King's Folly

by Jill Williamson

  “To become a man,” Father said, “a boy requires health, without which he will die.”

  Janek poured the second cup.

  “To become a man, a boy requires wisdom, without which he will become a fool.”

  In went the third splash of wine.

  “To become a man, a boy requires love, without which he will have no heir.”

  Janek dumped the cup of love.

  “To become a man, a boy requires prosperity. If he honors the gods, is blessed with good health, wisdom, and heirs, he will indeed find it.”

  Janek poured the final cup, then lifted the goblet in both hands.

  “Cupbearer, bring forth the cup,” Father said.

  Janek carried the cup around the table and handed it to Trevn. The gold felt cool in his sweaty grip; the dark liquid trembled.

  “Drink, boy, from the cup of manhood,” Father said.

  Trevn drank very slowly, breaking tradition. Lore said the faster one drank, the longer he would live. A foolish superstition that Trevn intended to prove false by living a hundred years. Behind him, whispers rose from the assembly, and he caught his mother’s glare. He finished and handed the cup to Janek, who carried it back to the cup table.

  Father stood and set his hand on Trevn’s head. “I dub thee, Trevn-Sâr Hadar, the Curious. You are now a man.”

  Curious? That was his title? Fitting, he supposed. As per the ceremony, Trevn repeated, “I am now a man.”

  The crowd burst into cheers. It might be an archaic ritual to provide nobility with yet another reason to celebrate, but Trevn’s throat tightened and it took effort to maintain an indifferent expression.

  He then claimed the seat beside his father and received his showering, in which the guests paraded past with gifts. He received pendants, brooches, rings, buckles, daggers, swords, capes, tunics, boots, jewelry for his future wives and concubines, several dozen amphoras of wine, mirrors, three slaves—two female, one male—four horses, ornate rugs, a handful of perfumes and ointments, lampstands, cups and bowls, incense holders, crowns, tapestries, and paintings.

  His mother gave him a set of wedding cuffs.

  His father gave him his own signet ring and a seat on the Wisean Council, which Trevn intended to avoid as long as possible.

  Janek gave him a stallion, a potted tree, and said in his ear, “Borrow Pia and Mattenelle anytime you like.”

  Miss Mielle gave him a shard of roof tile on a cord. “From yesterday,” she whispered, fingering a similar tile at her neck that ran beneath the bodice of her gown. “I kept the other half.”

  Lady Zeroah gave him a wooden map tube and fifty sheets of map paper.

  Father Tomek gave him a prayer stone that was said to have belonged to the prophet Zyon Ottee.

  Then it was time to dance.

  The band began a traditional somaro. Trevn led his mother to the center of the hall. She wore a hideous purple-and-green gown that made her look like a bunch of grapes. She was a great deal shorter than he was, and he had to release her for the twirls, as her girth did not easily fit under his arm. She looked happy, though. She wouldn’t for long.

  Tradition stated that Trevn would dance the first half of the first song with his mother, then pass her off to the king and choose his own partner. Mother had nagged him all morning about the only three acceptable choices for his first dance.

  But he had already chosen.

  When the strings and flutes stopped playing and only the percussion remained, Trevn led his mother to the king, who was standing at the foot of the dais stairs. He handed her off, pretended not to see her mouth the name Brisa Hadar, then turned to face the crowd.

  In the circle of pink and blue dresses, Miss Mielle was easy to spot. She was wearing green, standing beside Lady Zeroah, who wore silver.

  A deep breath and Trevn crossed the room. The percussion continued, seeming in time with his steps and rattling nerves. He stopped before Miss Mielle and bowed. She curtsied. He extended his hand.

  People started to whisper.

  Her hand slid into his and he pulled her to the center of the room. The flutes and strings burst into song, and they danced. Trevn kept his eyes on Miss Mielle’s, not wanting to see his mother or father or anyone else.

  “You’re nervous,” she said.

  Was it that obvious? “So are you.”

  “Everyone is staring. How do you ever get used to it?”

  “I ignore them. You look very pretty tonight.”

  “As do your ruffles.” She smirked.

  Sands, he liked her more and more each day.

  The song ended before he was ready to let go. He returned Miss Mielle to Lady Zeroah’s side and suddenly felt awkward, standing in the center of the circle alone.

