King's Folly

by Jill Williamson

  “Will our water last until Lifton?” Novan asked.

  “No, but we can get more. Cisterns are usually dry out here so we’ll watch for stepwells.”

  “What are those?”

  “Doorways to the underground rivers of the ream.”

  “Won’t people be living in them too?”

  “Stepwells get a lot of traffic, so people don’t tend to linger. If we can’t find one, we’ll milk ground cones. They grow above the reamways. Their roots are long and deep and transport water to the surface.”

  “Like a fountain?”

  “More like tears. You can fill a jug halfway overnight.”

  They rode until dark. Kal found a grove of sticky snare that would hide them from the road. The moment Novan dismounted, he collapsed.

  “Have you been drinking your water?” Kal asked.

  “I’m trying to save it,” Novan said.

  What were they training the young soldiers these days? “That’s a mistake. You need to take small sips every so often. Eating will make you thirstier, so try to wait till we stop. Here are some ground cones. I’ll show you how to milk them.”

  Kal crouched beside the plant with a clay bowl and handkerchief. He cut off the blossom on top, and the stalk instantly began oozing liquid. He sheathed his knife and pushed the stalk over the bowl. It began to drip: pat, pat, pat. “That’ll take a while. Help me make camp.”

  They set up a lean-to by hanging one end of a fold of linen on a sticky snare bush and anchoring the other end with rocks. They placed their leather bedrolls inside to keep their bodies off the still-hot sand. Kal took first watch. Novan fell instantly asleep.

  Kal woke screaming.

  Novan loomed over him, sword drawn. “Sir? What’s wrong?”

  Kal sucked in a long breath. “Only a dream.” It happened all too often. Yeetta warriors carving his face with shards of obsidian. Kal could barely speak of such things without folding in on himself. There was too much buried there.

  “Must have been intense.” Novan sheathed his sword and kicked the air, growled, and punched his thigh. “I can’t feel a thing. That blasted camel was using my leg for a pillow.”

  Novan’s camel lay with its chin on the bedroll. It blinked bulbous brown eyes at Kal.

  They packed up camp, which inspired Novan’s camel to rise and help. Novan had to continually push the animal aside and finally tied the beast to a nearby cactus. After that the work was quickly done, despite the camel’s mournful howling.

  Three days later they came to their first stepwell. It was marked by a waist-high wall made of stone, which was the same color as the sand and would have been nearly impossible to see if not for the red wavy lines carved into the side. A set of long, shallow steps descended underground like those of the Cross Canyon Bridge. Novan’s camel trotted up to the wall and extended his head over the top.

  “Are you thirsty already?” Novan commanded the camel to sit. The moment he dismounted, the camel lurched back to its feet and ran toward the stairs, nearly knocking over Kal.

  “Haht, you dumb camel. Haht!” Novan yelled as he chased the animal down the stairs.

  “He’s fine,” Kal yelled after him. “He can’t go far.”

  A great splash rose from below.

  Unless he swam the river. Next time they’d have to remove the saddlebags before getting too close to water.

  Kal had the opposite problem and had to fight to get his camel down the stairs. They emerged onto a stone slab in an underground cavern and found Novan’s camel knee-deep in the river, kicking up water and making a spectacle of himself. The river spanned about six paces. A group of men stood on a sandbank on the other side, wet from the waist down—muimacs, Kal guessed, by their mismatched clothing.

  Kal quickly counted nine men. Four were laughing at the camel. Two were staring at Novan, who was staring back; all eyes narrowed as they regarded each other. A seventh man lay on the ground, dead by the look of his vacant stare. The last two men crouched over him, one pulling off his boots, the other checking his pockets.

  “Think they killed him?” Novan whispered.

  “Not likely. Muimacs don’t kill unless provoked. They’re scavengers.”

  “If they didn’t kill him, what did?”

  “Oh, any number of things. Or people. Or he could have died of thirst.” Though not likely in a stepwell. “He could have been living on that sandbank.”

  Two more of the muimacs turned back to the task at hand, and between the four of them, they quickly stripped the man to nothing.

  “Why take his clothing?” Novan asked.

