The Reluctant King

by Jill Williamson

  There were far more shadir down here—must have been thirty-some. They liked pain, and some of the boys were getting struck with the wasters. Three ugly slights instantly drifted toward Grayson, but he ignored them.

  “Your sword is crooked,” he voiced to Danno.

  Danno’s arm wavered, straightening his blade. “It’s not as easy as it might look.”

  “I could do it,” Grayson said.

  “Maybe. But you would get in trouble because you would never be able to follow instructions for so many hours at a time.”

  He had a point. “How does holding a sword in the air help you know how to use it?”

  “Master Zanre says it strengthens our arms and our ability to direct the sword where we want it to go.”

  Grayson grunted, not wanting to admit his interest. He popped closer to inspect this Master Zanre. He was a very tall man with thick muscles, thicker eyebrows, and a flat nose. The sides of his head just above his ears were shaved, and what remained of his hair was very long and braided into dozens of ropes that were bound in three places down his back.

  Grayson continued to watch Danno and voice unsolicited advice, which his friend did not always appreciate. Even this eventually grew tiring, so he popped to the great hall, where Empress Inolah and the Duke of Canden taught school when meals weren’t being served. There were no shadir here, which pleased Grayson.

  Last night at dinner, the young princesses Rashah and Vallah and their friend Lady Trista had befriended Grayson, impressed by his ability to pop around. He had enjoyed entertaining them and was delighted when he learned they could use the mind-speak magic.

  Knowing Empress Inolah would not welcome his intrusion in her class, he exited in the Veil and moved to stand over Princess Rashah’s shoulder. She was working mathematic sums. She was seven years old and a giggler.

  “Four and four makes nine,” Grayson voiced, hoping to make her laugh.

  She gasped and spun around, her wild curls bouncing, “Where are you?”

  He popped to the front of the class, right behind where Empress Inolah was helping Lotte, one of the orphan girls. “I’m up front.”

  As soon as Rashah faced forward, Grayson pushed out of the Veil, so she could see him, then went right back in, invisible again.

  Rashah giggled.

  A knock came to Grayson. “Vallah Orsona.”

  Grayson lowered his shields. “Yes?”

  “You’re going to get us in trouble.” Vallah was only eight but acted like an adult.

  Grayson popped to Vallah’s side and darted in and out of the Veil long enough to knock the stylus out of her hand.

  “Oh!” she said.

  Empress Inolah straightened, her eyes fixed on her daughter. “Is there a problem?”

  “I dropped my stylus.”

  “Then pick it up and get back to sums.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Vallah bent down and reached for her stylus, but Grayson popped into the physical realm long enough to swat it under the desk.

  Vallah’s groan of frustration was drowned out by another knock. “Trista Hadar.”

  Grayson opened his mind to Trista and popped over beside her, staying hidden in the Veil. At twelve, Trista was closest to Grayson’s true age. “You finished all your sums, I see,” he said, studying her tablet.

  “Guess what I’m thinking?” And she raised her shields so quickly, Grayson had no time to listen.

  He tried to push inside her mind, but Trista was very good at shields. He made an absurd guess, hoping to vex her. “You wish you were seated beside Porvil?” Grayson looked over at the orphaned boy who had a tendency to follow Lady Trista everywhere. He was fourteen years old and almost as tall as Grayson.

  Trista’s mouth gaped in shock. “Never! Porvil is a bully. No, I wish Danno were here, suffering with the rest of us. Go tell him I miss him.”

  Grayson didn’t like that Lady Trista was so obsessed with Danno after only briefly meeting him last night. “Tell him yourself.”

  “I don’t want him to know I miss him,” Trista said. “I want you to tell him so he’ll think about me and wonder if it’s true.”

  Grayson didn’t understand girls. “I’ll tell him that’s what you told me to say.”

  A third knock came then—“Inolah Orsona-Hadar”—and Grayson knew he’d been caught.

  The empress was scowling, arms crossed. Princess Vallah stood beside her, mimicking her mother.

  “Vallah,” Trista voiced to Grayson. “Such a babbling mouth.”

  Grayson popped back to the practice field before answering that last knock. “Yes, Empress?”