  “Sâr Trevn.”

  His mother was walking toward him, dragging his second cousins Brisa and Trista by the arms. A fake smile contrasted the twin daggers of her eyes. She released the cousins and grabbed his chin—digging in her fingernails as she kissed his forehead. “Greet your cousins.”

  Let the drudgery begin. Trevn bowed to the girls. “Good evening, cousins.”

  “Are you going to marry us both?” Trista, at ten, wrinkled her nose as if marrying anyone was disgusting.

  “No, Lady Trista, I—”

  “The sâr is merely looking tonight,” Mother said. “But he does plan to marry one woman. For now.”

  Trevn shrank a little and sent a pleading look to Hinck, who was smirking over by the food table.

  “I’m going to marry my father,” Trista said.

  “Forgive my sister, Your Highness,” Brisa said with a small curtsy. The elder of the Duke of Odarka’s daughters was but four months Trevn’s junior and more intense than his mother. “Trista is but a child. She has an unfortunate habit of speaking her mind.”

  “So have I,” Trevn said to Trista, then leaned down and whispered in the little girl’s ear. “I prefer a wife closer to my age, but let’s allow your sister to think I’m picking you, just for fun.”

  Trista brightened at this.

  “Would you dance with me, Lady Trista?” he asked in his full voice.

  Trista curtsied. “Yes, I will, Sâr Trevn.”

  He offered his arm and she nearly tackled him, giggling all the while. He led her to the middle of the room, then told the band, “A rengia, please.” Rengias were the fastest type of dance, and Trevn felt his young partner up to the task.

  The band set upon the lively tune. Trevn and Trista stomped, twirled, and laughed. Thankfully some other couples joined in the dancing, including Hinck, the bootlicker, who was dancing with Brisa. These two girls were Father Tomek’s granddaughters, though only Trista seemed to have been blessed with the man’s easygoing nature.

  When the song ended, Trevn caught sight of Shemme, Cook Hara’s daughter, wearing pink. She was the skinniest girl he had ever seen—an oddity when she stood beside her overweight mother. Trevn had knocked her over plenty of times on his runs through the castle. He owed her. She would be his next dance.

  He approached and said, “Good evening, Miss Shemme.”

  Her eyes bulged and she backed up a step, knocking into a girl in blue. “I’m sorry,” she told the girl, falling into a bony curtsy at the same time. “Good evening, Your Highness.”

  “Will you dance?” he asked.

  “It’s my duty to obey, Your Highness.”

  He frowned. “But do you want to?”

  “May Athos deal with me, be it ever so severely, but I have pledged my heart to another. To become your concubine would dishonor him.”

  Trevn’s cheeks burned. Curse his mother’s ridiculous invitations. “I ask but for one dance, Miss Shemme. If you would rather not, I understand.”

  “No, please. My mother would be so happy if I danced with you.”

  “Very well.” Perhaps next time Trevn ran through the kitchen, he would knock down Cook Hara.

  The current song was a nevett, a rather upbeat tune that required little
touching. This was good, as Shemme had no coordination and managed to kick him twice and step on his heel.

  Hinck joined them with a girl Trevn had never seen before—a much more graceful dancer than Shemme. When the song ended, Trevn thanked Shemme and started toward Hinck, but his mother grabbed his arm and yanked him aside.

  “Poorly done, Trevn. I’m so desperately embarrassed.”

  “What? What did I do?” Besides totally defy her.

  “You made a mockery of yourself, dancing the first with an honor maiden. Then you slighted Lady Brisa twice by dancing with her little sister, then with a kitchen maid.”

  “I didn’t mean to slight anyone. You said Trista was one of your top choices.”

  She raised both eyebrows.

  “I’m not going to marry either of them.” So what did it matter if he had a little fun?

  “Why wouldn’t you marry them?” Mother hissed. “They’re Hadars! Embarrass me again, and I’ll see you chained in your room till you marry and give me a grandson.”

  Of all the ridiculous . . . “I’m a man now, Mother. You no longer decide for me.”

  “Care to wager a bet?”

  Her time to control him had come to an end. “Let’s ask Father right now.”

