King's Folly

by Jill Williamson

  No. He really didn’t.

  “She pointed out two young ladies who were at court. Said she was searching for your wife and wondered which of the ladies I found more handsome. I told her I could not choose, that both were lovely. Then she asked my age. When I told her, she said that I was, unfortunately, too old to be one of your concubines. Apparently she seeks some of those for you as well.”

  He swallowed. “My majority ageday is approaching.”

  “Oh, I’m well aware. Your mother could talk of little else. She mentioned the scandal of Sâr Wilek’s mourning his concubine and advised Lady Zeroah to consider marriage to you instead, since you both match in fives. She thinks you stand a better chance of being declared Heir. And then she told Lady Zeroah that Sâr Wilek chose a harem of five women.”

  Trevn choked on a sharp breath and coughed. “He did?”

  “Indeed. There was much discussion as to which woman he’ll sleep with first. Some of the men are placing bets.”

  Trevn could only imagine. It was one of the reasons he hated court. But why was any of this his fault? “Why do you care so much about Wilek’s harem, anyway? It’s not like you wanted to be in it.”

  Her chin trembled. “I don’t want to be in anyone’s harem! Your mother said that to hurt Lady Zeroah in hopes that she might marry you and help your position to be declared Heir.” She stood and crossed the platform, arms folded.

  “I have never wished to be Heir.”

  “Are all nobles so awful? I always believed court would be the epitome of romance and refinement. Imagine my horror when I was informed that I am thirty-six days too old to be your concubine and, in the next hour, was propositioned by three greasy old men, who are each at least twenty years my senior. When I slapped the boldest of them, your mother scolded me for it. Apparently she thinks young maidens have no value in this world beyond who they can bed. But pity on me that the boy I did like is out of my reach, even in the basest sense. One month too old to be your concubine, which of course your mother assumed I was eager to be.”

  Silence descended. Trevn hoped the worst had passed, but then Miss Mielle spun around and yelled again.

  “I can’t believe you think I want to be in a harem!”

  “I never said that.” Trevn stood but kept his distance. “I just wondered why Wilek’s harem bothered you. I should have known my mother was causing trouble. She excels at that.”

  “Don’t pretend to care about my feelings. You don’t care that Sâr Wilek’s new harem has broken my lady’s heart. You don’t care how horribly men behave at court. Why should you? You’re going to turn out just like them. And I don’t want to have anything to do with you!” She grabbed her skirts up in one hand and fled.

  Trevn watched her go, clueless how to stop her or if he should even try.

  Wilek

  Wilek’s contingent to Farway had assembled in front of Castle Everton. A commotion outside the gate captured his attention. A carriage had arrived—Princess Nabelle’s, if he was not mistaken. The guards managed to push back the protestors and open the gates so the carriage could enter. It stopped at the bottom of the castle’s front steps. Wilek went down to greet it, wondering whom he might find inside.

  The coachman beat him to the door and helped Lady Zeroah step to the ground. Wilek had thought she wasn’t going to visit until his fifteen days of mourning had passed. And here he was, still wearing his blacks. He caught sight of Miss Mielle inside the carriage; the girl didn’t appear to be getting out.

  Wilek glanced behind him to Kal. “Go around and greet Miss Mielle. Harton, with me.” He approached Lady Zeroah, who curtsied. Wilek greeted her warmly. “Lady Zeroah, what a splendid surprise.”

  She met his greeting with nervous eyes. “I heard you were departing on a journey that would keep you from us for too long, and I could not stay away.”

  A choppy line of words, no doubt rehearsed, but coming from her he knew it had taken effort. “You honor me, lady.”

  Her lips twitched into a small smile. “I try.” She reached through the open door of the carriage and withdrew something from the seat inside—a long, narrow whitewood box, stained with coiling black burns. She handed it to him. “I brought you a gift.”

