The Reluctant King

by Jill Williamson

  “Our emperor might be dead, rosârah,” Jazlyn said, “but Rurekau is not without leadership. I am here, as is the council. I will call a meeting to appoint a regent to rule until Prince Jael comes of age. Then—”

  “You will do no such thing!” Rosârah Thallah yelled. “Prince Ferro was Ulrik’s heir. His mother is on her way here to preside over the council. You have no place there.”

  Jazlyn’s eyes smoldered as she stared down upon the pudgy Armanian queen. “You move to cut me out of any leadership? Is that your goal?”

  “You are well aware that it always has been.”

  “Very well.” Jazlyn shook her head and raised her voice. “Let Empress Inolah and the council decide how to move forward. Until she arrives, I shall care for Prince Ferro. But if the council exiles me completely, do not hold me responsible the next time giants come and you seek my protection.” She grabbed hold of her skirt and set off, back into the castle. Qoatch hurried after her, at a loss as to what they would do now.

  Back in Jazlyn’s apartment, she commanded everyone to leave until only Qoatch remained behind.

  “King Barthel is not the man I thought he was,” Jazlyn said. “It is one thing that he cleverly compelled the giants to attack us in order to trap us into accepting an alliance. But if his evenroot has been so easily tampered with, he and his shadir are careless fools. His power is going to diminish quickly, and when it does, this place will not be safe. Empress Inolah will return, and she and Rosârah Thallah will keep me from having any authority. The council will choose Prince Ferro to rule over Jael, I’m certain. But they will also seek to take my son from me. That I healed Prince Ferro and begged King Barthel to restore Ulrik’s life are the only things that might keep them from taking my life.”

  “You were wise to do both, Great Lady,” Qoatch said.

  “Little good my wisdom will do me now. You and I both know that the supply of original root brought to this land was already diminishing swiftly. Once it is gone, so will all our magic be.”

  “Except for Chieftess Charlon’s new magic,” Qoatch said.

  “Yes.” Jazlyn paced before Qoatch. “The Chieftess found a way to do magic apart from ahvenrood. I must learn her secret.”

  “You could send Cherem to watch her in the Veil,” Qoatch said.

  “One from her swarm might sense he did not belong, and I do not want her angry with me unless I can get what I want first. No, let me try to befriend the girl.”

  “What girl?”

  “The one called Amala. She has the affection of Chieftess Charlon’s son. If I can win Miss Amala’s loyalty, the son will follow. And then I will be in a place to ask them to teach me what they know.”

  “How will you earn the girl’s loyalty?” Qoatch asked.

  “Offer her more power at my side than what Chieftess Charlon gives her,” Jazlyn said. “I must mend things with King Barthel, though. He will be angry that I put him on the spot to save my reputation, and I cannot afford to anger him, even if he has misrepresented his strength. Go to him and offer your services in his time of need. Tell him you are a seer and are willing to help him question and watch Dendron’s swarm, to see if any are hiding information as to who might have tampered with his ahvenrood supply. In the meantime, I will send Cherem to extend an invitation to Miss Amala.”

  “Yes, Great Lady.”

  Qoatch acted swiftly, relieved that Jazlyn had rallied with a plan. He went to King Barthel, who immediately set him to work questioning shadir, a task Qoatch disdained, as the creatures were mischievous and rarely told the truth. This also put him in the vicinity of Dendron, who made his skin crawl. The great shadir certainly had none of the hideousness of Gozan’s likeness, but he gave off a deep and dark sense of power that made Qoatch want to flee. Thankfully the great did not show himself often.

  King Barthel made no official report as to the status of his ahvenrood stores, nor could any of his retinue be persuaded to share details, but the man’s melancholy mood told Qoatch that he had lost something of great value. He made no new offer of a bottle of root to Jazlyn. Annoyed as she was by it, she did not press him, but continued with her own plans.

  The funeral of Emperor Ulrik Orsona proceeded with three times as much pomp as his coronation had. His brother Ferro was still too frail to attend, and Jazlyn set guards over her apartment to ensure Rosârah Thallah did not try to take the boy into custody while Jazlyn was preoccupied.

