King's Folly

by Jill Williamson

  Then she was gone from the tent. Standing in a field of grass. Grass greener than any she’d seen before. It stood as high as her waist. Rippled in the wind. Swayed like a blanket on a clothesline. In the distance a person walked toward her. Too far away to tell if it was a man or woman. Charlon blinked. The person appeared half the distance closer. Another blink. Nearly there. It was a woman. Blink. A young woman. Blink.

  It was Chieftess Mreegan.

  She stopped in front of Charlon. Looking down. Eyes probing within. Hands reaching toward her. Wanting to touch. To touch without harm. Charlon reached as well. Their hands met, fingers sliding over palms, gripping. Painless.

  Charlon was touching another person. And she wasn’t afraid.

  “I know who you are,” Mreegan said. “You cannot hide your true self from me. Do not fear. You will not die today. You will serve me like Mreegan does.”

  “But you’re Mreegan,” Charlon said.

  “No. I am Magon, goddess of magic.”

  Charlon gasped and opened her eyes. She was in the tent again. Warm now. The walls were no longer frosty. She blinked. No ice melted from her lashes. No cloud came from her lips. She glanced at her side. Crusty blood smeared her brown skin. Smooth skin. Completely healed. As if she’d never been wounded.

  The Chieftess draped a soft white fur over Charlon’s bare body.

  Charlon instantly felt safer. “You’re Magon?”

  The woman raised an eyebrow. “She showed herself to you, did she? Magon is my shadir. She gives me her likeness. No one remembers what I really look like. Least of all me.” The Chieftess stood. Walked away from the bed of furs. “Five, get her some clothing. My Fifth, some food.”

  Thirsty and the statue woman—who must have returned at some point—scurried from the tent.

  “You showed yourself to this child?” Mreegan said.

  Charlon did not understand. Who was she talking to?

  “I don’t believe it,” Mreegan said, turning and gazing into nothingness. “She cannot be that old.” Mreegan strode back to the bed of furs and looked down on Charlon. “How old are you?”

  “Nineteen,” Charlon said, still confused.

  “Have you altered your age with magic? I wouldn’t have guessed you more than twelve.” The newt crawled down Mreegan’s arm and she cradled it against her stomach.

  “I know no magic. I’ve always been small,” she said, then added, “lady.”

  Mreegan smirked and stroked her newt. “I am no lady. You will address me as Chieftess. What’s your name?”

  “Charlon.”

  “How did you come to live on the streets of Bar-Vorak, Charlon? Your accent confuses me.”

  “I was born in Rurekau, Chieftess. In Larsa. When I was thirteen, my brother . . . I became a slave. To a brothel in Lâhaten. Months ago I escaped my master’s home. Fled to Magonia. I’d heard women were treated better. Better in this realm, but . . .” Charlon trailed off. She didn’t want to insult Magonia’s ruler.

  “But there’s trouble for a poor woman everywhere,” Mreegan said. “I was once like you. Even though we are exalted in the mother realms, some men still find a way to hurt women here. I’m sorry you’ve suffered in my realm.”

  Tears flooded Charlon’s eyes. Mreegan blurred before her.

  “You have a new home now. Welcome to our tribe, Charlon,” Mreegan said. “Magon led you to us. She tells me you will help us in the future. After today’s sacrifice I will have only four maidens. You will be my Fifth. Part of my inner circle.”

  Too many thoughts. All at once. Magon led Charlon here? The woman who’d thrown the spear, sacrificed? Charlon to become the Fifth Holy Maiden of the Magonian Chieftess? “I’m not a maid,” Charlon blurted out, cheeks burning. “My master, the brothel—”

  Mreegan lifted her hand. “You’ve been healed. Made whole. What once was is no more. You are again a maid.”

  A ludicrous statement. Underneath the white fur, Charlon ran her fingers over her healed side. “But how?”

  Mreegan offered a glowing smile. “Nothing is impossible with Magon. I’m glad you have come to us, my Fifth. I look forward to the revelation of Magon’s plan for you. Rest now. Seeing the goddess takes great strength.”

  Mreegan reached toward Charlon. Charlon flinched. But the Chieftess merely waved her hand past Charlon’s eyes and whispered. There was no choice. Charlon’s eyes fell closed and she slept.

