The Reluctant King

by Jill Williamson

  A surge of obedience rose up to compel Sir Kalenek’s movements. Onika sensed his annoyance, though he was quick to obey.

  Onika tried again. “Sir Kalenek?”

  He jumped. “Yes? Who is this?”

  “Onika still.”

  “I know no one by that name.”

  Frustration made her throat tighten, and she took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “The True Prophetess of Arman?”

  A jolt of emotion pierced his heart, and she heard him mumble, “Prophetess . . . prophetess . . .”

  Onika’s heart sank. For some reason, the Magosian Chieftess’s compulsion had made Sir Kalenek forget who Onika was. Why? And however would she convince her Rescuer to come and find a woman he did not remember?

  Throughout the day as they traveled, Onika tried several more times to converse with Sir Kalenek, determined to break through to her Rescuer, but each attempt ended in his confusion and her dismay. That night as she lay on her mat, a commotion of men’s voices outside her tent led Onika to believe that something was happening in the camp. She strained to hear but could make no sense of anything until two men spoke directly outside.

  “What is your name?”

  “Burk.”

  “Is that a given name or a surname?”

  “I got only one name, Your Highness,” Master Burk said. “I’ve been Burk long as I can remember.”

  “The captain said you stepped in to help the prophetess.”

  “I meant no disrespect, sir, but when I saw what she did to Aloz, I figured we’d be smart to leave her be.”

  “And you posted yourself outside her door.”

  “Only because I worried that some of the men wanted to kill her, and Master Fonu had said she was important to you, sir.”

  “That she is, Master Burk. You’ve done very well.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness. I’m honored to help, sir. Anything you need.”

  “Right now I need to see the prophetess—confirm she is who you claim she is. She could be a Puru impostor.”

  “She’s no impostor, sir. I met her back in Magonia and traveled with her to Rurekau. She’s the prophetess, all right.”

  “Remain outside while I speak with her.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Fabric rustled, a gust of cold air passed by, then footsteps brushed over packed dirt.

  Onika knew the fear overwhelming her at present was illogical. Barthel Rogedoth did not come to attack her like the other men, but he did represent the evil descending upon Arman’s people.

  Holy Arman, I am your servant. I know you see me now. Protect me from this man’s machinations, and give me wisdom and words that might convict him to serve you instead.

  “I never really had any doubts that you were here, prophetess,” Barthel Rogedoth said. “My shadir have been watching you closely. When I first heard Wilek Hadar speak of you, I thought he was telling tales. A female prophet? Ridiculous. But when your predictions came true, I realized I had been naïve to dismiss you so quickly. I apologize for the cruelty you suffered at the hands of Fonu’s men. I assure you that you are safe now that I am here.”

  Onika did not believe that for a moment.

  “You probably think me a pagan, but I want you to know I fear all the gods, though Barthos, whose namesake I am, has always been my master.”

  “Did you not name yourself Barthel once you could no longer use the name Mergest Pitney?” Onika asked.

  A moment of silence passed. “The point, my dear, is that I know Arman, your god, well. He and I have had many conversations, and on his altar I have sacrificed much.”

  “What have you sacrificed to Arman? Not your pride. Not your ambition.”

  “Arman has never asked that of me.”

  “Then your Arman is an impostor, for he asks those things of us all. If you had truly followed Arman, your father never would have disowned you and you would have had rule of Sarikar over your brother. Yet you chose to defy Arman and your father, and so you will reap what you have sown.”

  “Do not spout my life back to me as if you have lived it,” he snapped. “I know what really happened, and you do not. Barthos has promised me supreme rule of Armania.”

  “That is not his promise to make,” Onika said. “And stop calling him Barthos. You and I both know that you are really speaking of Dendron, the great shadir you worship.”

  A stretch of silence, then, “How do you know that name?”

  “I know all that Arman gives me to know,” Onika said.

  “You tell Arman this, woman. Tell him that I will worship him, make sacrifices and burnt offerings, and praise his name before all my people if he will help me defeat every foe that comes against me. If he will promise me that, I will worship him now and forever.”

