King's Folly

by Jill Williamson

  As they approached the bend where the carriage would nearly touch the roof of the Lazy Man’s Inn, Trevn pushed up to a crouch.

  “Get ready,” he told Hinck.

  Hinck sighed. “I’m ready.”

  In one, two, three! Trevn leapt off the carriage. His feet skidded a little on the fine layer of soot the inn’s chimney left on the rooftop. He caught his balance and took off on his road in the sky. Over the next two inns, down to the roof of the chandler’s shop, up over the public bathhouse, up higher onto Mama’s Shelter, then a big jump down to the roof of the leatherworks, which reeked of urine.

  He paused and looked over the ledge. Below, an alleyway separated the leatherworks’ roof from that of the currier’s. Trevn glanced back. Hinck was moving slowly, as usual. But at least he’d been willing to come. Trevn’s first backman had asked to be reassigned after one week in Trevn’s service. And Beal, his onesent, refused the roofs before ever trying.

  Hinck caught up, panting. “Are we stopping?”

  “Not quite,” Trevn said. “I want to study the harbor.”

  Hinck groaned and plodded back along the roof. “I’ll take the long way, thanks.”

  “Meet you there.” Trevn walked back to the far side of the leatherworks roof to get a running start. He crouched down and grinned.

  He was a squirrel. And squirrels could nearly fly.

  He shot off, sprinting as fast as he could. At the edge of the roof, he leapt. His arms circled and his legs churned as he ran through the air. He landed a bit off kilter and slid onto his knees and right hand, catching himself on the edge of the currier’s roof. He looked down to the alley below, met the gaze of a boy looking up.

  The boy waved. Trevn waved back, then pushed to his feet and continued on.

  Over the tenement housing and around the Temple of Rurek, which was far too tall to climb in a hurry. Another group of tenements and he arrived on the red-and-brown striped roof of Thalassa’s Temple. From here he could look out to the Eversea, examine the shoreline, and watch the ships. He sat down to wait for Hinck, annoyed that he’d let him carry the maps. He withdrew the grow lens from his hipsack, eager to put his time to good use studying the coastline.

  Everton had been built on the cliffs overlooking the sea. The nearest beachfront was a league south of the city. His father had a manor house there—Seacrest, it was called—but Trevn never visited now that his elder brother Janek had all but claimed it as his own.

  Trevn quickly found the place where Cape Waldemar had been. He moved the grow lens from his eyes and squinted. Moved the grow lens back and looked again. He studied the shape of the cliffs, mentally comparing them to the maps he’d drawn. Five Woes! The cape was truly gone. He’d definitely be making some changes to his maps today.

  Extraordinary, the power of nature. And a little terrifying.

  Trevn peered out to the horizon. The harbor was filled with ships, coming and going from the Port of Everton. Trevn saw eight merchant cogs, three merchant stoneclads from Rurekau, one angle-rigged barge bearing a Sarikarian flag, several dozen fishing finships—some single-masted, some double—and a myriad of houseboats, sailing skiffs, and even a few reamskiffs. Not one wandered far from shore.

  In the past hundred years many a ship had gone looking for new land, only to return with negative reports. Trevn felt they hadn’t gone far enough. There was more out there, beyond the bowl, he just knew it. And if the Athosian priests were correct and the Five Woes were upon them, they needed to find land soon.

  Footsteps approached, but Trevn kept his gaze on the sea. “You have my maps.”

  Fabric rustled, and the wooden tube thumped against the roof and rolled to stop by Trevn’s leg. “Your precious maps . . .” A gasp for breath. “Your Magnanimousness.”

  “Big word,” Trevn said. “You’re smarter than you look.”

  Hinck shrugged and fell down beside Trevn, still fighting for breath.

  Trevn dug into the map tube. He found the map of the harbor and unrolled it on the rooftop. He anchored the corners with stones from his hipsack so the wind couldn’t whip it away.

  “What’s all that smoke?” Hinck asked.

  Trevn looked up, annoyed to be pulled away from his map now that it was finally in front of him. “Where?”

  Hinck pointed east, to a distant gray cloud that filled the sky.

