King's Folly

by Jill Williamson

  Charlon’s quest was trouble enough. “His emotions cut deeply.”

  “You must rule him,” Mreegan said.

  Charlon bowed her head. “Yes, Chieftess.” If only it were that easy.

  Mreegan slipped off her throne. Squatted in front of Charlon. Set her hand on Charlon’s abdomen.

  Charlon stiffened. The cold place inside flared. Get away! Charlon’s heart said. But she fought to remain still.

  Mreegan muttered. Searching. The newt crawled down to Mreegan’s wrist, its tongue tasting Charlon’s tunic. “There is no child in you.” Mreegan stood and returned to her throne.

  Of course there was no child! Charlon had barely been able to touch the man. Why had Magon put this before her? It was a mistake. She could not. Heaviness pressed down.

  “What is the problem?” Mreegan asked.

  Hide the truth. “He hates me. His sadness saddens me. His fear frightens me. His anger angers me. I cannot control it.”

  “That’s what it means to be soul-bound,” Mreegan said. “Make the magic work in your favor. Force his emotions to mirror yours. You must be his master, not the other way around. We remain in this canyon until you conceive. Dismissed.”

  Despair! “Yes, Chieftess.” She left. So heavy. So burdened. How could she succeed? What had been done to her . . . she must do. Do to another. She could not! Not do it. Not—

  She must! She was new. Reborn by Magon. No longer a victim. And this was a man. The enemy. How many had he abused? In the name of pleasure? How many? She would do to him what he deserved. She must!

  It was the only way. To become Mother.

  In her tent, the prince. Alone. Hands bound behind to the center pole. Head hanging low. Sorrow swelled off him. Like heat from a fire. Charlon staggered under its power.

  Focus. Time to work the magic. Bleeding him would pain her. She had taken hairs the first time. Hair would work again. “We must cut your hair,” she said in Kinsman. So strange to speak her childhood language again. “Only women are permitted long hair.”

  The prince glanced up, eyes bloodshot. “A warrior’s braids are a matter of honor in Armania. Cut them, and you make me a laughingstock.”

  Tears welled. She forced them back. “I need part of your body. To cast my spell. You’ll miss your hair less. Than a finger.”

  An arrow of hatred stabbed within. “I’ll die before I let you touch me again.”

  “Give me a son. And you can die anytime you like.”

  He sputtered, confused, frustrated. “What kind of a person are you? To take Lebetta’s face and voice and smell.” Great anguish stretched between them. “Do you even care how you played with . . .” Voice trailed off in a tremble. He panted through his nose. “Why am I trying to reason with a witch?”

  Charlon couldn’t bear his grief. She must get away. At least find help. She yanked the door flap aside. “Torol!” she cried in Tennish. He stood outside. Obedient, always. “We must cut this man’s hair. Apply the rune. Call the First and Third. And someone to hold him.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Torol returned with Kateen, Roya, and two lesser men, both carrying shard clubs. The women prepared the tattoo ink. The men held the prince. Torol came at his braids with an obsidian knife. Prince Wilek turned his head, and Torol’s blade sliced his cheek. The prince growled. Thrashed his legs. Trying to kick someone. He pulled against the center pole. Screamed. Twisted his shoulders from side to side. The tent bobbed and shook. His fury pooled in Charlon’s gut. So much anger. She fought back a scream.

  The men grabbed him. Forced him down. Held his head. His arms. Torol sawed his braids until they were severed. Handed them to Charlon.

  The prince saw them. Anger melted to despair, defeat. Bloodshot eyes met hers. “Bind my hands. Cut my hair. Use magic to force me to your will. But I’ll never be Magonian. I’m a sâr of Armania.” Rage grew within. “I don’t recognize our marriage. Nor will anyone in Armania. You waste effort on a plot that will fail.”

  “Once I carry your child, the Armanian king will accept our marriage,” Charlon said.

  The prince laughed. Ironic joy swelled through Charlon. “You don’t know my father. He’d sacrifice any child of our making to Barthos, just to protect his throne.”

  She sensed his honesty. “Not his own grandson.”

  “Are all Magonians so ignorant of history? My father killed three of his sons before my very eyes. I was nine. He is a ruthless man who cares only for his superstitions. You cannot blackmail him. You cannot trick him. He is the master of all evil games.”

  Charlon had no words. Failure would become her doom. She carried the prince’s warrior locks to her altar mat. Cut some hairs. Sprinkled them into a bowl. Drank ahvenrood juice.

  A quick spell ended the prince’s obstinance. The men carried his limp body to Charlon’s bed of furs and laid him on his stomach. Torol held the prince’s head. Roya knelt at his side, bowl of ink in one hand, needle in the other. She dipped it and pressed it against the prince’s neck. A groan. A twitch. Torol held him steady. The pain irritated Charlon as well. She gritted her teeth. Focused on the shadir who were curling and smoking in the Veil. Magon stood beside them, proud, confident.