  Onika felt Arman’s wrath rise up within her. His presence brought intense heat and his words poured forth, “Hear the word of the God. This is what Arman says: ‘I set you up to be ruler over my people in Sarikar, but you did not behave like your father, who kept my commands and followed me with all his heart, doing what was right in my eyes. You have done more evil than all who lived before you. You have made for yourself other gods, worshiped idols, tortured innocents, and made sacrifices to demons; you have aroused my anger and turned your back on me.

  “‘Because of this, I am going to bring disaster on the name you gave yourself. With the measure you use to enslave others, it will be measured to you. I will strike you and your flock, so that you will be like the chaff of wheat after threshing. Birds will feed on you and the flesh of those who die alongside you. Arman has spoken!’”

  For the space of a dozen heartbeats, there was silence but for Onika’s labored breathing, slowly decreasing to normal.

  “I gave you a chance,” Barthel Rogedoth said at last, “though Dendron warned me not to. It is his desire that I make you a sacrifice at the next full moon to honor Gâzar, to bolster the courage of my men, and to send a message to Rosâr Trevn. So when you are fed to the god who is loyal to me, don’t you forget that I gave you every opportunity to live and you chose death.”

  Footsteps stomped away. The curtain over the doorway whipped and fluttered, bringing again a flurry of cold. And Onika was left alone.

  Never alone. She might have forgotten for a time, as trauma and pain and loss had gripped her in talons of fear, but she knew the truth again as if learning it for the very first time.

  She was not alone. Arman was with her. And with that knowledge came the warmth of hope, welling inside her heart, and a glimpse of light. This world belonged to Arman, as did every world, and he was and always would be victor over all.

  Trevn

  Trevn awoke to the clatter of Ottee setting a breakfast tray on the sideboard and asked, “What did you bring me?”

  “Fried ham and boiled eggs and some local berries,” Ottee said. “They’re overly ripe but still sweet. Hope you don’t mind me bringing the tray right in, but Hawley said you must get up and to remind you about your plans to visit the Duke of Raine.”

  Trevn’s heart sank at the prospect. He sat up, his muscles screaming, and instantly knew without looking that Mielle was not in bed beside him. “Where is the queen?”

  “Up early and off to visit Rosârah Zeroah.”

  Of course. She had missed her friend. Trevn was glad they could spend time together again. The coronation had spooked her. She needed normalcy after that ostentatious event. Trevn hadn’t much cared for it either, nor did he like wearing a crown all day.

  He got out of bed and pulled on a robe, hoping to diminish the chill. His legs and arms ached so. He’d been practicing swordplay—at the insistence of both Cadoc and Barek. It had been too long since he’d done anything active. He had not served as a sailor on his quest to find Mielle, and it had left him somewhat out of shape.

  He ate his breakfast in the comfort of his sitting room, where a roaring fire already crackled in the hearth. There had been few trees back in Armania, where they had burned coal f
or warmth. Here they made fires of split logs that snapped and hissed as flames devoured them.

  Hawley and Rosârah Brelenah both insisted his apartment wasn’t proper for a married couple. It had only one bedchamber, one wardrobe, and one sitting room. Trevn and Mielle didn’t mind. Neither could stomach sleeping in the royal rooms where Sir Kamran had poisoned Wilek, Zeroah, and Chadek. Those rooms stood empty still, as Zeroah remained in the apartment she and Wilek had moved into after the poisoning. Trevn had no desire to push Zeroah out, nor was he ready to look upon his brother’s belongings or decide what to do with them. Besides, he preferred having Mielle close, especially since he rarely saw her during the day.

  Since Trevn had returned, he spent his time in meeting after meeting, every one of which existed to pour information into his ears. If the fate of their realm didn’t depend so fully upon his actions, he would have long ago claimed boredom and passed off the responsibilities to someone else. The shrewd preparation Barek Hadar had shown in the carriage ride from the ship had served as a warning that kept Trevn on high alert. Many expected him to not just fail, but to fail spectacularly.

  He would not allow that to happen.