  “The muimacs take everything from the dead. As long as we live, they won’t bother us. Help me fill the jugs.”

  Soon they were riding again. Kal glanced back several times, and he finally noted with relief the dark shapes of the muimacs moving off to the south. Good. He’d never liked the idea of being followed by men waiting for him to die.

  Wilek

  A day shy of two weeks since their arrival at Farmman Geffray’s claim, Wilek and his contingent headed back toward Everton, leaving young Lord Estin with a council of trustworthy advisors and a plan to rebuild his barony. As they traveled, Wilek pondered the distant cliffs, still awed that Farway had perished so suddenly. It had never occurred to him that the tunnels and caverns of the ream could collapse. Knowing that any moment the ground might fall, he anxiously watched it . . . the hooves of the horses around him . . . the wagon wheels. He missed having Kal to talk with. Harton had not been his chatty self ever since Wilek had ordered him to pay the woman in Farway.

  By the time they reached Dacre, Wilek was eager for the feather bed in his suite. He bathed, ate his fill of hearty stew, and slept the day away, while the majority of his men took a well-earned evening off.

  That night Wilek dreamed he was floating. Invisible. He sailed out of his room, past the sleeping guards outside his door, and drifted along the hallway to the stairs. Down he went, gliding on his stomach as if swimming through the air, though his arms hung limply beneath him. Downstairs, dozens of men were carousing in the tavern. Several couples danced before the fireplace to a lutist’s song. Harton was one of their number.

  The door blew open on a gust of wind, inspiring shrieks and laughter. Before the bowl boy could cross the crowded room to close it, Wilek floated outside.

  He sailed through the dark streets of Dacre until he reached a horse harnessed to a cart full of hay. He made a bed for himself in the hay, yawning heavily. The cart rolled forward. As the gentle movement lulled him to sleep, he heard a woman speak.

  “Magon âthâh. Ten lo tardemah.”

  “Wilek.”

  The voice drew Wilek from the arms of sleep. He opened his eyes to darkness. He was lying on a bed of furs. Moonlight spilled through a hole in the ceiling and painted a diagonal white stripe across a dirt floor. He was in a tent?

  Movement in the darkness. A woman dressed in a white gown.

  “Who are you?” His voice came out hoarse; he coughed and wished for water.

  “Don’t you know me, Lek?”

  His skin prickled at that voice. She stepped into the beam of moonlight, and her face and posture twisted his heart. “Lebetta?” It couldn’t be. He sat up, pushed to his feet, reeled as a wave of dizziness washed over him. “You’re not real.”

  She approached slowly. Her every step, every motion, grabbed him in a sense of familiarity. “I assure you, Lek, I’m flesh and blood.”

  She sounded like Lebetta. The spicy smell of hyssop smelled like Lebetta. She even had the tiny mole at the corner of her eye. “How . . . ?” His voice broke. Oh, how he missed her. “I saw you dead.”

  “My mortal life has ended. But Gâzar sent me back. Back to you. For one night. You earned his favor.”

  “Gâzar? Why?” Wilek paid him no more tribute than any other.

  “Does it matter? Would you turn away this gift?” She stepped into his arms and kissed him, trembling.

  His mind f
ogged, and he drew back. “You fuddle my thoughts.”

  “It’s my immortality. Don’t be afraid.” She kissed him again and whispered, “I love you.”

  He melted into her, succumbing to the desire she stirred within him. Gâzar had sent her back. He accepted the generous gift, pulled her close.

  “No. Don’t!” She pulled away, cursed, and muttered foreign words he didn’t understand.

  Lethargy fell over him like the heat of a summer day. His eyes drooped, and suddenly he was in bed again, the woman who claimed to be Lebetta standing over him, her eyes bright gray.

  “Who are you?” he whispered as he drifted to sleep.

  When next he woke, it was still dark. He felt confused, heavy. His head pounded as if he had consumed an amphora of wine. He had dreamed. Gâzar had sent Lebetta back to him.

  He blinked, examining his surroundings, dismayed to find himself still in a tent. The moon had shifted away from the hole, leaving the glowing orange remains of a campfire the only light. His right hand tingled, as if he had slept on it. He tried to move it, but it was stuck. Somewhere close, a woman was chanting.