  Intrigued, he took it from her and opened it. Inside, a long bronze dagger gleamed on a bed of green velvet. A dirk, actually, two hands long and crafted like a broadsword, sharp on both edges and the point. The hilt was made of glossy brown wood, as dark as his skin. Instead of a pommel, a bronze sunbird capped the end, its wings wrapped partially around the wooden grip. In the place of a crossguard, a clawed foot reached out on either side to protect the hand.

  “Do you like it?” she asked softly.

  He could barely breathe he was so taken with the weapon. “It’s glorious, thank you.”

  “It was my grandfather’s,” she said. “King Jorger wished me to give it to you for a wedding gift, but I thought you might like to have it early.”

  Wilek glanced into her golden eyes. “I like it very much, lady. I collect daggers.”

  Her relieved smile softened her posture. “I am so pleased. I pray you won’t have need of it on your journey.”

  Oh, but Wilek would not bring this with him, as much as he would have enjoyed studying it on the long ride. It was much too valuable to take to a disaster area where desperate people might steal it. “Worry not, lady. My men will keep me from harm.”

  “I will pray for your safe return at every toll of the bells.” She swayed—had she lost her balance?—leaned forward, up on her toes, and kissed his cheek, bringing with her the fresh smell of rosemary. “Farewell, my sâr,” she whispered. Before he could answer, she spun around and clambered into the carriage.

  Stunned, Wilek stared at the open door but could see only her voluminous skirt as she sat back against the seat. He set the dagger in its box and handed it to Harton. He moved her skirt inside and closed the carriage door, then clutched the window opening and peeked inside.

  “Farewell, lady, and thank you again for the gift.”

  Zeroah nodded from the shadows, her shy self again.

  “Good-bye, Kal!” Miss Mielle hung out the opposite window, waving at Kal. She pulled herself inside and turned her attention on Wilek.

  “Good midday, ladies.” Wilek stepped back from the carriage and signaled the driver.

  The carriage pulled away. Miss Mielle leaned across Lady Zeroah and waved out the window. “Good midday, Sâr Wilek!”

  Zeroah peeked out as well and offered a tiny wave.

  Wilek waved back, oddly content. “Well, what do you make of that, Kal?”

  Kal came to stand beside him. “I missed the entire exchange.”

  Harton stepped between them, dagger box under his arm. “Lady Zeroah gave our sâr a knife and a kiss on the cheek.”

  “Lady Zeroah?” Kal said. “I don’t believe it. The kiss, I mean.”

  “Perhaps Mikreh will smile on my marriage after all,” Wilek said. “Do you think it possible?”

  “Indeed I do, Your Highness,” Kal said.

  “Give that box to Dendrick, Hart,” Wilek said. “See that he puts it in my armory. I want it kept safe until I return.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Harton said, starting up the front steps.

  Wilek felt joyful for the first time in days. “Are we ready to depart?” he asked Kal.

  “Another half hour should have all the men gathered and ready,” Kal said.

  “Good,” Wilek said. “Just long enough to bid Mother and Gran farewell.”

  Alone, Wilek could ride a well-trained horse to Farway in five days. With fifty men, the 140-league journey would take closer to ten.

  On the fourth midday the Sandacre Valley came into view. A little over a year had passed since Wilek had last traveled this way, and the changes in the land startled him. What should have been golden wheat fields were nothing but dead stalks. The distant hills of Mount Radu were burned black. The closer they came to the city of Dacre, th
e worse the fires were. Smoke hung bitter on the air. It tickled the nose and made the throat sore until everyone sounded ill.

  That night, Wilek sent a messenger ahead to announce his arrival in Dacre. He would rest there one night and speak with the governor about the fires. He stood outside his tent and watched the rivers of fire, orange and bright in the darkness, snaking down the slopes of Mount Radu. A peachy smoke cloud hung over the mountain, lit by the flames. The black silhouettes of buildings blocked some of his view of the fire, as if they were barring the way from destruction.

  They reached Dacre just after the morning bells the next day. The majority of Wilek’s party went around the city to set up camp on the east side. Wilek would meet them there tomorrow evening. He kept ten men with him in the city, including Kal, Harton, and Dendrick.