  When the ceremony ended, Jazlyn’s guards escorted her back to her apartment. Zinetha met them at the door.

  “Forgive me, Great Lady,” she said, curtsying. “I don’t know how they got past the guards without my seeing them enter. I’ve been right here all morning, and I can’t understand it!”

  Jazlyn pushed past her lady and stopped in the sitting area, staring at the two people waiting there: Miss Amala Allard and Prince Shanek.

  Miss Amala stood and curtsied. “Hello, Empress,” she said. “May I introduce Prince Shanek DanSâr of Magosia.”

  The young man jumped to his feet, beaming from ear to ear. “I am happy to visit, Empress.”

  Jazlyn glanced at Qoatch, and he read the humor in her eyes at the prince’s clumsy manners, though she kept it from her face. “It is a great pleasure to meet you both,” she said, curtsying. “Won’t you sit? I will have Qoatch bring us some refreshments while we talk.”

  Qoatch departed, but just before he pulled the door closed, he heard his Great Lady say, “Tell me all about yourselves. What are your hopes and dreams? And what can I do to help you achieve them?”

  Qoatch grinned as he made his way toward the kitchens. When his Great Lady set her mind to achieving a goal, there were none who could stop her. He only hoped that she would be able to stand against Chieftess Charlon’s power if the woman found out what she had done.

  Mielle

  I want minstrels and the band,” Mielle said, as she and rosârahs Zeroah and Brelenah ascended the circular stairs. “That way we can alternate between dancing and being entertained.”

  “I like that,” Brelenah said, cuddling one of her dogs in her arms. “Though you know how much I am entertained by watching people dance. There are some days I desperately miss holding court. I will do all I can to ensure a large turnout for Rosâr Trevn.”

  “I as well,” Zeroah said.

  “Thank you both, for all your help,” Mielle said. “I would be lost without you.”

  “You are doing very well,” Zeroah said.

  “Thank you,” Mielle said. “And how are you?”

  “I am focusing on learning my mind-speak skill,” Zeroah said. “Wilek wanted it for me, so it feels like something I can give him, even now. The Duke of Canden is convinced I have some rare skill, though I think he is mistaken. He has told the king about it, though, and now I must practice more than ever.”

  “Trevn said nothing to me about it,” Mielle said, annoyed that he wouldn’t think to share something involving her dearest friend.

  “What is the skill?” Brelenah asked.

  “He thinks I can pull forth memories from the mind of another. I did it once by accident but have yet to accomplish it a second time. It is quite vexing.”

  As they reached the fourth floor and circled to climb to the fifth, a chorus of giggling girls caught Mielle’s attention. A male voice spoke over the laughter, startling Mielle by its contrast. “Whose room is that?” she asked, pointing to the open door two down from where they stood.

  “Princess Rashah’s,” Brelenah said, brow furrowed as she started toward the open door.

  The three women arrived together. There were eight girls in the room, clustered onto the bed or in chairs that had been turned away from the fireplace toward the center of the room. Mielle recognized all of them from the school.

  A man appeared in the middle of the room, standing on his head. The girls burst into laughter, and the dog in Brelenah’s arms leapt to the floor, barking at the man, who suddenly vanished. The girls’ heads twisted around, eyes
seeking out every corner of the room, though Princess Vallah’s gaze had fixed upon the eldest queen.

  “There he is!” Rashah yelled, grinning and pointing at the wardrobe on the opposite wall, where the man lay on his side, his head propped up on one fist.

  Grayson.

  Brelenah’s little dog went wild, climbing over legs and furniture, trying to reach Grayson.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Rosârah Brelenah yelled.

  The girls silenced, and most of them stood and curtsied. Grayson disappeared.

  “Anyone who does not bear the surname Hadar or Orsona is to leave this room immediately,” the eldest queen said.

  At once, five girls ran toward the door. Mielle stepped aside to let them pass. All kept their eyes fixed on the floor but the last, who glanced at Mielle with wide brown eyes before passing out of sight.