  “Lebetta?” A foolish thing to say. It had left his mouth before he could think.

  “Shh,” a woman said. “Go back to sleep.”

  The voice wasn’t Lebetta’s. It was unfamiliar, not as husky, and had a faint accent. He blinked rapidly, his focus clearing some. The mystery gray-eyed woman sat beside him, holding his hand. No, she had tied his hand to hers with a thin hemp cord.

  “What are you doing?” Wilek tugged his hand, and hers came with it.

  “The time has come. Mother must make peace with Father.”

  She was Magonian. Eyes of a mantic. Slowly his mind began to clear. He pulled his hand again. “Stop this at once. Guards!” No one came. “I command you to—”

  She whispered and his voice went mute. He tried again. Nothing. He attempted to sit, but his body wouldn’t move either. Gods, what was happening?

  The woman continued chanting. The language was familiar. An ancient Armanian dialect. He did his best to understand.

  “Shelno yâdyim rakas.” Our hands bound.

  “Mopheth rakas am.” A symbol . . . bound people?

  “Rakas nephesh.” Bound souls?

  Bound? What was she doing? He tried to move, speak, but her spell had left him mute and frozen. He shivered. Breath hissed from his lips. Why was it so cold?

  “Magon âthâh.” Magon, come.

  “Tsamad shelno yâdim.” Bind our hands.

  “Qadosh Magon, lâqach hay âz nêzer êmer, pôal . . .” Holy Magon, take the separate . . . um . . . he searched for the word. Separate deeds? Desires? Will?

  “Dabaq netsach. Bara am ekhad.” Join forever. Make into one.

  Ice pooled in his chest. Oh, gods. Stop it. Stop now!

  She did. She slipped the cord free without untying the knot. Warmth filled Wilek’s body, though not entirely. Coldness lingered inside. She held the cord above him, untangling it. A stone amulet hung from one end. Smooth and green, it looked like jade with a rune carved into the surface of both sides. Two Vs, facing each other, crossing, with a dot in the center of the diamond they formed.

  She put the cord over her head and tucked the amulet into the neckline of her kasah. Bloodred slashes wrapped her hand from where the cord had been. Wilek lifted his own hand, surprised when it obeyed. Indeed, his hand was also covered in red lines. Burns. And the rune had seared its mark in the center of his palm.

  The bizarreness of such a ritual cowed him. Charlon was merely glad it was over. Surely such a bond would make things easier.

  The thoughts stunned him. He knew her. Knew her name—could feel her. He opened his mouth and found he could speak. “What magic is this?”

  “We’re soul-bound, you and I.” She stood and walked toward the dying fire. “Armanians call it married.”

  Shock rattled through him. He sat up, looked around. They were alone in the tent. “I didn’t agree to marry you.”

  “In Magonia a woman claims her mate. Binds her soul to his. I mastered you.”

  “I’m not Magonian.”

  “That matters not. First you gave me your body. Then you gave me your soul.”

  A small cry escaped Wilek. “We did nothing but kiss.”

  “My enchantments have clouded your memory.”

  He could tell she was lying. But how could he know that? He tried to make sense of it. “You looked like Lebetta. How did you know so much about her? About us?”

  “I petitioned Magon. Reached beyond the Veil.”

  Beyond. “You’re a mantic.” Mantics communed with the black spirits—with the dead. That this woman had bothered Lebetta in the afterworld filled him with fury. “Did you kill her?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then what do you want? Is this because of a prophecy?”

  She smiled. “My soul-bound reads me well.”

  “I am not your soul-bound. I am betrothed to another.” Lady Zeroah. He had already insulted her by publicly mourning his concubine. How could he possibly explain this?

  “Fidelity isn’t necessary, Lek, only—”

  “Don’t. Don’t ever call me that.”

  Her gray eyes bulged, horrified. He could feel her emotions. Regret. Fear. She looked down, pursed her lips, fought her guilt. Of what?

  She looked at him with a gaze that chilled. “You will give me a child. Then I’ll—”

  “Guards!” Wilek made to stand, but Charlon lifted her hand and whispered, forcing him back against the furs, again immobile. He whimpered. Holy gods, what was this? “Guards!” he screamed as loud as he could.