  Trevn

  In the 760th year of House Hadar’s reign, the disciples of Lady Omari Gasta split off from Armania in what later became known as the Great Parting. King Nathek Hadar had outlawed magic, but to Magon’s disciples, magic was the next step in the development of humankind. Patriarchy had become archaic. Gender did not give value, nor was magic evil in and of itself. They formed the nation of Magonia in the east and built shrines and temples to the goddesses they worshiped.

  The people of Magonia quickly became divided. There was little food and many disagreements over politics and the treatment of men—especially male mantics. A series of murders sparked a civil war, which ended with the nation of Magonia dividing in two. Those with a more aggressive view on mantics seceded to northern lands with Lady Omari and founded the nation of Tenma, setting their minds on becoming the most powerful nation in the Five Realms. And so the mother tribes have been rebelling against House Hadar to this day.

  —from A History of the Five Realms by Pontiff Vremmel Gerke, House Hadar 806

  What are your thoughts, Sâr Trevn?” Father Tomek turned his bulging eyes on Trevn. The high priest was mostly bald with a fringe of white hair stretching from ear to ear around a dark brown, wrinkled scalp. Despite his old age, his posture was straight and his shoulders broad from years of sword training as a lesser prince. “Can you expound on this passage?”

  Trevn stared at the old scroll before him. In all honesty, reading about the mother tribes made him think of the Yobat/Yobatha debate, which brought to mind temple prostitutes, which reminded him of his brother Janek’s threats to send one to his bedchamber when he least expected it.

  But he would not say that to Father Tomek.

  Trevn focused on the words etched into the clay. “Mantics, mainly female ones, felt oppressed by the Armanian king, so they seceded from Armania.” Trevn couldn’t blame them. Armanian kings—or rosârs, as Father liked to be called—had the tendency to oppress, especially their children. “Yet some of the mantics took their newfound independence too far, and today men are oppressed in the mother realms.”

  “Good,” Father Tomek said. “The mother realms warred with us for over one hundred years. Wasn’t their freedom enough?”

  “The west has superior resources,” Trevn said. “Most of Tenma and Magonia stands desolate, so the mother realms built cities on the eastern seaboard. For decades their only food came from the Eversea, which was why they wanted our land.”

  “Was that all? They merely wanted our land to grow food?”

  “Not exactly. Tenma was also hungry for power and wealth. They wanted wood for ships. They wanted to rule everything.”

  “Yet your father gained us peace. How and at what cost?”

  “The Ten Year Truce ended the fighting and enabled free trade at neutral ports. But those border cities quickly divided and began imposing taxes on anything that crossed the borders. So while the treaty enabled trade, a tax war has made trade terribly expensive.”

  “Good. There was another repercussion from the treaty, one that—”

  “Illegal entry laws,” Trevn said, thinking of the protestors he’d talked with yesterday.

  Father Tomek sighed, and Trevn realized he’d interrupted. “I was referring to the gods, Sâr Trevn. Think on it. Tomorrow we’ll discuss it further.”

  Trevn straightened in his chair, eager to leave. “I’m dismissed?”

  “Have you finished transcribing your five pages?”

  “Almost.” He had only five pages to go.

  “Transcribing the holy book is the most i
mportant part of a priest’s training. Why is that?”

  Because the holy book was full of holes? Trevn fought back a grin. “Because the act of writing increases the chance the writing will be remembered.” This Trevn had found true with the maps he’d drawn.

  “I shall read until you’re finished,” Father Tomek said, walking to his desk.

  Trevn bit back a sigh. There was no task more arduous than transcribing. It made his back ache, his hand cramp, and his eyes squint until a headache was induced. But stalling would not get it done faster, and if he tarried too long, he’d miss his ride into the city.

  Trevn fetched his vellum pages and the original holy pages from the cabinet Father Tomek kept under lock and key when he was not in the classroom. He returned to the table, spread out his work, and began to write.

  Trevn barged into Hinck’s chambers and dropped his scrolls and hipsack on the floor inside the door. His friend and backman had been in Highcliff for three weeks, celebrating his majority ageday. Hinck had returned to Castle Everton late last night and, from the size of the lump on the bed, was still sleeping.