  “Master Grayson, you had best show yourself as well,” Rosârah Brelenah said, loud and clear.

  “I’m sure he left.” This from Princess Vallah, Empress Inolah’s eldest daughter.

  “I have called him back,” Zeroah said, smiling. “I’m getting better at voicing.”

  Sure enough, movement in the hallway behind Mielle turned out to be Grayson, hands tucked behind his back, head hanging pitifully. His dapple-gray skin was tinged pink at his cheeks, neck, and the tops of his ears.

  “Come inside at once,” Mielle said, grabbing him by the sleeve. Once Grayson was in the room again, she closed the door.

  “I am responsible for the virtue and reputation of these young ladies,” the eldest queen began. “It is unacceptable for any of them to have a man in their bedchamber.”

  “Grayson’s not really a man,” said Lady Trista, who was Barek Hadar’s youngest girl. “He’s closer to my age.”

  But Grayson did not look like a child. He looked every bit like a young man in his early twenties. Though he was skinny with an angular nose and pointed chin, and his round head gave him a boyish air, he had thick eyebrows, dark brown eyes, waves of chin-length black hair—most of which had escaped its tail—and a smile that could certainly break hearts if ever he grew into the notion.

  “I realize you did not grow up in the castle by my rules, Lady Trista,” Brelenah said, “but I have no doubt that your mother would not like to hear that you sassed me.”

  Trista curtsied. “No, ma’am.”

  Brelenah turned her wrath on Grayson. “I am sure you meant no harm, Master Grayson. Such games are fine for the roof or outdoors or even in the great hall or foyer. Public places. You see the difference?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Your power is unprecedented. Please do not abuse it. I would hate to have to ask the king to restrict you in any way.”

  “I’m very sorry, Your Highness.”

  “I am glad to hear it. Now off you go.”

  “Wait,” Mielle said. “I would have a word, Master Grayson. Out in the hallway.”

  Grayson briefly met Mielle’s gaze, then turned and walked from the room. She followed him out, and he slowed, allowing her to pass by and lead him to the railing.

  “Have you made any progress finding the Puru orphans?” she asked.

  He hung his head. “No, ma’am.”

  Mielle cringed at his use of ma’am. She was not old enough for that title. “Did you learn anything?”

  “I tracked a group of giants into the forest, but they were hunting. Then the king asked me to do something, and I haven’t had time . . .”

  Mielle raised her eyebrows. “Yet you have time to stand on your head to make the girls laugh?”

  “I . . . I’m sorry. I’ll keep looking.”

  “I hope so. Now, I have another question for you. There is a boy in the school named Porvil. What do you know of him?”

  “No one likes him. He fancies Lady Trista a great deal, but she likes Danno, and the other day Porvil picked a fight with Danno and Danno gave him a black eye. He says mean things to pretty much everyone, but not me. I think he’s afraid I’ll punch him in the other eye, and maybe I would if he tried to fight me.”

  “Who are his friends?”

  Grayson shrugged. “Doesn’t have any. I’ve seen him following around Gilkin Trumboke, but Gil doesn’t like him either.”

  “I know you don’t have much spare time these days,” Mielle said, dramatically, “but keep an eye on Porvil for me. Where does he live? Who, if anyone, is his friend? Think you can do that?”

  “Sure I can, Your Highness. I’ll find out what he’s up to.”

  “I didn’t say I suspected him of anything. I’m simply curious about him.” And why he would so viscously lie about the Duke of Canden. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish my conversation with the dowager queens before meeting Master Jhorn.”

  “Why are you meeting him?” Grayson asked.

  “It’s not to tattle on you, though I won’t be surprised if he gets wind of your mischief today. Master Jhorn is Master of Requests, and he passes on to me any matters involving women or children. I like to help people, you know.”

  Grayson grinned. “Me too!”

  “Wonderful, now go find those Puru orphans so we can help them.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” And he disappeared.

  Mielle shook her head. If Grayson could simply focus on one thing long enough to see it through, she was certain he would be one of the greatest heroes to have ever lived.