  “They’re not here. When in Dacre, the Prince of Armania always stays at The Crooked House. The innkeeper showed me your room. I waited under the bed. Once you slept, I cast a spell to carry you away.”

  Invisible? Wilek recalled his dream.

  “You should rest.” She walked to him, leaned down, reached for him.

  “Don’t,” he said, and again felt her horror. Tears welled in her eyes.

  She touched the side of his neck. A twinge. He flinched. His throat felt thick. Vision clouded. Eyes fell closed. But his mind remained shocked by all that had taken place.

  He had always believed his father would be the one to kill him. Apparently not.

  Trevn

  Beal dressed Trevn for his ageday ball in a ruffly blue-and-gold tunic Mother had commissioned. The only thing Trevn liked about it was that it bore his insignia of the hunting horn, which symbolized high and noble pursuits. Both Father and Mother hated it, as it had nothing to do with any of the gods.

  Beal started on Trevn’s hair. Once Trevn took his priestly vows, he would start wearing his hair in a single priest’s lock. Tonight Beal was braiding it into fifteen cornrows.

  Hinck and Cadoc stood watching the scene, no doubt with great amusement. Trevn did not find his situation at all humorous.

  “It is an ensemble befitting a prince,” Beal wheezed.

  Trevn glared at the ruffles in the mirror. “Does Mother think I’m female? Why does she do this to me?”

  “Torture is what mothers do best.” Hinck gestured to his own sleek maroon-and-black ensemble. “Will this do? Or should I find something with frills?”

  “You can shut up.”

  Hinck blinked, one eye more closed than the other, but nowhere close to a successful wink. “Can but won’t. So tonight we hunt you a wife?”

  Trevn heaved a deep sigh. “That and ten concubines.”

  “Ten? So unfair. How old is Miss Mielle, anyway?”

  “Sixteen. One month too old to match in fives.”

  “Well, that’s a shame,” Hinck said.

  Trevn wanted none of this, especially the ruffles. “We should have waited for Wilek to return.” Beal tugged too hard and Trevn winced. “He was going to help convince Father to have my ageday at sea. What’s the point of being a sâr if you cannot have what you want?”

  �
��So you can give me what I want,” Hinck said, his smile larger than normal. “I’ll take your ten concubines, Your Generousness.”

  Cadoc snorted. “Well, that would be generous.”

  “Oh, no,” Trevn said. “If I have to suffer, so do you.”

  When they finally approached the great hall, Mother’s onesent Arkil was standing outside the doors, waiting. “The rosâr has already arrived,” he whispered.

  “Good,” Trevn said. The shorter this event, the better. “May as well announce me.”

  The guards opened the doors and revealed a great hall transformed. Most of the tables had been removed to create space for dancing. The room was a wash of blue and pink dresses but for a few matronly types dressed in dark colors. Men stood in clusters by the outer walls where tables laden with food ran lengthwise. Everyone was standing, except the king, who sat on his throne, which had been moved from the Throne Room to the dais for this special day. Trevn’s mother stood on Father’s left. An empty chair to the right of the throne awaited Trevn. To the far right Janek stood behind the cup table, which held six golden cups: five small tumblers and a large goblet.

  Five Woes of misery; Wilek should be cupbearer. The herald blew Trevn’s call on the trumpet, which twisted Trevn’s stomach. The song ended and the herald announced in a loud voice, “His Royal Highness, Trevn-Sâr Hadar, the Third Arm of Armania.”

  All faces turned his way. The crowd bowed like a slow, rolling wave as Trevn walked past. He reached the dais much sooner than expected, climbed the steps, and knelt.

  His mother sang a song, which wasn’t half bad, after which Pontiff Rogedoth must have read an entire chapter from the Book of Rôb, because Trevn’s knees went numb while he waited. Then came the part everyone knew by heart. The cupping.

  “To become a man,” Father said in a booming voice, “a boy requires faith in the gods, who give us life.”

  Janek lifted the first tumbler and poured the contents—wine—into the goblet.