  Trevn approached and gave the lump a shake. “Hinck! Get up, we’re going out.”

  Hinck moaned and pulled the covers over his head.

  Trevn set his foot on the side of the bed and heaved himself up. He stepped awkwardly over the feather mattress to Hinck’s side. Jumped once. “Now!” Twice. “If you don’t hurry . . .” Three times. “. . . we’ll miss the carriage.”

  “Woes!” Hinck’s voice came muffled from under the blankets. “Not the rooftops. I just got back.”

  Trevn jumped again. “Absolutely the rooftops.” Another jump. “What better place to spend such a glorious day?” Trevn leapt off the bed and landed on the wooden floor with a thud. “I haven’t been able to go since you’ve been gone. Now get up.”

  The lump shifted. “Trev, I’m tired. Take Beal with you.”

  “Beal has gained my mother’s permission to avoid the roofs. Keep complaining and I’ll have Father find me a new backman.”

  Hinck threw off the blankets and sighed, staring at the ceiling. “Aren’t you even going to ask about my ageday?”

  Trevn made it a point never to ask personal questions. People would always tell a prince more than he wanted to know if he was patient enough.

  “Move. Now.” Trevn found Hinck’s clothing from the previous day in a heap on the floor. It smelled clean enough, so he pitched it at Hinck’s face. “We’ll have to run.” He walked to the door to retrieve his hipsack. He threaded the strap over his head and arm and settled the sack on his right side. The leather maps he tucked under his arm.

  When he looked back, Hinck was sitting on the edge of the bed in only his trousers, turning his tunic right side out.

  Hinck had a round face, small eyes, and a huge smile that bared teeth and gums—though he wasn’t smiling now. He had darker skin than Trevn and soft muscles that showed a halfhearted commitment to swordplay. His shoulder-length black hair was thick and trapped in the single braid of a non-soldier. A week past fifteen, he also had a feather of hair on his upper lip.

  Hinck pulled on his tunic, which made broken strands of hair frizz out around his face. He stuffed his foot into one boot and scanned the floor for the other. “You’ll drop the maps if you carry them that way.”

  “One time, I dropped them,” Trevn said. “And only because I upset that bird’s nest.”

  “And who had to fetch them for you? Me. I almost died trying to climb up the side of Mama’s Shelter with all those maps.” Hinck bent down and reached under his bed. “It’s worth my time to do it right.”

  He took the maps, squatted, and unrolled each on top of another, spreading them out on the floor in a stack. Once they were flat, he re-rolled them together in one thick cylinder. He slid them inside a map tube, pushed in the stopper, and put the strap over his head. “Lead the way, Your Impatientness.”

  Trevn darted into the hallway and sprinted to the servants’ stairs. Down, down he went around the curling stairs. He surprised a maid, who screamed and dropped a pile of fabric.

  “Sorry!” Trevn called back.

  Seconds later Hinck called out a “Sorry!” of his own.

  Trevn grinned. Hinck was slower than a snail in stormmer.

  He reached the ground floor and slowed to make the left turn. Past the laundry, the buttery, the store, and into the vast kitchen where the aroma of baked bread filled the air. He poured on the speed, dodging servants.

  A crash sounded behind him. Hara, the cook’s voice. “Oh, that boy!”

  Trevn chuckled and veered toward the corner exit where Hawley, Queen Brelenah’s onesent, presided over three male servants and a dozen wicker baskets filled with bread.

  They’d made it!

  Hawley glanced at Trevn as he ran past, his face hardened against any hint of approval.

  Trevn knew better. Hawley liked him. The man took food to the Sink daily, at the command of his queen. It had been too long since he’d given Trevn a ride.

  Outside, the sun burned down, making him wish he’d changed into lighter clothing. The carriage was there, waiting. Trevn ran to the front and climbed aboard.

  The driver stood, hands raised in protest. “Wait just a minute, lad. What do you think you’re . . .” He cleared his throat and bowed. “My pardon, Your Highness.”

  Trevn ignored him, stepped onto the driver’s seat—leaving a dusty bootprint—then hoisted himself to the roof. He slid onto his stomach, grabbed the front trim of the carriage, and swung around so he lay looking out over the driver’s seat.