  Roya worked slowly. Meticulously inked the slav rune. When she finished, Charlon cast a spell of obedience. Now he would be compelled. To obey the command of any mantic. Her task would be simpler now.

  The trance did not stop his thoughts. His mind was active. Dreams of fear and pain. Longing for his dead woman. His thoughts nauseate me, Charlon told Magon. I hate being soul-bound. No man belongs within. Nor do I want to see what lies in his soul.

  If you want to succeed, you must do this for me, Magon said. Then you may someday take Mreegan’s place.

  So Charlon wore an expression of indifference. Pretended to be brave. But it was a lie. It was all a lie.

  Kalenek

  Kaptar had been built in a valley. Concrete walls surrounded the end of the Upper Sister to keep the poisonous lake water at bay. In the city itself, the wall contained a dam to divert waters in case of flooding. The water was currently so deep the watermen were still using sweeps. This put the barge high enough that Kal could see over the dam to the red-tile roofs in the city.

  The Kaptar pier floated on the surface and was tied to the dam with ropes so it could rise and fall with the water level. A stone staircase ran up the side of the dam. The bottom steps were green with algae and descended below the water level. Some three dozen watercrafts were tied to the pier. The steps were crowded with people hauling cargo.

  How were they going to get the camels up those steps?

  Grayson, eating a roll, approached Kal. “You hungry, Sir Kalenek? There’s cheese rolls in the barn. I ate five already. Onika says it’s because I’m growing. Says I’m taller than ever.”

  “How would Onika know how tall you are?” Kal asked.

  “She puts her hand on my head.”

  Kal regarded the pale woman. Novan was yet again sitting with her on the wooden crates at the bow. “Time to load up the camels, Novan,” Kal yelled. A deep roll of thunder resounded, pulling Kal’s eyes up to a clear sky. The thunder did not cease but amplified. On shore, someone screamed. Kal ran back to the bow. A dust cloud rose up on the other side of the wall.

  “What’s happening?” Novan asked.

  “Earthquake!” Wymer yelled, running toward them from the stern. “Help us paddle her back from the pier.”

  Kal and Novan each grabbed a sweep and set to work. The pier bobbed, slamming the tied watercrafts against itself and each other as the waves convulsed. Kal paddled with all his strength, watching the dust cloud billow higher and higher. People scrambled over the wall and down the stairs. Some crawled into boats or reamskiffs and pushed out into the lake.

  The thundering stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Cheers went up from the boats. Kal stopped rowing and noted fewer roofs showing over the wall than before.

  “Did a lot of damage,” Kal said, unne
rved that this had happened exactly when Onika had prophesied.

  “How can you tell?” Novan asked.

  “Look at the rooftops,” Kal said. “Not nearly as many buildings still standing.”

  A pop tore his attention to the dam. Stone grinded against stone. The wall cracked down the center and slowly gave way, crashing back into the city and ripping the pier like a piece of muslin. Water surged through the opening ahead of them.

  “Sweeps!” Wymer yelled. “Pull hard!”

  Kal dragged his sweep through the water, lifted it, and dragged it again. He paddled as fast and hard as he could, glancing back in horror just as the dam walls fell.

  “Keep at it, men!” Wymer yelled. “Pull! Pull!”

  Kal pulled until his arms burned, but they were no longer moving backward. Around them reamskiffs and boats slid past. The strength of seven men wasn’t enough to keep their barge out of the current.

  “Hold on!” Wymer yelled. “We’re going through!”

  Kal yanked the sweep inside and wrapped his arms around the rail. Oddly enough the barge wasn’t moving terribly fast. It glided into the crack the fallen walls had made, tipped, held for a moment as the port side scraped against the broken wall, then sailed over the hump and down into what must have once been a street.

  The water carried the barge in a rush past the remains of buildings. Debris floated alongside: produce, wood scraps, patches of grass roof, and the occasional body. The barge twisted, struck a stone building, then jerked back the other way. It spun slowly in a circle until it faced the opposite direction and the bow hit the same building again. The watermen used longpoles to try to keep them straight.

  The farther they floated, the more cluttered the water became. Furniture, market stalls, entire roofs drifted down the makeshift river. Kal could no longer tell where the road might have been. The barge struck a floating roof like a peal of thunder. Water and bits of grass rained down.

  “Inside the barn!” Wymer yelled. “We must keep dry.”

  They hunkered down in a mass of bodies between the two rows of stalls. One of the camels was braying. Onika and Grayson hugged each other. Novan had his arms around them both.

  The barge bobbed wildly over the waves and jerked whenever it made contact with something solid. Kal wished he could see where they were going.

  A sudden collision threw them all on their faces. A second jolt came when something rammed them from behind. Water gushed underneath the prow doors. Wymer yelled and climbed up on the half wall of a stall to keep clear of the water. Novan picked up Onika and sat her beside Wymer.

  But the water immediately receded.