  So when he wasn’t sitting in a meeting, he was planning ways to defend against a mantic attack. Master Jhorn maintained there was little that could be done, but Trevn had read scroll after scroll from the Centenary War and had learned a few things. He’d also read Wilek’s journals and consulted his maps. If Rogedoth came at them on foot from New Rurekau, he’d have to pass by New Sarikar and would likely attack there first. Unless he came by sea.

  A knock on the door preceded Father Mathal. “Good morning, Your Highness,” the man said. “Shall we read together from Arman’s holy book?”

  Trevn grunted. The former medial priest of the Rôb church had converted to Armanite with Wilek, but the man rubbed Trevn the wrong way. Master Hawley said a king must have a priest, however, so Trevn tolerated him.

  Mathal read a portion from the second chapter, in which Sarik’s wife was taken up to Shamayim. “Take comfort from these words, Your Highness,” he said when finished. “I know Rosâr Wilek is looking down on us from Shamayim, and I’m sure he is proud of how well you are handling yourself.”

  A twinge of annoyance made Trevn shift in his chair. “Just because Arman took Sarik’s wife to Shamayim does not mean she looks down upon those still living. Furthermore, it does not mean Arman takes all his children to Shamayim in the same way.”

  “I only mean that—”

  “I know what you meant, Father, but your statement has no textual basis. You are a priest, and when you bend truths to please men, know that you do more damage than good.”

  “I am sorry, Your Highness.”

  “Read more, Father, and allow only Arman’s word and voice to shape your thinking. Dismissed.”

  The priest left, and Trevn finished eating. He let Ottee help him dress—choosing the thinnest crown in the bunch Hawley had brought to his dressing room—then exited his apartment into a wall of people outside. He fought to keep a neutral expression as Cadoc, Nietz, and Rzasa pushed the crowd back. Their continual presence annoyed him. He longed to open his door and find the landing empty.

  “Make way,” Cadoc yelled. “Against the wall or railing, please, so we can pass.”

  Nietz was not so polite. “Get back, all of you! Out of the way!”

  Among the dozens congregated around the circular landing, Trevn saw three Athosian priests, who had been begging to share their concerns over his conversion to the Armanite faith; several entertainers—jugglers, minstrels, bards, and players—including Keson Orrey and his daughter Fairelle, a musical duo Trevn’s father had once employed; and a handful of concubines, who seemed to think him lonely and in need of companionship in spite of the fact that he and his wife shared a bedchamber. He was frankly surprised to see the concubines still here, since he’d twice witnessed Mielle sending them away.

  The guards managed to escort Trevn and Hawley through the crowd to the spiral stairs.

  “I want those people dispersed,” Trevn said to Hawley as they started down. “There must be another place they could assemble.”

  “The circular shape of the keep makes it difficult to set up boundaries, Your Highness,” Hawley said. “Push them far enough away and they end up back where they started.”

  “Then post guards at the bottom of the stairs and keep people from coming up,” Trevn said.

  “Very well, sir,” Hawley said, “but that won’t keep those living in the castle away, and you will still have to pass the people at some point.”

  Then Trevn would simply have to outsmart them. Create a route only he knew about. There had been a series of secret passages in Castle Everton. Why not add some here? One or two private corridors and staircases would be just the thing to allow him to move around the castle without being seen when he deemed it necessary.

  Which would be often.

  They reached the ground floor and walked out into the chill morning. The barge carried them across the lake, where five horses were saddled and waiting with Marshal Winstone and a contingent of mounted soldiers.

  Barek had wanted Trevn to summon Tace Edekk to a meeting in the castle, but Trevn felt it would be better to drop by unannounced and catch the man off guard.

  The Duke of Raine had chosen for his manor a section of land in the forested foothills north of Armanguard. Trevn and his party had barely entered the woods when soldiers appeared on the road ahead, blocking their way.

  Trevn sensed no hostility in the men. “They are merely curious,” he said. “Nietz, ride ahead and announce my intentions to meet with the duke.”

  Nietz spurred his horse out from the pack. As Trevn watched him go, movement in the trees to the right of the road caught his eye. More soldiers.