  Dacre itself had remained unscathed from the fires. Though the mountain still smoldered, the wind had shifted in the night, and the smoke was lighter than it had been. They headed straight for The Crooked House, the most reputable inn in Dacre and the place Wilek always stayed when he passed through. He looked forward to sleeping on the soft feather bed in the upper suite.

  This early, the inn was fairly empty. Dendrick set off to notify the governor of their arrival. Wilek sent Kal to look for mantics who might translate the rune, which left Harton to guard his suite door while he bathed and rested.

  The familiarity of the suite set him at ease. The door to the private bedchamber, the worn desk with the wobbly chair and a rough gray robe folded over it, the roundstone fireplace with a steaming iron bathtub waiting before it—everything just where it was supposed to be.

  Wilek relaxed in the warm water, wondering over the condition of Farway, if young Lord Estin’s message was true, and if it was, what that would mean for Armania in the form of displaced people, lost resources, and the myriad of end-times prophecies that would rage. Many would think it the Five Woes, come at last. Could it be? Wilek allowed himself to consider it. Surely not.

  His thoughts drifted to Lebetta and the rune and how he might be able to find a translation. He tried to relax, but his mind refused, so he finished his bath and put on the gray robe. He may as well eat something and dress to meet the governor.

  Wilek opened the door and stepped into the hallway, empty but for Harton and a woman. His backman was holding a maid up against the wall with his body, his mouth pressed to hers. The girl whimpered, turned her head, squirmed, got her hand free, and tried to push Harton back, but he grabbed her wrist and pinned it against the wall, murmuring softly in a language Wilek did not understand.

  “Harton. Is this how you guard my door?”

  Harton fell back from the woman, who instantly fled down the hall and stairs. “Your Highness, good midday. The maid came to ask if you were hungry.”

  “And you didn’t see fit to inquire of me?”

  “I was just about to.”

  “Yes, it looked like it. If I give you a task, can you manage it without stumbling over some woman on the way and forgetting?”

  “Of course, Your Highness.”

  “I would, indeed, like some food. Send Dendrick to me as well.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” Harton strode down the hall, leather armor creaking.

  Wilek watched him, eyes narrowed. It occurred to him how little he knew his backman. The fact that Harton had been caught shirking his duties while forcing himself on a woman who had a message to deliver to Wilek, that he showed no remorse whatsoever . . . Wilek would have to consult Kal. He hated to think of finding yet another backman—people would believe the position cursed!—but he needed a man he could trust. He was no longer certain he could trust Agmado Harton.

  Wilek met with Governor Albak in a room Dendrick and the innkeeper’s staff had prepared on the ground floor. The governor of Dacre had a face like a cabbage, all wrinkles and folds. He spoke in a harsh whisper, but that might have been due to the smoke.

  “Always pleased to speak with you, Highness.” Though his narrowed eyes and guarded expression belied his words. “How can I be of service to the throne?”

  “By telling me how you fare. Are the fires a threat to the city? Have you many casualties?”

  The governor relaxed a bit. “Fire never reached the city. Wind blew it north. Over three dozen homes in the hill villages were lost. One old hermit burned with his house. No other casualties to report, though the entire population is afflicted by the smoke. We all might sound as if we’re on our death boats, but the physicians assure me it will clear when the fires do.”

  “That’s excellent news,” Wilek said. “Have you seen any mantics around Dacre?”

  “Mantics? Never seen any of them, though we had some Magonians pass by the outskirts of the city. Sent my sheriff after them, but he found no trail.”

  Uneasiness crept upon Wilek. “Which way were they headed?”

  “West, toward Canden,” the governor said.

  Wilek and Kal exchanged glances. The Magonians could be headed to Everton.

  “If they have mantics in their group, they could hide their trail,” Kal said.

  “Suppose that’s true,” the governor said.

  “Thank you, Governor Albak,” Wilek said. “I’ll leave five men behind. Four to track the Magonians and one to work with you. He’ll make a list of your needs, and when we stop on our way back, I’ll take your concerns to Everton and the rosâr.”

  The governor bowed. “Much appreciated, Your Highness.”