  The driver was staring. New driver. Trevn had never seen him before. Their eyes met, and the man looked away. He made to sit down just as Hinck arrived. The driver offered Hinck a hand up, but Hinck’s hands were filled with pastries.

  “Want one?” he asked the driver.

  “Thank you, no, lord. I’ve eaten,” the driver said.

  Hinck shoved a pastry in his mouth and accepted the driver’s assistance. He lumbered up to the roof and sat beside Trevn. “Must you knock down so many servants, Your Discourteousness?”

  “It’s a gift,” Trevn said. “You’re just upset because I beat you. Again.”

  “I’m never racing. But by the time the person you knock down looks up, I arrive. I get the dirty looks. I get the curses. They all think I ran them down.”

  “Then run faster next time.” He watched Hinck take a bite of pastry. “Aren’t you going to offer me any?”

  “Noh, Yer Bosshinessh.” Hinck swallowed and said clearly, “These are mine. If you want some, next time slow down and steal your own.”

  “Isn’t it a privilege to steal for your prince?”

  Hinck took a huge bite and moaned. “So good.” He licked his fingers and squinted.

  Hinck was incapable of winking, yet he continued to try. His failure made Trevn wink all the more.

  “The bread has been loaded, sir,” a man said from below.

  “Are we all ready, then?” Hawley called out.

  That was Trevn’s cue. He reached over the side of the carriage to give the answering knock, but—

  “Yes, Mister Hawley, we are ready,” a girl said.

  Who was that? Trevn hung his head over the side and peeked into the carriage. Across from Hawley sat his brother Wilek’s intended, Lady Zeroah, with a girl who looked very familiar. A striking girl with ginger skin, very big eyes, and a pink dress. Where had he seen her before?

  She glanced up, saw him, and gasped.

  Trevn winked and straightened himself back on the roof. Hinck lay on his stomach now, still eating.

  “Everyone else ready?” Hawley called out from below.

  Trevn rapped his fist three times on the side of the carriage and clutched the trim.

  “Off we go, driver,” Hawley said.

  The carriage started to roll.

  Hinck shoved the last of his pastry into his mouth and grabbed hold, cheeks bulging. “Whooss in thrr
r?”

  “Lady Zeroah and her maid.” Though that other girl had not been dressed like a maid. She’d been wearing pink, and Princess Nabelle was stringent about her servants wearing the green and brown of her homeland.

  The carriage rolled around the side of the castle toward the front gates where a crowd of protestors stood, shaking their fists. Trevn had spent some time with them while Hinck had been away. Some were Athosian priests, warning of apocalypse. But the majority were acolytes of Dendron or waterbearers, who wanted the king to investigate some illegal evenroot harvesting they claimed was killing plant and animal life and poisoning underground rivers and cisterns. And Trevn’s father—the most unpopular Armanian king in a century—ignored them.

  Trevn pushed to his knees and waved at his newest friends.

  “Long live Sâr Trevn!” someone shouted.

  “I’ll try my best!” he yelled back.

  The crowd cheered as the carriage passed through the gate. Not one person threw a stone or rotten piece of fruit.

  Trevn laughed and waved, enjoying their attention. Back in Sarikar, where he’d spent much of his childhood, few had appreciated his spirit. Here in Armania, though, things were different.

  “What was that all about?” Hinck asked.

  Trevn lay back down as they rolled past the crossroads of High Street. “I can get away with anything here in Armania. The people love me!”

  “Because they don’t know you very well.”

  “Then they’ll love me even more once they get to know me.” It was a nice change from the stuffiness and judgmental glares in Sarikar.

  The carriage drove down Procession Street, deep into the heart of Everton. Hawley would spend about two hours in the Sink, distributing bread to the poor, apparently assisted by Lady Zeroah and her pink-clad friend. That gave Trevn a few hours to explore before he needed to catch his ride home.

  The carriage reached the Blackwater Canal and turned into the Sink, where it slowed and rattled over the narrow dirt road. Despite the horrible stench and the sight of so many poor, Trevn loved the Sink. The tiny adobe buildings were crammed so close together and had such flat clay roofs that Trevn could run and leap from one to another.