the castle at breakneck speed, in and out of rooms and down the spiral staircase, then suddenly jumped to a camp in a forested area. The mismatched tents gave the appearance of a refugee camp, but the circular formation suggested a military operation. Oli drew near one tent in particular. It was smaller than many of the others and located on the outskirts of camp.

  He passed through the green canvas of the tent and found himself looking down on the interior from above. A woman lay on a pallet. She had pale skin and nearly white hair. Miss Onika. She appeared to be sleeping.

  “I see her,” he said, keeping his eyes closed. “She is in a tent in a military camp.”

  “She has told us that much,” Inolah said.

  Oli tried to back away and instantly found himself on the castle roof again. He blew out a frustrated sigh and opened his eyes. “If I had better control and could keep my mind from jumping, I might be able to trace my way to the location of the—”

  “There,” Inolah said, pointing across the lake to the east. “Armania’s new king comes.”

  Oli followed her gaze to the procession, which, from this distance, looked like a line of beetles. Uneasiness filled his stomach. If Trevn Hadar were able to rule himself with some consistent level of decorum, Oli might have faith in the young man commanding their realm, but the firebrand of Castle Everton had never been known for practicality or restraint. Still, Rosâr Wilek had believed in his little brother enough to make him his Heir. That had to count for something.

  Didn’t it?

  Trevn

  With the castle isolated on its island, nearly impregnable and accessible only by water, commoners could not congregate outside the castle gate as they had done in Everton. The bargemen were not permitted to take just anyone across. So the people gathered at the pier gates, even though their chances of seeing any royalty were usually quite slim.

  Today was an exception, however, and when the procession stopped inside the gates and Trevn climbed out of the carriage, the crowd grew rowdy, yelling out his name.

  “Rosâr Trevn will help us!”

  “He’s a good sort.”

  “The people’s king, he’ll be!”

  Trevn reached out for them with his mind and sensed a hodgepodge of emotions, the strongest of which were eagerness, excitement, and overwhelming concern.

  He helped Mielle down from the carriage. It seemed colder here, near the water, and he pulled her cloak closed in front. “I’m going to speak with the people,” he said. “Would you like to come?”

  “Absolutely,” she said.

  “Today might not be the best day,” Barek said. “The crowds have been rude and uncivilized of late.”

  “Then I shall find out why,” Trevn said, leading Mielle toward the gate. He had always been a favorite of the people for the very reason that he consistently made time to talk with them. After being gone so long, he would not pass them by without a word.

  Cadoc whistled, and Nietz, Rzasa, and Bonds came running. The four men spaced themselves out around Trevn and Mielle and escorted them to the gate that separated the road from the pier.

  As they neared, the crowd got even louder. Trevn tried to make out the words. Hungry . . . Dead . . . Stolen . . . Something about a tree . . . a missing child . . .

  “Hush now!” Cadoc yelled, waving his hands. “His Highness wants to hear you, but you must speak in turn.”

  The crowd quieted, and one man’s voice rose from the back. “Outlaws stole five of my sheep.”

  “Took eight from me!” yelled another.

  “Stole laundry right off my lines.”

  “Emptied my cellar!”

  A woman in front, hands clutching the bars, said, “My child was taken, but I think it was giants. Will you help me find him? He’s just a boy.”

  “What is his name?” Trevn asked.

  “Hedry. He is six years old.”

  “My Alpert was taken too!” a man yelled.

  “We will look for your children,” Trevn said. “Mielle, please learn their names, ages, and descriptions.”

  Mielle stepped close to the woman at the gate.

  “We don’t have enough food for winter,” another man yelled. “Our lord takes
our crops and leaves none for us who grew them.”

  “He means the Duke of Raine,” another man said. “Conscripted my boys into his army.”

  “Took my son too!”

  Tace Edekk, Fonu’s father. “I will speak with him,” Trevn said, not at all looking forward to it. “And I will not let anyone starve.”

  “How you going to feed us all?” A man’s voice. “Food goes into Castle Armanguard, but it don’t come out.”

  Trevn didn’t have an answer. “You who work the fields, do you take no share for yourselves?”

  “That’s against the rules,” a woman said. “Our lords pay us our share, but lately there hasn’t been enough.”

  “Not enough to feed the workers?” Trevn couldn’t believe it. “What lord do you serve?”