  She squeezed his arm, held him there. “Gods and kings cannot be everywhere, so mothers were created to protect their children from disaster. That’s all I’m trying to do, Trevn.”

  He gritted his teeth, but accepted her words as a temporary peace offering. “Fine. Who would you like me to dance with next?”

  Having gotten his goodwill, she smiled. “Lady Brisa, if she’ll have you. Jeanon Yohthehreth is the next highest in rank. Then Nolli Jervaid—she’s Wisean Jervaid’s second-eldest girl. Very pretty. Then Windelle Veralla.”

  “Rayim Veralla’s daughter?” The man who had caught him kissing Miss Mielle?

  “She is the lowest of those I would approve as your wife. Her parents are nobly born, and the captain is highly decorated and respected. Dance with every girl in blue before dancing with those in pink. Understand? You should also ask Lady Zeroah to dance before any of the potential concubines. You would do well to steal her from your brother.”

  Trevn scowled. “That will never happen, Mother.” Before she could reply, he approached Brisa. They managed to dance a stiff corroet and have a stiffer conversation. He then worked his way down his mother’s list. Jeanon Yohthehreth was clumsy and pimpled and wouldn’t meet his eyes. Nolli Jervaid was nearly as short as little Trista—he stepped on her feet three times. Since he promised Captain Veralla—who was on guard over by the door—never to look on his daughter, he tried to dance with Miss Windelle while keeping his gaze elsewhere.

  He tried several times to find Miss Mielle in the room, and while he saw Lady Zeroah and Princess Nabelle conversing with his devious mother, Miss Mielle seemed to have vanished.

  Mielle

  Mielle sat on a chair wedged between the food table and the corner of the great hall. One moment she’d been dancing with Trevn, the next she was being harangued by Princess Nabelle and banished to this chair. For a while her defiant nature had her standing on the wicker seat so she could see over the wall of bodies blocking her view. But watching Trevn dance with girl after girl only made her feel sorry for herself, and she sat down to sulk.

  She knew what Kal would say. And now that Princess Nabelle was aware of Trevn’s favor, she would forbid her to see him as well.

  It wasn’t fair.

  “Why does my brother’s favorite hide in the corner by the pickled beets?” Prince Janek stood three steps away. He looked like a warrior on extended leave: strong but quickly going soft. He was a beautiful man with a defined brow, sleepy eyes, full lips, and a shadow of a beard. His only blemish was a small scar on the tip of his nose.

  Mielle popped to her feet and curtsied. “I’m not hiding, Sâr Janek,” she said. “Princess Nabelle asked me to wait here.”

  “You upstaged her precious girl. Mothers are such controlling creatures, are they not?”

  That gave Mielle pause. “I don’t remember my mother.”

  “She was a noblewoman. You should be wearing blue, I would say.”

  “I’m the wrong age,” Mielle said. “Sixteen.”

  “A shame, that. And you Trevn’s favorite.” Janek tapped his finger against his scarred nose, then gasped, flashing her a dazzling smile. “Why, Miss Mielle. I am twenty-one. We match in fives, you and I.”

  “Oh.” What an awkward thing to say. She stepped back until her legs struck the chair she’d been sitting on.

  Janek stepped closer. “Trevn cannot legally have you, but I can. And I share everything with my brothers.” He whispered, “I gifted Trevn my concubines tonight.”

  The mere thought made Mielle’s eyes water. “Excuse me, my sâr, I must look for Lady Zeroah.” She stepped around him, but he cut off her path.

  “Miss Mielle, this is Mikreh’s doing. The god of fate knows it is the only way you and Trevn can be together.” He grabbed her arms and pulled her to him. “Let us go to my father at once. Surely he will agree when he hears Trevn’s plight.”

  “No!” Mielle stomped on his foot and, when he let go, dashed back to her chair.

  He caught her waist with his arm and pulled her against him. “My, my,” he whispered in her hair. “How unladylike to lose one’s temper.”

  “Let go!” She elbowed his stomach and tried to pull his arm off her waist.

  “Sâr Janek!” Princess Nabelle’s voice. “Unhand Miss Mielle at once.”

  Princess Nabelle stood like a goddess, glaring regally at them both. Just behind her Lady Zeroah looked on in horror.