  “See that no need is neglected,” Wilek said. “The people are my top concern.”

  The next morning, just after the dawn bells, Wilek and his remaining men met up with the other forty and renewed their journey. Over the next few days, they passed an endless trail of bruised and battered refugees headed toward Dacre. Most were caked in dirt or mud. Some smelled of sewage, some limped, some wore arm slings, some carried packs or cauldrons, some pulled carts, some had mules or camels laden with belongings.

  All were looking for a new home.

  When Wilek passed camps along the road, he sent Dendrick or Kal to question the people. The reports were eerily similar:

  “The ground fell out from under me.”

  “The whole field caved in.”

  “Everything sank to the Lowerworld.”

  “The floor collapsed.”

  “The ground gave way.”

  “It was like a trapdoor opened up beneath me.”

  “The Five Woes for sure. The gods are done with us.”

  They came across a weeping man, caked in mud. “Couldn’t find my family,” he said. “Dug as long as I could, but the mud took everything.”

  “What do you mean, mud?” Wilek asked.

  “The ground fell clean away in places,” the man said, “but most of the city drowned in a bog of sinksand. Swallowed even the temple.”

  Swallowed the temple.

  They continued on. Wilek had never fully doubted young Lord Estin’s word, but at the same time, he hadn’t fully believed it either. But to hear the panic and sorrow in these people’s voices . . . to see their shocked expressions . . . to witness their tears of loss. Something dire had happened in Farway. Whatever it was, it chilled Wilek’s soul.

  Midmorning on the tenth day they came to the fork that led to Farmman Geffray’s land, and Wilek sent the majority of his group on with Dendrick to announce his arrival. He, Kal, and Harton rode ahead to see what was left of the city.

  In the past the temple spire was the first thing anyone saw when nearing Farway, but Wilek saw no sign of a city on the horizon at all. He thought they should have come to the city gatehouse by now. In Armania every city gate was the same: two round stone towers on either side of a pointed arch with a statue of Rosâr Echad standing beside the right tower and a set of guards manning an open iron gate. All they saw was barrenness until they came to a post jammed into the middle of the road. A leather sign nailed to it was burned with the following text:

  Go no farther.

  Wha
t once was Farway is no more.

  Wilek dismounted and stepped slowly past the sign. A dozen paces ahead the road fell away, like the cliff edge of a canyon. Leagues ahead and to both sides, a gaping chasm had opened up where the city of Farway had once stood. Craggy walls of sediment stretched down some ten levels deep to a muddy bog. The occasional bubble of dirty water grew and popped, like a cauldron at slow boil. Wilek saw no sign of the temple spire or the city gates. Muddy lumps might have been stone walls, pillars, or roofs, but there was no way to tell.

  “Holy gods,” Harton muttered.

  Kal grabbed Wilek’s arm just above the elbow. “Keep back from the edge, Your Highness, in case the ground is soft.”

  Wilek took a step back. “If I wasn’t seeing it with my own eyes . . . How could this be? Where did it all go?”

  “Underground?” Harton suggested.

  Clearly. “But where did the underground go?” Wilek asked.

  “Into the ream?” Kal said of the subterranean freshwater rivers.

  “Which could be why the wells are dry.” Standing here raised an army of gooseflesh on Wilek’s arms. He had seen enough. They mounted and headed for Farmman Geffray’s land.

  As they backtracked, Wilek noticed other things. Cracks in the ground, fractured cisterns that were dried up, and huge puddles flooded with muddy water.

  “The Lowerworld has been doing a lot of rearranging lately,” Harton said.

  “So it seems,” Wilek said, wishing he knew why.

  They arrived at Geffray’s farm. If Wilek hadn’t known a disaster had taken place, he might have thought this the location of a festival or tournament by the number of people, though most were dressed in rags. Tents were everywhere, ranging from fine quality to bedsheets tacked against overturned wagons. Beyond the farm in a distant field, Wilek could see the sweep of regulation blue army tents that his men had raised. He was glad they had thought to stay out of the people’s way.