“Come,” Jazlyn said. She pushed open the nearest door and went inside. Qoatch and Niklee followed.
It looked to be a high-ranking servant’s chambers, likely belonging to Ulrik’s onesent, Taleeb, though no one was present now. Jazlyn waved the Protectors inside and out of sight, then stood watching from the open doorway as the Igote passed by in the corridor. The litter came into view, carried by four Igote with Rosârah Thallah leading the way. That same fiery orange shadir was coiled around her throat.
“Quickly now!” Thallah said. “We must get the emperor into the cellar. The giants are too tall to go down there.”
When the corridor cleared, Jazlyn waved her party out. Qoatch stayed at her side as she tottered around the corner and entered the first room she came to.
Prince Ferro’s room.
A maid hovered at the boy’s bedside—the same maid who had given Qoatch Prince Ferro’s box of childhood toys the day he had planted the poisonous incense. “He’s ready,” she said, picking up a belt with sheathed sword and a fat satchel. “I’ve put some extra clothing in his bag in case he remains in hiding a long while, and this sword was a gift from his father. I think he would want it.”
The woman apparently couldn’t tell Igote guards from Protectors.
“Pick him up, Qoatch,” Jazlyn said.
Qoatch hesitated only a moment, then quickly obeyed his Great Lady. So malnourished was the boy, he weighed little more than one of the twins. Shame washed over Qoatch at the knowledge that he was responsible for the young prince’s condition.
“Don’t you have a litter?” the maid asked.
“They’re using it for my husband,” Jazlyn said, “and there is no time to wait for their return. We must go now. Quickly, Qoatch.” She nodded to the door. “We must get him to safety. You will come with us,” she said to the maid. “Niklee, help carry the prince’s things.”
“Yes, Great Lady.” Niklee took the satchel from the maid.
The Protectors held open the door, and Qoatch carried the boy out into the corridor. Jazlyn hurried ahead, leading the way.
They reached the courtyard just as Rosârah Thallah and her Igote guards entered from the opposite side, returning from wherever they’d taken the emperor. The shadir around Thallah’s neck unwound itself and floated into the air above her head.
“The orange slight is with the queen,” Qoatch mumbled to his Great Lady.
The two groups came to a standstill in front of the doors to the great hall. The short, fat Armanian queen and Empress Jazlyn’s thin, elderly form looked almost comical as they faced each other, as if ready for battle.
Thallah’s eyes narrowed to slits. “How dare you lay hands on the prince?”
“We are taking him to safety,” Jazlyn said.
“That is not your responsibility.”
“I am Empress Jazlyn of New Rurekau. Do not stand in my way.”
“Anyone tormented by the guilt of murder will seek refuge in the grave.”
“Does my husband know you are a mantic?” Jazlyn asked. “We all know how he feels about such things.”
Thallah’s startled expression gave her away. “How dare you imply . . . ? I don’t owe you any . . . Hand over Prince Ferro this instant!”
“I will do no such thing,” Jazlyn said.
Something banged in the distance. Qoatch shifted slightly and peered down the corridor that led straight to the stronghold’s main entrance. The doors were closed for now, blocked with several crossbars. Another bang shook them. Then another.
As the pounding continued, Thallah began to fidget and pace. “I do not wish to see our soldiers kill each other unnecessarily, Empress. Is that what you want?”
“My only desire is to get the prince to safety before the giants break down the doors. Use your magic to stop the giants. Cast a protection spell over all the entrances.”
“You speak nonsense, Empress,” Thallah said. “I told you I have no magic.”
Jazlyn’s wrinkled face pulled into a smile. “Even if you hadn’t given yourself away with your reaction moments ago, my eunuch is a seer, Your Highness. He tells me your shadir is with you now—orange and looks like fire. Let him help us, rosârah. Tell us the name of the one who can save us.”
Thallah’s eyes grew wild. “He is called Cherem. He has been my companion for many years, but I have never been proficient in rune magic.”