  Trevn went back to his map. “That’s Mount Radu. It caught fire in yesterday’s quake. Didn’t you see it on your way back?”

  “It was night, and I was sleeping.”

  Trevn found the bit of coastline he’d been studying. He looked up at the land through his grow lens, then back at the map. “It really did collapse. Not just part of it. The entire thing.”

  “What did?”

  “Cape Waldemar. It’s gone. As are the houses that were built on it.”

  “Five Woes,” Hinck said, staring blankly at the missing cape.

  “Captain Livina resided there,” Trevn said. “He was at sea when it happened, but his children, his mother, his entire household, perished.”

  “Wasn’t he admiral of the king’s fleet? The one your father forced into early retirement?”

  “The very one,” Trevn said, sorry for the man. “I’d like to get closer, but I’d have to ask Father.”

  Hinck snorted. “Gods forbid you speak to the man.”

  “It’s wisest not to, as you well know.”

  “How can a whole cape be gone?”

  “Fell into the Eversea during the big earthquake two weeks back.” Trevn handed Hinck the grow lens. “I think the cracks have something to do with where they strike.”

  Hinck held the grow lens to his eye and shuddered, then set his palm over his heart in the sign of The Hand and kissed his fingers, as if such an action might actually protect him. “I hate earthquakes.”

  “I hate that people die because of them, but they have a glorious majesty. Not even my father can stand against such power.”

  “Careful. If the rosâr hears you saying such things, he’ll sacrifice you to Barthos.”

  “On the contrary, my pessimistic backman. The Hideous Rosâr, may he die a thousand deaths, would agree, though he’d give credit to Barthos. And if my father ever tried to sacrifice me, I’d run away.”

  Hinck handed back the lens. “You’re fast, but not that fast.”

  “Even better, I’d steal a great ship and sail past the bowl until I found new land, which I’d name Trevonia.”

  “You want to be rosâr?”

  “Not here. Never here. And never rosâr.” As if being king wasn’t good enough, Father had titled himself rosâr back before Trevn had been born, along with declaring the titles of rosârah, sâr, and sârah for the queens, princes, and princesses respectively. Father’s pretension had been to set his dynasty apart from others, but the words were nothing more than ancient Armanian translations for king, queen, prince, and princess. And no matter how many people Father had sent to the pole for misspeaking, many continued to use the more common titles. “But I’d be king of Trevonia. I’d make it my mission to explore every corner of the world and map it all.”

  Hinck rolled his eyes. “I think that’s already been done.”

  “How wrong you are. See how Cape Waldemar is no more? I will now create the first map to show it. The world is always changing, Hinck.”

  “I shall strive to remember that, O Enlightened One.”

  Trevn ignored Hinck’s snark. He removed a wedge of charcoal from his hipsack and set about sketching a new shoreline without the cape.

  “Since you refuse to ask about my ageday,” Hinck said, “I’m just going to tell you.”

  Finally.

  “I did not receive the gift of a concubine. So you were wrong.”

  “I’m afraid that sometimes happens,” Trevn said, “though it’s rare.”

  “Father said I might be seventh in line for the throne, but that doesn’t mean I get to live like a prince. So you owe me one gold piece.”


  “Have my backman fetch it for you,” Trevn said.

  Not even a smirk from Hinck. “Father did invite a temple prostitute to our home, though.”

  Trevn glanced at Hinck. “Which temple?”

  “Mikreh. The Duke of Highcliff would never do anything the rosâr wouldn’t.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Mother was furious.”

  Trevn erased a mistake with the side of his pinky finger. “I can imagine.” The woman was from Sarikar like Princess Nabelle and her stately daughter Zeroah. Dancing prostitutes were never appropriate. Was the girl in pink from Sarikar too? Why had she seemed so familiar?

  He finished sketching the new coastline and sat back to look over his work.

  “Anyway,” Hinck said, “I spent the whole hour of first sleep with her.”

  “What?” Trevn glared at his friend. “Have you forgotten our pact so soon?” He lifted his fist to show the R-shaped scar etched into the side of his pinky and palm.