  “Are you in my classroom?”

  “No, I’m down at the practice field watching Danno learn to fight. He’s using a wooden sword as long as his leg. Do you need me?”

  “I need you to stay out of this classroom while my students are working.”

  “I can do that, Empress.”

  “I certainly hope so.” And she ended the conversation.

  Grayson sighed and looked for Danno. The young soldiers-in-training had been divided into several groups. Some were doing drills, some sparring, while others waited their turn. Some were running with their wooden sword and shield out and ready. Grayson didn’t see Danno anywhere and decided to scare him. Instead of voicing to see where he was, he concentrated on his friend and popped to his location in the physical realm.

  And got hit in the arm by a wooden sword.

  Grayson cried out, stumbled back a few steps, and tripped over a discarded shield. He fell onto his backside in the dry dirt, sending up a cloud of dust.

  “Halt!” The tall drillmaster loomed over Grayson. “Who are you and what are you doing on my practice field?”

  Embarrassed, Grayson shifted into the Veil where no one could see him, though he was still sitting on the ground. He rubbed his arm and glared up at Danno, who had apparently been sparring against his instructor. An orange shadir flew around Grayson, cackling.

  “Who was that and where did he go?” the drillmaster asked.

  “He is Grayson, son of Jhorn, sir,” Danno said. “He has special abilities that allow him to become invisible.”

  “Why did you tell him that?” Grayson voiced his friend as two more shadir arrived.

  “You expect me to lie for you?” Danno asked. “Master Zanre is my superior, and I’m not going to let you get me in trouble. I am learning to be a soldier, and you don’t belong down here.”

  Angry, Grayson popped back to his room in the castle. Jhorn had still not returned, so he fell onto his bed, annoyed. He’d thought his days of being seen as just a troublesome child were over. He’d been the god-man for the giants and the Deliverer for the Puru people. Important. Now he was back to being a pest. At least no shadir had followed him.

  Wanting to feel better about himself, he popped to where Conaw was—into the Veil this time, not wanting to live through anything so embarrassing as jumping into the middle of a sparring match. A visit to his friend’s camp would surely make him feel better.

  When Grayson returned to his chambers in Armanguard, Jhorn was waiting.

  “Where have you been?” Jhorn asked. “You smell like a campfire.”

  “I went to visit Conaw.”

  “After you caused trouble in Empress Inolah’s school and on the practice field?” Jhorn fixed Grayson with a disappointed look. “The king wants you in that very school tomorrow as a student.”

  “School!” Grayson cried. “I’m to study sums?”

  “You are to study whatever the duke and empress deem fitting. If you are not on a special assignment, you are to be in the school.”

  “But I . . .” Grayson felt miserable to have to say it. “I don’t look like a child.”

  “Yet you still behave like one,” Jhorn said. “Sit down.” He removed the red cushion he wore on his back, dropped it on the floor beside Grayson’s bed, and settled on top of it. “It’s time I tell you about your mother and how you came to be born.”
r />   Grayson’s stomach flipped in anticipation. Months ago, Trevn had implied that Grayson had royal blood in his veins since only royalty had the ability to mind-speak. Now he would find out whether or not that was true.

  “How much do you know about Barthel Rogedoth’s past?” Jhorn asked.

  “He is a banished Sarikarian prince and the father of Queen Laviel,” Grayson said, wondering with trepidation if the evil queen might be his mother. “King Trevn told me how Master Rogedoth gave away his daughters to be raised by a noble family because he hoped one of them might marry the king. And one did, but probably only because she had magic to help her.”

  “Well, this story is about Rosârah Laviel’s younger sister, Darlis. Twelve years ago, when Barthel Rogedoth was high priest of the Rôb church, Darlis Nafni was a noblewoman, unmarried despite two engagements that had both ended with her fiancés’ deaths. Her elder sister Laviel was the second wife of King Echad and had borne him two children. Morek had been lost in Rosâr Echad’s Great Sacrifice, but Sâr Janek was a beloved prince. I was a soldier, twenty-eight years old, who had conveniently managed to avoid the war by being in the employ of Barthel Rogedoth, the high priest. I served as one of his many guards, and he often sent us to Nafni House.