  “Lord Blackpool.”

  “I will speak with the earl and find a solution,” Trevn said.

  “My sons were killed in Rosâr Wilek’s war!” a man shouted.

  “Mine too. Died on a fool’s errand.”

  “Died for a trick.”

  “Died for nothing!”

  Trevn choked up at the grief he felt in these voices. “Your men died for our freedom,” he said. “As did Rosâr Wilek. They are all of them heroes.”

  This quieted the crowd.

  “I will see to your concerns,” Trevn said, then led Mielle away from the gate and onto the barge. They stopped at the rail beside Cadoc’s parents. The bargemen pushed off the pier, and the craft began to carry them across the lake toward the castle.

  Barek Hadar had seated himself beside Princess Saria on the bench that ran around the bow. Mielle released Trevn’s arm and walked straight up to the duke.

  “Why do you ignore them?” she asked, gesturing back to the people at the gate.

  “Commoners always protest,” Barek said. “It’s been that way for decades.”

  Trevn followed his wife. “Who from the castle hears their complaints?” he asked.

  “None that I’m aware of,” Barek said. “Rosâr Wilek talked of reinstating the Rosâr’s Bench but never had the time. Nor do you have time at present, Your Highness, so I suggest you put it out of your mind for now.”

  “I will do no such thing,” Trevn said. “Make a list of worthy men I can consider for the title Master of Requests and submit it to me for approval. This person will take down each and every complaint the people have and give a daily report to me.”

  “To us,” Mielle said, taking Trevn’s arm. “I would very much like to help.”

  Trevn gave his wife a single nod of agreement. “There were several complaints about missing boys, and some accused the Duke of Raine of taking them for his army,” he said. “Those are usually paid positions, are they not?”

  “The duke pays his army, yes, and he cannot conscript underage boys without their parents’ permission.”

  “Look into it,” Trevn said. “The people also mentioned some outlaws.”

  “Food and animals have been stolen from several farms, but the sheriff believes the thieves are not outlaws but men sent by one of the lords to cause dissent against the throne.”

  As if the throne didn’t have trouble enough. “Sent by Lord Edekk?” Trevn guessed.

  “Could be.”

  Trevn felt overwhelmed and took a seat on the other side of Princess Saria. Mielle sat beside him and wrapped her arm around his waist, settling her head against his shoulder. Her warmth felt nice in the chilled air, but Trevn’s thoughts were too scattered to relax. He had always been able to pick and choose which problems had interested him, but now every little thing would be laid at his feet. He wasn’t sure how to manage it all.

  “Trouble on your first day?” Saria asked.

  “A king always has problems of some kind,” Trevn said.

  “You think you have problems?” she said. “I’m going to have to find myself a husband very quickly since you got yourself out of our betrothal.”

  Trevn felt Mielle stiffen beside him, and he sent joyous thoughts her way. He had continually made it clear that Saria Pitney was like a sister to him and their betrothal had been a sham Wilek had devised to appease King Loran.

  “Will you stay here long?” Mielle asked.

  “Just the night,” Saria said. “I must return before my ragtag council gives rule of my realm to someone unworthy. Women can’t rule in Sarikar, and since all the royal males were killed, they are quite desperate. But I can’t let them give the throne to just any man, nor will I marry just any man.”

  “I could ask Hinck to marry you,” Trevn said, winking.

  Saria rolled her eyes. “Oh, do go on, Trevn. To have a husband who would put spiders in my bed, jelly in my soap dish, and call me Sorry Odd all day? I confess it has always been my dearest wish.”

  Trevn chuckled. “Yes, well, I do believe your Stink Man has given up most of his pranking ways.”

  “Did he ever tell you about our little romance?” Saria asked.

  Trevn balked. “You and Hinck? When?”

  “When you went to King Echad’s wedding to Lady Ojeda. Kanzer invited him to Faynor to hunt.”

  Trevn couldn’t believe it. “He never even hinted that something had happened.”

  Saria shrugged. “It wasn’t anything worth telling, I suppose. The trip was short, and once we returned to Pixford, life went back to its routine and Hinck went back to teasing me. Rosârah Mielle, let me tell you about the time I entered my bedchamber to find three pigs running wild. They had numbers one, three, and four painted in charcoal on their sides. I spent three days looking for pig number two.”