“Do not be confused by archaic Magonian rituals,” Jazlyn said. “If you are bonded, then he is yours to command. You need only make your request. That you live is in his best interest. Have you taken ahvenrood recently?”
“Not in several days, but I have some with me.” Thallah withdrew a small glass vial from her ample cleavage and held it up.
Greed lit Jazlyn’s eyes as she looked upon that white powder. “Take it and order him to protect us.”
A crack turned everyone’s heads toward the doors, where the banging continued. The blade of an axe rent through one side, knocking out a single plank. Heavy blows resounded and increased in ferocity. It wouldn’t be long now.
Thallah Hadar hasn’t the courage to perform magic.
Qoatch met the dark eyes of the shadir. “Cherem says the queen doesn’t have the courage,” he said.
“It’s not about courage!” Thallah cried. “I cannot create magic. I am nothing more than a malleant.”
“Then give the root to me,” Jazlyn said, walking toward the Armanian queen, “and I will save us.”
Thallah took a step back. “You can’t have him! He’s mine.”
“I only wish to save the people of Rurekau. Save my husband and his brother. Save my children. If you will not do that, then at least order your men to step aside and let my eunuch get the prince to safety.”
“I will not take orders from you!” Thallah screamed.
Wood splintered. Down the corridor, Qoatch could see a giant’s arm push through the broken planks and fumble with the crossbars barricading the door.
“Don’t let them get me!” Thallah shrieked, pushing her way behind the Igote. “Cherem, keep me safe!”
The fiery shadir merely smiled and swam around the queen’s waist.
“Protectors!” Jazlyn said. “Into formation. Push through. And you—” She clutched the sleeve of one Protector and whispered into his ear. He nodded.
Oh, Great Lady. Qoatch hoped she would take care and do nothing foolish.
The Protectors arranged themselves into a V around Jazlyn, Qoatch, Niklee, and the maid, then marched forward, pushing through the Igote, none of which tried to stop them. All were staring down the corridor at the doors that would soon be no more.
Just as the Protectors’ formation passed the queen and her Igote, the Protector Jazlyn had whispered to lunged at Thallah and grabbed her wrists. Jazlyn flew at them and snatched the vial from the queen’s hand.
“No!” Thallah screamed. “Don’t take him from me!”
But Jazlyn had already choked down the root. “I gave you every chance to save us, but you refused.” Her gaze roved the courtyard until it latched onto the shadir. “Cherem.” She curtsied deeply to the creature. “Ata yakhol bara hay ecâr rakas yahda shelno nehfesh.”
The shadir perked up, swelled in size—not much, but Qoatch knew Jazlyn had succeeded in making the creature her own.
“Athawn yahfeh,” she said, then began to change physically, shifting back into the great beauty Qoatch had always known before Gozan had ended the spell. A small smile turned his lips and he shook his head. Jazlyn was entirely too predictable.
“Great Lady, take care,” he warned. “This shadir is not Gozan. Its power will not last as long before you will need to purge and take more root.”
“Do not worry over me, Qoatch,” Jazlyn said, her voice silky smooth again.
One last peal of cracking wood and the doors were ripped off their hinges. A line of giants spilled into the castle, making a hailstorm of footsteps that quickly drew nearer.
“Our enemy comes,” Jaz
lyn said. “Pasas.” Everyone vanished, becoming invisible just as the first giants lumbered into the courtyard.
The giant in the lead shouted, a confused wrinkle in his brow. He stopped, and the giant behind him skidded to a halt.
“Get the prince to safety!” Jazlyn yelled. “Protectors and Igote, you will fight beside me. I have given us the advantage. We must not fail.”
Shouts of agreement rose up along with the scrape of steel as the men drew their swords. Qoatch handed off Prince Ferro to Niklee, then took the boy’s belt and sword from the maid.
The lead giant urged his companions forward, and the invaders lumbered into the courtyard, foreheads scrunched and gazes roving. They took tentative steps forward and spoke to one another in their native tongue. They were pale-skinned, though most had painted stripes of mud on their cheeks and foreheads. Their hair and beards were long and braided with bits of leather and bone.