  “Darlis was a spoiled, reckless woman. She was jealous of her sister’s position as queen. There were no Armanian princes available for Darlis to marry, and the Nafni family, while noble and well connected, had too distant a royal heritage to draw interest from foreign princes. Besides that, Darlis was not a tempting woman. Don’t mistake me, she was lovely to look upon, but she had an unstable mind and was known to abuse her servants and discharge them without notice.”

  Jhorn was talking about the woman in the past. “Is she dead?”

  “Yes, she is,” Jhorn said.

  The hope in Grayson’s heart shriveled. “Was she my mother?”

  “Yes. She died bringing you into the world.”

  He shivered. “Because I’m a root child.”

  “Yes.”

  Tears flooded Grayson’s eyes. He had killed his own mother. Ever since Trevn had said that Grayson likely had royal blood, he’d hoped his mother might somehow still be alive. It had been silly to hope, but the truth felt like a big rock crushing his chest.

  “I know you, boy, so don’t go blaming yourself,” Jhorn said, patting Grayson’s knee. “This wasn’t your fault, and you’ll hear my full story before you go casting blame in the wrong places.”

  Grayson sniffled. “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, Father Rogedoth, as he was called back then, used to send us guards to Nafni House when there was trouble between Darlis and one of her guests or servants. On one such occasion, we arrived to find her in a fight with Finbar Wallington, Ander Nafni’s nephew and only male heir.”

  “The Duke of Everton?”

  “Yes, that’s his title now, and the very title Darlis so coveted. She seemed to think it should be hers and fancied herself worthy of being a duchess if she could not be a queen. Finbar apparently had made it very clear that his uncle—Ander Nafni, her adopted father—had chosen him to inherit the title upon his death, and she would have to deal with that. Insults were thrown. Things got quite nasty.”

  “Why did she want the title so bad?” Grayson asked.

  “She had always come second as the younger sister, and now that Laviel was a queen, Darlis was mad with jealousy. Back to the fight with Finbar Wallington—Darlis began throwing things at the man. Anything within reach. Plates, paintings, vases, sculptures came flying at the young nobleman. Master Finbar had the unfortunate position of standing before an inner wall with Darlis blocking his exit. There were three of us guards called by Father Rogedoth to intervene. I was the highest-ranking soldier, so I sent my two workfellows to subdue Darlis, while I escorted Master Finbar out.

  “I returned to find Darlis struggling with the guards, screaming obscenities as to how she would have them all killed. I sent them away. Then, for some reason, I helped her sit and sent her servant for a drink and a blanket. She calmed and started talking, venting her frustrations on me. Not yelling, like she had at the other soldiers, but confessing, pouring out her heart. She told me how Finbar had once sworn to marry her so they might be Duke and Duchess of Everton together, but he had changed his mind when he met Lady Gia in Brixmead. Darlis felt rejected—all her life rejected, though it seemed to me as if she sabotaged her own happiness on a regular basis.”

  “Why do you think he chose Lady Gia over her?”

  “Who’s to say? Darlis was often cruel. Demanding and heartless too. It all stemmed from her insecurities but was still hard to tolerate. Well, the next day, Father Rogedoth called me into his office and told me I had been reassigned as a personal guard to Darlis. It was technically a demotion, but the high priest tripled my salary and all but begged me to accept. So tired was he of seeking out anyone willing to work for Darlis, and she had asked for me by name. Father Rogedoth was determined to convince me.”

  An idea dawned slowly in Grayson, crawling up his arms like a chill. He shook it off, wanting to be patient and wait for Jhorn to finish his story.

  “I accepted the position,” Jhorn said. “While Darlis was a miserable creature, her sorrow intrigued me and I felt I could cheer her. But there was a darkness in her that I had never sensed before. I often caught her talking to herself, and drinking from a flask. I thought she was addicted to spirits.”

  “It was root juice.”

  Jhorn nodded, almost sadly. “It was. Though I didn’t realize that until much, much later. When she grew affectionate toward me, I reminded her that the high priest paid my salary and that I would not betray him.