  “But you should have seen her, Trev. She was amazing. And I wanted to . . . you know, to be a man.”

  Trevn rolled his eyes. “You need a woman to become a man?”

  “Will nothing I do ever impress you?”

  Trevn peered through his grow lens to check the shape of the coast against what he’d drawn. He seemed to have captured it perfectly. “If your goal in life is to impress me, I suggest you find a new goal.”

  Hinck sighed.

  “Do not sigh as if I’ve disappointed you,” Trevn said. “Renegades stand against the establishment that confines us—that forces us to conform to their ideals. Manhood at fifteen is their decree, Hinck. It’s steeped in superstition. It means nothing. One might be a man at twelve. Another at seventeen. Each man lives his own life.”

  “Then let me live mine. You telling me to do the opposite of the establishment is you confining me to your ideals. I was curious. That was part of our pact too, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “I’ve forgotten nothing. Curiosity is good and natural. But not when you follow their traditions, not when you support the very thing we’re trying to—Do you feel that?”

  The roof began to sway. A rumble hummed from below. On the streets, people screamed, and unseen objects rattled and clinked. Out to sea, waves crashed against the cliffs, swelling higher than Trevn had ever seen. He grinned, in awe of the majesty of it all. He had never been outside for a—

  “Earthquake!” Hinck yelled.

  Wilek

  The floor trembled.

  Wilek stopped in the foyer and set his hand against a fluted pillar. Muted screams echoed throughout the stone walls of Castle Everton. Overhead, chandeliers rocked on rattling chains. Two paces from where he stood, a candle slapped against the stone floor. Across the room, another fell. Then another and another.

  Please let raining candles be the worst of this quake. Wilek had once thought the castle unmovable, but over two dozen earthquakes this past year—and three in two weeks!—had proven him false. How much more could the old stone walls take?

  Kal grabbed his arm. “We must go outside, Your Highness.”

  Before Wilek could decide whether or not to concede to his shield’s wishes, the shaking stopped.

  Kal’s grip on Wilek’s arm remained tight, dark eyes met his. “Are you well?”

  “Fine. That was a short one.” Wilek took a deep breath and tugged his arm free. He kicked a candle out of his way and watched the white wax roll across the foyer until it bounced off a pillar. “That was the third in two weeks. People will panic.”

  “And the Athosian priests will take full advantage of the paranoia,” Kal said.

  Those priests had caused trouble enough. Father would have to do something about them. Perhaps Wilek should check on the king . . . suggest a plan. The more useful he made himself—especially in times of crisis—the better his chances of being declared Heir.

  Wilek turned back to Kal to get his shield’s opinion on the matter and saw Harton running toward them. The lad’s belt and sword were tucked under one arm and his tabard had bunched up over his hands as he tied the laces of his britches.

  “Three quakes in a fortnight!” Harton seemed giddy at the prospect. He let his tabard fall into place and pulled his sword belt round his trim waist. “Dendron is terrible fierce about something. Guess he didn’t like the rosâr’s sacrifice to bad-breath Barthos.”

  “Your place, Harton!” Kal snapped. “And why are you late? Again?”

  Now fully dressed, Harton turned a repentant gaze on Kal, then quickly bowed his head to Wilek. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I . . . slept in. I only mentioned Dendron . . . I mean . . . I didn’t mean to insult Barthos.”

  Agmado Harton “slept in” at least four times a week, a shortcoming Wilek had temporarily overlooked due to the boy’s amiable disposition. When three people spent almost every hour of every day in the same company, it was much more pleasant if those people got along.

  Wilek gripped the young backman’s shoulder. “Listen well, Harton. I do not begrudge each man his choice in which gods he kneels to. But should my father hear such slander against Barthos from your lips, he’ll have you flogged.”

  Harton’s throat bobbed. “Yes, Your Highness. I shall guard my tongue from now on.”

  “See that you do.” Though Wilek doubted such a thing was possible for this magpie.

  The high-pitched flutter of women’s voices rose from the back of the castle.

  Mother.

  Wilek strode across the foyer toward the inner courtyard. Kal and Harton kept pace on either side.