“Qoatch, beside me,” Jazlyn said, stepping back into the opened doors of the great hall as the lead giant walked over the place where she had been standing and sniffed.
“I am with you, Great Lady.” He followed her inside the hall and drew the blade from Ferro’s belt. The sword was at least two hands shorter than his own, but it would have to do. He threw down the belt and raised the blade.
Two giants entered the great hall. Jazlyn whispered a few ancient words, and the giants floated off the floor, shouting.
As Qoatch slowly walked backward, his foot knocked against a chair. The nearest giant swung his club above his head and smashed the chair in pieces, breaking a hole into the floor as well.
Qoatch jumped aside and—as the giant tugged his club from the jagged floorboards—slashed his blade across the giant’s forearms.
The giant howled and yanked his club free from the floor. He yelled in his foreign tongue and swung his club before him like a flag. Qoatch ducked back to keep out of the way.
Of the half dozen giants inside the great hall, all but one, who was trying to tug his floating companion back to the floor, mimicked the behavior of Qoatch’s opponent. They had caught on to the fact that the enemy was invisible and knocked their clubs into tables and chairs or slammed them against the floor and walls, leaving jagged holes and shaking the room.
Jazlyn sent benches and chairs flying, using the objects to strike the giants in the face or under the chin. The giants fought back by pulverizing the furniture. Splinters of wood exploded all around Qoatch. A sliver the size of his index finger stuck him in the thigh. He ripped it out, and a trickle of blood oozed from the wound.
One of the giants spun toward Qoatch, nostrils flaring and eyes roving as if hoping to see some hint of where his opponent might be standing. Qoatch used the point of his sword to shove a chair, and as the giant slowly swung his club up above his head, Qoatch darted behind him. The giant brought down his club with great force, and Qoatch slashed Ferro’s sword across the back of his legs. The giant howled, sank to his knees, and Qoatch chopped the short blade through his opponent’s neck, beheading him.
On they fought. Qoatch killing giants, and Jazlyn throwing furniture or making giants float. Several were drifting through the air, one pinwheeling his arms and legs; the others were unable to move. All floated slowly toward the ceiling.
Qoatch went after those he could reach, slitting their throats. Once he had slain all the immobilized giants, he realized Jazlyn had left the great hall. He jogged out into the courtyard, following the trail of floating giants, which led him to the castle entrance. The remaining giants were fleeing through the bailey, headed toward the drawbridge.
They froze suddenly, bodies stiff, then toppled off the sides of the drawbridge and into the water. “Great Lady?” Qoatch called out, wondering where she was. “Do you need to purge?”
“Cherem says a swarm roves just outside the gate. Another mantic has come.” Jazlyn’s voice came from his right, near the gatehouse.
Qoatch looked past the drawbridge to the wooden gate, surprised to see several dozen shadir advancing toward them. At first glance, most appeared to be slights, until he recognized Mikray, who took on the appearance of a slender, tattooed man. He had last seen the common giving orders during the takeover of Emperor Ulrik’s former flagship Baretam.
“I recognize one of the shadir,” Qoatch said. “This swarm belongs to Dendron, who serves the man who calls himself King Barthel, though I see no sign of Dendron himself.”
“Strange that he arrives just as giants are attacking,” Jazlyn said.
“We come in peace!” a man yelled in Kinsman, his voice deep and grating.
“We shall see about that,” Jazlyn mumbled.
The gate opened, and three people entered, walking abreast of one another. Two women and an elderly man dressed in white and gold robes. Around them, the swarm of shadir flitted about, confident and joyful.
Qoatch searched for Dendron the great but did not see him. These humans were clearly mantics. Behind them, on the other side of the moat, a long procession could be seen approaching the now-opened gate.
“Identify yourselves!” Jazlyn called.
Qoatch moved toward her voice, eager to be close in case she had need of him.
The elderly man stepped forward, frowning as his gaze roamed what must appear to be an empty bailey. “I am Filkin Yohthehreth,” he said, “prophet of King Barthel. This is Lady Zenobia and Lady Mattenelle, my comrades.” His lined face was thin and sensitive, with large black eyes and a sullen mouth. “We come on behalf of our king, who wishes to meet the emperor and empress of New Rurekau.”