  “I worked for her about three months before I was called before Father Rogedoth yet again. I was worried that my rejection had annoyed Lady Darlis and felt certain he was going to discharge me. But no. This time he made me an indecent proposal on behalf of his daughter.”

  Grayson’s cheeks burned. He not only understood, but this further convinced him that the inkling growing inside him might be right.

  “Father Rogedoth did not simply ask me to carry on with Darlis Nafni,” Jhorn said. “He was very specific. If I accepted his proposal, he would double my already tripled salary, but I must do anything she asked of me—no questions, no refusals. Either would be cause for dismissal.

  “It wasn’t a hard decision for me. I was a lonely bachelor who had no time for romance, and Darlis was beautiful. Her drunkenness and mumbling to herself often made me nervous, but I wasn’t afraid of her like the other soldiers were. I agreed, and so began our relationship.

  “I quickly discovered she was a mantic witch. I’ll spare you the strangeness of that time and move ahead to when I overheard her speaking with the high priest one night in her study when she thought I was asleep. She called the man her father, and not in a priestly way. I came to learn—in bits and pieces—that Barthel Rogedoth was not only Darlis’s birth father, he was Laviel’s birth father as well. They spoke of Darlis’s plans to have a child by me. That startled me because I’d never heard her so much as mention wanting to be a mother. They spoke of other times she had failed to conceive, and she told Father Rogedoth that she was certain I was the one.”

  Grayson could stand it no longer. “You’re my real father?”

  Tears glistened in Jhorn’s eyes. “Yes, my boy. I am.”

  Grayson popped to Jhorn’s side and embraced the man.

  Jhorn chuckled at first, catching hold of Grayson tightly, as if he might fall over if he didn’t hang on, but soon deep sobs shook him. Shook Jhorn, Grayson’s father. Grayson started to cry as well. “Why didn’t you say?”

  Jhorn pulled back. Tears had rolled down his cheeks and soaked into his thick beard. “I was afraid,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I hadn’t planned to keep you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Let me finish the story, yes?”

  Grayson sat cross-legged on the floor beside his father and nodde
d.

  Jhorn removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes and cheeks. “As I said, I was eavesdropping on Darlis and Father Rogedoth. Their conspiratorial tone put me on edge. They didn’t want just any child. They were trying to use mantics to conceive a root child. The stuff of myths and legends. They felt such a child would grow faster than other children and become a sorcerer beyond compare. They hoped to use this child to take the throne of Armania, then conquer Sarikar. I remember thinking I should run away—get free of them—but I had always hoped to have children someday, so the idea of being a father sat well with me. And I also rather liked that Darlis had chosen me.

  “Over the next few months, life proceeded as normal. Darlis used many spells to help her conceive a child, but as far as I knew, we were unsuccessful. Then one day Father Rogedoth summoned me to his office and told me I was being sent to the war. I quickly guessed at how I had been used. Darlis was pregnant, and they had never intended for me to be part of the child’s life. I took a risk, told the high priest that I couldn’t leave, as Darlis and I were expecting a child. He quickly put me in my place. Darlis was expecting, yes, but she did not want a husband. I had served my purpose and was no longer needed. The war effort was looking for more men, and Father Rogedoth had signed me up. I was to leave the next day.”

  “Why wouldn’t she let you stay?”

  “Darlis wanted to be in control of everything. If I had stayed, she would have had to share that control with me. No, she had used me to get what she wanted. You.”

  Grayson felt conflicted. He liked the idea of his mother having wanted him so badly, but he did not like that she had sent Jhorn away.

  “I fought with Father Rogedoth,” Jhorn said. “Told him what I thought of his and his daughter’s plans—that, yes, I knew he was her father. He reminded me that I had been well paid and had agreed to ask no questions and make no demands. He threatened me with death if I told anyone about Laviel or Darlis’s parentage. There was nothing I could do. I was escorted to the military camp by six armed soldiers. When I thought that my child might never know me, I fell into a despair so deep I could see nothing but darkness. Such anger served me well on the battlefield. You know my story there, except that I never told you how I came to find you.”