  Over three hundred years ago, Castle Everton had been built in the shape of a letter A, to honor Arman, the creator god. King Echad had recently started renovations on the northern end with the intent of remodeling the castle into a B for Barthos. The foyer, which filled the entire crossbar of the A, separated the castle entrance from the inner courtyard in the A’s center: his mother’s favorite place to hold a court of her own apart from the king.

  “They started early today,” Kal said.

  “Mother feels any time between breaking her fast and second sleep is a good time for court.” Being surrounded by her followers—and her throng of tiny dogs—gave Wilek’s mother joy and purpose. Arman knew how little attention the king gave his first wife.

  A pillar in the foyer had collapsed. A group of courtiers stood around the wreckage. At the back of the foyer, two Queen’s Guards were holding open the main doors to the courtyard. Courtiers filed inside, holding one another and exclaiming over the ordeal they’d just survived.

  “Harton,” Wilek said, “send these people back through the garden to the northern wing until we can get someone to inspect that pillar. Guard!” Wilek waved one of the Queen’s Guards over. Like the King’s Guard, their uniforms were blue tabards over blacks but for Queen Brelenah’s green branch insignia on their chests instead of Father’s red Barthos heads. “Find Lady Lebetta and see that she is safe,” he told the guard. “Bring word to me at once.”

  Harton and the guard ran off.

  The crowd parted somewhat at Wilek’s approach; those who saw him bowed. Many were too overcome to notice their surroundings. The second guardsman at the doors gave Wilek a quick bow of the head as he and Kal stepped outside.

  Wilek scanned the courtyard and saw no immediate damage. He fought his way through the chaos that only three score of courtiers, their servants, a squadron of guards, and a dozen of his mother’s tiny dogs could create after a natural phenomenon. The animals yipped and bit at his ankles as he walked toward the open colonnade. Women were scattered, sitting or lying on blankets on the pebbled ground. Perhaps some had fainted. None were his mother.

  The moment Wilek made eye contact with Princess Nabelle of Sarikar, she pushed through the bodies toward him. The mother of his betrothed was a flawless woman—in appearance, anyway. Today her typically regal expression had been replaced with fear.

  “Sâr Wilek, may you live forever.” The
words came quickly as she sank into a low curtsy.

  “You are well, I hope, Princess?” he asked.

  “Yes, but I fear for my daughter.”

  Wilek frowned. “Lady Zeroah was injured?”

  “Wilek!” His mother lunged past Princess Nabelle and threw her arm around his neck. The other arm held one of her dogs, which sniffed Wilek’s tunic. “Oh, my son. Thank Arman! How relieved I am to see you well. I detest those horrible quakes.”

  He gave her a gentle squeeze. “Are you well, Mother?”

  “All but my nerves.” She pulled back and set her hand to her heart. “I declare one day those quakes will stop my heart forev—” Her gaze latched on to Princess Nabelle. “Oh, Lady Zeroah!” She gripped Wilek’s arm, and the dog she was holding yipped. “Oh, Wilek, your betrothed!”

  “Time to be a hero,” a crackly voice said from behind him.

  “Gran.” Wilek stepped back to allow his grandmother into their circle. The Mother Rosârah was a tall, lean old woman whom Father tried to ignore but Wilek’s mother refused to let be forgotten.

  Wilek glanced into the colonnade and behind the wicker chair his mother used as a throne. No sign of Lady Zeroah. “She is not here?”

  “They went to the Sink,” Princess Nabelle said. “Zeroah and her new honor maiden.”

  Wilek glanced at Kal, but his shield’s scarred face showed no emotion.

  “Such a sweet girl,” Mother said, leaning on Wilek for support. “Hawley was taking food to the poor, and Miss Mielle suggested that she and Lady Zeroah go along. Arman only knows what madness this quake might have stirred in the city. Lady Zeroah’s guards might have been overpowered. The almshouse might have collapsed!”

  Wilek wrapped his arm around his mother’s waist and helped her back to her throne. He righted a footstool beside it as she settled her dog on her lap. “Princess Nabelle, won’t you sit?”

  “Thank you, but I would rather stand.” She wrung a handkerchief between her fingers.