“I am the empress,” Jazlyn said, “but perhaps you could come back some other time. We are busy at the moment, as you can see.”
“I see nothing but dead giants,” the man said. “Where are you?”
Jazlyn chose that moment to reveal herself and everyone else. One of the women on the drawbridge took a step back as Jazlyn, Qoatch, and some two dozen Igote suddenly appeared as if from nowhere.
Jazlyn’s eyes were bright but her ashen face concerned Qoatch. She needed to purge. “I am Empress Jazlyn, former Priestess and High Queen of Tenma,” she said. “Like yourself, I do not fight with swords.”
“I hope you did not mind our assistance in attacking those giants,” Yohthehreth said.
“Not at all,” Jazlyn said, “though it was unnecessary.”
“May I call my king to greet you, Your Eminence?” Yohthehreth asked.
“Your king has come at a precarious time,” Jazlyn said. “We have just defended our fortress against giant invaders. I must dig a pit in the field to hold the captives for questioning, then set our fortress to rights again. As you can see, there is much work to be done.”
“With your permission, Empress, might we assist you?” Yohthehreth asked. “We are quite capable of healing the wounded and repairing the damage done.”
“I would not deny such service,” Jazlyn said.
Yohthehreth spoke to the women standing beside him, then set off across the drawbridge and exited through the gate, his white robes billowing behind. The women advanced, setting to work by casting spells to repair the damage.
“They do not seem bent on attack,” Jazlyn said. “Shall I trust them?”
Qoatch watched them warily. “I remain unconvinced that the arrival of King Barthel and the giants’ attack are coincidental,” he said, “but you are weary and need purging, so their assistance will help you greatly. Besides, King Barthel’s fight is with Armania, so while he might try to impress us, lie to us, or attempt to use us, I see no reason why he would harm us.”
“Keep watch,” she said, her eyes following the female mantics, “and direct these women. I am taking Cherem to Rosârah Thallah’s chambers to seek out any more root she might have hidden. It is best to search now, while the coward is still hiding in the cellar.”
“Take some guards along,” Qoatch said.
“Most certainly.” She smiled, and her beauty struck him with a sense of nostalgia.
“It is good to see you reclaim your former glory,” Qoatch said.
“Do not get sentimental, Qoatch. I need you sharp.”
Jazlyn departed, and Qoatch kept a close watch on the mantics as he supervised the restoration of the castle.
Yohthehreth returned with a group of men. Two more male mantics—one strong and handsome, the other round and middle-aged—wore white and gold robes. They made their way through the bailey with their shadir, healing Igote and Protectors, moving giants outside the stronghold, and repairing damage.
Also among the group were four guards dressed in red uniforms and a second elderly man. The man was taller than Yohthehreth and wore fine robes of green velvet and gold. A narrow circle of gold sat atop his head. He had tight skin for one so aged, pulled thinly over bony, small features. His receding gray hair hung in a fat braid that draped over one shoulder and stretched down to his knees. Halfway down, the braid darkened to black.
One of the women introduced him to Qoatch. “May I present King Barthel Rogedoth of Islah,” she said. “He has come to pay his respects to Emperor Ulrik and his bride.”
“The empress is busy at present,” Qoatch said. “I am sure she will greet you as soon as she is able. If you would like to wait inside, I can take you to a spare bedchamber where you can rest until the empress is ready to receive you.”
The king grunted, obviously displeased to be kept waiting. “I suppose that will do.”
Qoatch called forth a servant to escort the king and his guards inside to a spare room, while he remained outside with the king’s mantics. Just as all had been set to rights, Jazlyn returned, looking bright and refreshed—glorious, truly. She must have found more root in Rosârah Thallah’s chambers.
Jazlyn stopped in the center of the bailey, and when she spoke, she used magic to magnify her voice. “Hear me well, for I have news.”
The Reluctant King Page 12