  Onika

  The camp had long ago moved to a new position, which Onika believed was somewhere outside the stronghold of New Rurekau. She had no proof, of course, except that Rosâr Trevn had said Barthel Rogedoth was in New Rurekau and she had heard men outside her tent mention having seen Empress Jazlyn’s great beauty. Rogedoth had not yet returned to speak with her again, though it was still several weeks until the next full moon, so said Rosâr Trevn. At her king’s suggestion, she tried to listen in on the minds around her, but she only heard fragmented thoughts about the empress or upcoming dice games. Nothing helpful.

  Onika had often felt lonely in her life. Being blind did that to a person. She’d felt separated from what was happening around her, as if everyone was keeping a secret. They weren’t, of course. Jhorn, Dun, and Grayson had always tried to include her.

  Being captive in this place, however, brought on a new loneliness that, when coupled with the dark thoughts and nightmares of the attacks against her, left her feeling on the edge of despair. She found solace in reciting former prophecies, especially those she knew from Jhorn were words directly from the Book of Arman. She prayed, she sang or hummed, and she worshiped a God who loved her no matter what.

  She also questioned. She asked “Why?” often, knowing full well that such a question did not always have an answer. She dwelled far too long on the dark memories, particularly wondering why she had been spared and Tulay and Yoana had not. They had been lovely young women, who served her with joy and kindness. Why had Onika lived? She was no better.

  Then came moments of such suffocating darkness that she began to think perhaps Tulay and Yoana had been spared after all. She grew jealous, knowing that they were with Arman, healed and whole again in a place with no evil. She wondered how she might take her own life and join them there. She crawled around her tent, feeling for anything that might be used as a weapon. She never found a thing, and such searches often ended when she awoke, cold and shivering so far from her bed, or when Master Burk found her and dragged her back to her mat.

  Finally came a day filled with something new. The noises of men arriving on foot—foreign men by the sound of their strange language. Onika wanted to give Rosâr Trevn an update and waited all day, listening for any hint as to the identity of these visitors. Master Burk brought her dinner, but when she asked who they were, all he would say was, “Don’t you worry about that. I promise to tell you tonight.”

  Hours later, she lay pondering his words when a cool breeze alerted her. The swish of the drape over the entrance to her tent quickly dampened the bree
ze. A footstep. A creak of a knee.

  Someone was inside.

  “Who is there?” she asked, faking a confidence she did not feel.

  “I have come to answer your question, Miss Onika.”

  Master Burk’s voice. He was beside her, sitting or squatting. Horror welled up from the pit of her stomach. Arman had given her glimpses to prepare her, but now that this moment had finally come, she found herself terrified.

  “King Barthel is meeting with some giants. When the full moon arrives, he plans to make you his sacrifice. He is inviting the giants to join him.”

  Onika sat up and pulled her knees to her chest. “I will not be sacrificed.”

  A soft chuckle. “Always so certain of everything. It’s a little mad.” A hand brushed her head. She flinched and turned her neck, but the hand stayed with her, caressed her hair.

  “I’ve done a lot for you,” Burk said. “I saved you from the men, and I’ve kept them away, kept them from killing you by weaving stories that terrified them. They think you’re a witch, you know. They think you can kill with your thoughts.”

  “No one can do that.”

  “A goddess could. I’ve made them think that’s what you are. I told them you’re angry they attacked you, and if they don’t stay away, you’ll kill them all.” His hand moved to her throat and pulled the neckline of her dress off her shoulder.

  She brought up her hands to push him, but he grabbed her wrists and held them tightly. She felt his breath on her skin and began to pray.

  If I have found favor in your sight, O God, protect me. Do not let this man douse the light within.

  “I kept you fed and watered,” he said, his mouth against her throat.

  Onika held her breath and repeated her prayer, trying to think what she might do to get away.

  “I take you to the privy hole.” A kiss on her shoulder. “Bring you clean clothes.” He released one wrist and moved, his weight shifting the mat beneath them. “Now it’s your turn to give something to me.” Fingers touched her forehead, traced along her hairline, threaded through her hair. She jerked her head aside, and his free hand moved down her body and pulled at her skirt.