  “There are men in the woods on our right,” Trevn voiced Cadoc.

  “I see them,” Cadoc said. “On our left as well.”

  “So much for the element of surprise,” Trevn said.

  “My guess is, the duke doesn’t like surprises,” Cadoc said.

  Nietz returned. “They’ll escort us to the manor. Said they patrol the forest for giants.”

  “We’ve had no report from the duke about trouble with giants,” Trevn said.

  “Apparently his men can handle such problems themselves,” Cadoc said.

  Trevn didn’t see how. The soldiers escorted Trevn’s party another two leagues into the foothills before they finally came upon a log palisade in a clearing. There was no moat, but Trevn could see a second, taller palisade beyond the first. He suspected Lord Edekk’s fortress was nearly impenetrable, even by giants.

  “Looks like the duke has giants of his own,” Nietz said.

  A man on foot pushed through the horses clustered at the gatehouse and approached Trevn and his guards. He was broad, a few hands taller than Trevn, and wore so many warrior twists in his hair that his head resembled a bush. A deep scar creased his left cheek, making a pale line through his thick, short black beard.

  Trevn recognized the man as the captain of Lord Edekk’s army. “Captain Korvoh.”

  Korvoh gave Trevn a jerky bow. “Your Highness, welcome to Nawhar, House Edekk’s northern fortress.”

  “He has a second one?” Trevn asked.

  “The duke built a house in town, yes, though he spends little time there.”

  “Hawley,” Trevn voiced, “remind me to have someone visit Lord Edekk’s house in town.”

  His onesent nodded subtly in response.

  “Nawhar Manor is not overly large, Your Highness,” Korvoh said. “It would be best if you left some of your men outside.”

  “They all come with me inside the palisade walls, though I will take only my personal guards into the building.”

  Korvoh inclined his head. “I’ll have the gate opened.” He set off through the horses, making his way back toward the gatehouse.

  “I want everyone alert and watching for anything s
uspicious,” Trevn said to Nietz. “I want to know what the duke is doing here. See if you can speak to any of the boys about new recruits to his army.”

  Nietz nodded.

  The gate, which was also made of log stakes, swung open, and Trevn’s men rode slowly inside a cramped bailey. The manor house stood three levels high and had been built of horizontal logs. Nietz and Rzasa dismounted, and a group of barn boys swarmed the horses. Korvoh was standing in an open archway with a tall, slender man dressed all in black, and a servant. Trevn immediately recognized the stern expression on Tace Edekk’s lined face.

  Trevn dismounted and a boy immediately claimed his horse. Cadoc was by his side before he could step away from the animal, and they walked together toward the duke.

  “You have a nice place here, lord,” Trevn said.

  The duke bowed. “Thank you, Your Highness. I did not expect the honor of such a visit. I confess I am ill prepared to house so many men.”

  “We are not staying,” Trevn said.

  “Please come inside where it is warm,” the duke said. “We had snow three days ago, but it melted as soon as it touched the ground. I fear winter is not far off.”

  Trevn and his men followed the duke, Korvoh, and the servant inside. They traipsed down a narrow hallway that smelled strongly of evergreen trees, and up a split turn staircase walled in hewn planks. A hallway on the second level led them to a bright sitting room, where a wall of windows overlooked a garden in back of the manor. The room was elaborately furnished, and a warm fire crackled in an ornate hearth that took up over half the wall.

  Trevn walked straight for the windows, curious how the duke had managed such extravagance. “Where did you get the glass?” he asked. Castle Armanguard had nothing so large.

  “Took them from the cabin in my great ship,” Edekk said. “I hated to do it. Don’t sail much now, though, so I boarded up the holes in the ship and put the windows here. Might as well enjoy them.”

  “That’s quite clever, Your Grace,” Trevn said. “The garden is nice, as well.”

  “My wife must have a garden. She is out there now, I believe, torturing some poor plant. She wraps them in fabric each night to save them from the frost. Foolish if you ask me, but she seems convinced it will help them survive the winter.”