  Sâr Janek released Mielle, and she ran to Zeroah. They clasped hands. Tears were already leaking from Mielle’s eyes as Zeroah pulled her toward the exit.

  Princess Nabelle joined them a moment later and called for a carriage.

  “We have stayed at the castle long enough,” she declared.

  As they waited, the princess demanded Mielle repeat Sâr Janek’s every word. Once Mielle had done so, the princess decreed that they would stay away from Castle Everton until Sâr Wilek returned.

  Mielle did not cry fully until she was alone in her bed at Fairsight Manor that night. Life for an honor maiden simply wasn’t fair.

  Kalenek

  Near sunrise on the fifth day, the first red lake came into view. The sun peeked over the horizon and shot an arrow of white light across the glossy surface. Having lived near the Eversea so long, for Kal it wasn’t the vastness of the lake that captured his awe but the stillness and rich color.

  “That’s a sight,” Novan said.

  “It’s poisonous,” Kal said, not wanting the boy to get too enchanted. “Even to the touch.”

  “What makes it so?”

  “Evenroot. Magonia’s chief export. They’ve overharvested to the point of spoiling all four great lakes and many of the rivers in this part of the ream.”

  “So, anyone who drinks the water must become a mantic or die?”

  “There were still plenty of safe reamways here six years ago,” Kal said.

  Novan seemed to consider this. “How much farther to Lifton?”

  “A few hours. There’s a stepwell near here. We’ll stop for water before entering the city.” Better to have no business in Lifton but to find a mantic and depart.

  It was midday when they reached the stepwell. This close to Lifton, Kal had expected it to be overrun with people, but it was deserted. A black charcoal slash on the stone wall said why.

  “Contaminated,” Kal said, shaken. He didn’t like seeing a freshwater source go bad. “We must press on to Lifton and pray there’s clean water to be—”

  A scream from below straightened Kal’s spine. He met Novan’s gaze.

  “I know you took it!” a man yelled in Tennish. “I saw that witch with it.”

  “Who? Onika?” a child replied. “She’s not too smart. Probably dropped it somewhere. We should loo
k aboveground.”

  “Get me that sack, boy, or you’re dead!”

  Novan whispered, “Can you understand what they’re saying?”

  Kal drew his finger across his lips and pulled his sword.

  A boy scampered up the steps like a nimble squirrel. He was slight, maybe as old as twelve. He caught sight of Kal and slowed, eyes wider than a camel’s as they flicked over Kal’s scars. One glance at Novan and he chose his protector.

  “Help me!” the boy cried, running toward Novan. “He’s going to kill me!”

  Kal reached out and snagged the boy’s arm. His skin was dark for a Magonian and was covered in blotchy gray patches like a rash of dried mortar. Kal let go immediately, not wanting to catch whatever ailed the boy. “Is he your master?” Kal asked in Tennish. “Your employer?”

  The boy hid behind Kal. “He’s nothing to me. Says I stole his sack, but I didn’t! You’re Rurekan, yeah?” he said in the Kinsman tongue. “I can help you. I know the four cities better than the mapmakers. I’m good with animals too. Don’t let him kill me!”

  The boy’s pursuer emerged at the top of the steps. The man had short hair, reddish skin, and wore the insignia of a Magonian yeetta warrior, which was a shard club across the Kabar hands. The yeettas had invaded Armania at the end of the Centenary War and slayed thousands of innocents. Women. Children.

  Livy and their infant son.

  Butchered in their beds.

  One blink. Two. Kal felt himself slipping back in time to that night. It was all happening again.

  He gauged his enemy. A shard club swung from the man’s belt. The polished length of hardwood was lined with obsidian shards, spaced apart like the jagged teeth of a fang cat. Effective in a melee, but one-on-one it didn’t stand a chance against a sword.

  “This ain’t your business, stranger,” the man said in Tennish.

  Filthy yeetta liars. Kal charged.

  The man dodged Kal, pulled his club, and swung for Kal’s legs, then darted back, lunged, and swung again. Typical. This was how the yeetta fought. They had to keep their distance because one well-aimed cut of the sword could splinter their weapon. But they were quick, and while Kal’s sword had the power to destroy wood, the obsidian shards could decapitate a fang cat with one powerful blow.