  “Until I had mercy and told her Hinck had never brought in a second pig,” Trevn said.

  Mielle laughed, and Trevn and Saria joined in.

  “That was my life with two spoiled boys growing up in my home,” Saria said.

  Trevn smiled at the fond memories, saddened at the knowledge that he would never visit Brixmead again, but as they neared the castle entrance, a nostalgic sense of home pleased him. That anything felt like home at this point in his life seemed hopeful. Trevn thought of the grieving commoners out working the fields. If they could endure in the wake of such loss and hardship, then he—despite the growing adversity surrounding him—must also find the courage to carry on.

  They reached the pier on the other side and climbed out of the barge. As they walked under the castle gatehouse and through the outer bailey, Trevn noted the busyness of a castle preparing for winter. Several coopers were hard at work assembling barrels for storage. Carts of hay, fruit, nuts, wheat, and jugs of milk were being transported inside, either for storage in the cellar or to the kitchen for making cheese. A crowd around the butcher area was assisting with the slaughtering of livestock.

  By the time they entered the inner bailey, a crowd had formed in two lines, parted by the guards leading the procession. Everyone was talking, and Trevn sensed frustration and annoyance above all other emotions. These soldiers were in the way of hardworking people with much to do. He again noted how many were dressed in black mourning clothes. Too many had died.

  A child’s voice cut through the din. “There he is! It’s Sâr Trevn. And Miss Mielle too.”

  Trevn felt the crowd’s mood shift into a barrage of conflicting emotions: relief, hope, frustration, though curiosity rose above all else as wandering stares sought him out.

  Those who saw him surged forward, calling his name. The soldiers pushed back, fighting to maintain the path to the castle doors. Mielle clutched Trevn’s arm and he pulled her through the narrow space, desiring only to get her safely inside before they both were trampled.

  They passed through the arched doorway. Now inside the stone walls, the noise instantly dampened, but it was not much warmer. A reception awaited at the foot of the spiral staircase, the entire crowd dressed in blacks. Trevn first saw his sister Inolah standing with her daughter Vallah and holding baby Tinyah. Beside Vallah stood Jhorn—the double amputee who had raised Grayson—holding himself up on his
canes, then Oli Agoros and Danek Faluk. To their left, Rosârah Brelenah and Trevn’s younger sisters Hrettah and Rashah. Many other nobles and various servants were present as well.

  The crowd bobbed unevenly as men bowed and women curtsied. No one rushed to embrace him. Even Rashah stood dutifully in place.

  “Jhorn!” Grayson, who’d been traveling with the larger retinue this entire time, pushed past Trevn and ran to the legless man. He dropped to his knees and the two embraced.

  Trevn, as the king of Armania, received no such greeting. He disliked the level of decorum everyone was exhibiting toward him, but protocol demanded a formal respect and honor toward the crown, and he might as well get used to it.

  Oli Agoros stepped forward and bowed swiftly. “Welcome back to Castle Armanguard, Your Highness,” he said.

  Trevn took a deep breath. “Good midday, everyone. I am glad to be home.”

  Rosârah Brelenah emerged second and curtsied deeply before Trevn and Mielle. Inolah and Wilek’s mother had always been a stunning woman, but grief seemed to have aged her, adding new creases on her forehead and around her eyes. “Your Highness, we were so pleased to hear that you found your bride safe and were able to bring her home,” she said.

  “As was I,” Trevn replied.

  “And Princess Saria too,” she added. “Welcome to Armanguard, my dear. I am so sorry for your great losses.”

  Saria curtsied. “Thank you, rosârah.”

  Rosârah Brelenah stepped close to Trevn. “If it pleases you, sir,” she said softly, “I offer you my onesent, Master Hawley. He has been with me since I came of age. He is very capable, wise, and above all, completely trustworthy.”

  A surge of relief ran through Trevn at one problem solved. Rosârah Brelenah was one of the few people he trusted without question, and he had always liked Master Hawley. Ottee would be grateful as well. The boy could continue on as Trevn’s honor man without needing to worry about carrying the administrative burdens of an entire realm.

  “Are you sure you can part with him, madam?” Trevn asked the former queen.

  “I will miss his company dearly, but anything that will make your transition easier is far more important.”