  “Bit afraid to open the doors,” Wymer said.

  “Then leave them closed!” Grayson yelled.

  “We have to know what’s going on out there,” Novan said. “What if more waves—”

  The bow dropped, leaving them hanging at a steep angle. Grayson yelped and grabbed one of the poles that held up the roof. Someone’s pack slid across the floor. Kal caught it with his foot.

  No one moved for several seconds. “I’m going to look.” Kal tucked the pack into a stall and walked carefully down the steep incline to the bow. He spread his feet wide before the doors, then pushed one open. It swung slowly at first, then flipped around the outside corner of the barn, slammed, and swung partway back.

  They were floating a good three paces above the water line.

  How could that be?

  A quick glance and it all made sense. “We’re on top of a building!” Kal yelled. “We need to get off or we’ll be stuck when the water recedes.”

  Wymer joined him at the door. “Now that’s a fix. Men, get your poles and head out back. See if we can find something to push off of. Sir Kalenek, we could use the help of you and your man.”

  “Novan, with me,” Kal said.

  They followed Wymer out the aft doors and found sweeps. The end of the barge had stopped against the outer city wall.

  “On my mark,” Wymer said. “And when we fall, you best hold on. Now!”

  Everyone pushed. Something scraped beneath them, a sound like pulling a nail as big as a man. The barge shifted in tiny jerks. Kal imagined a roof of red tiles with the hull snagging each row.

  The barge began to slide, rumbling like an avalanche as it ground over the rooftop. Kal tucked the sweep under his arm and grabbed the rail with both hands.

  The barge fell. Kal’s stomach flipped. All sound stopped.

  The bow hit first, nearly jerking Kal’s arms from his body. Seconds later the stern plunged into the debris-clogged water. The splash was tremendous, but their forward motion left the greater part of it in their wake. Water spots on Kal’s left sleeve gave him pause. No water seemed to have touched his skin.

  The barge rocked and banged. Kal clutched the rail until Wymer walked past and opened the doors to the barn. They had survived.

  “Everyone alive in here?” Wymer asked.

  “We’re fine!” Grayson called.

  Wymer looked up past Kal’s shoulder, his eyes wide. Kal turned and saw a woman sitting on a rooftop and holding a little girl in her lap.

  Novan lifted a hand and waved.

  The little girl waved back.

  A soft whistle. “Rustian?” Onika whistled again. “Has anyone seen the cat?”

  No one had.

  “We’re going to have to stay on the barge till the water fades,” Wymer said.

  “Can we steer ourselves to some kind of clearing?” Kal asked, wanting to wait out the flood over open ground.

  “No place like that in this city,” Wymer said.

  “How far to the prison?” Onika asked.

  “Can’t imagine anyone in the prison survived,” Wymer said. “But we might as well sail that way. Could take days for this water to drain.”

  The men set to driving the barge through the cluttered water. Kal and Novan stood at the bow and used their sweeps to push debris out of the way. As they scraped past a building, Grayson called out.

  “Rustian! On the rooftop!” The boy ran toward the rail. “I’ll get him for you, Onika.”

  “Don’t be a fool!” Kal snapped. “Come away from there.”

  But it was too late. Grayson had already climbed over the rail and up the side of the building. They managed to stop the barge and reverse their direction, but the boy was out of reach. Kal watched helplessly as Grayson held on with one hand and stretched his other toward the cat.

  “Come on, Rustian.” The boy’s fingers brushed the cat’s leg. Rustian pushed against Grayson’s hand, purring. The roof tiles shifted. The boy adjusted his grip.

  All that movement was too much. The tiles began to slip, one at a time. The cat hissed and leapt over Grayson’s head, landing with a thud on the floor of the barge. The boy let out a small yelp and fell. Kal bent over the rail and reached for him, just grazing the boy’s leg before he plunged beneath the water.

  Kal went to his knees and squeezed between the railing, leaning out over the water. The moment Grayson’s head bobbed above the surface, Kal grabbed him and pulled. The boy weighed next to nothing, and Kal easily dragged him aboard.

  “You fool!” Kal gave him a good shake. “You think the cat couldn’t take care of itself? It got up there, didn’t it?”

  Grayson coughed and sputtered, gasping in breaths. “I’m fine. I’m not hurt.”

  “But the poison,” one of the watermen said.

  Indeed. Kal’s hand and arm already itched fiercely. He peeled off his glove and found red pimples had dotted his skin. A thrill of panic rose in his chest. Surely so little water wouldn’t kill him. But the boy . . . He’d die in agony.

  Novan offered Grayson his hand to help him stand.

  Kal waved him back. “Don’t touch him. The sores ooze contagion.”

  “Red water doesn’t hurt me,” Grayson said.

  “It’s poison,” Kal said. Yet the boy’s skin remained blotchy gray, while Kal’s arm had completely broken out in pustules.r />
  “I have some salve that’ll help with the pain,” Wymer said. “Come inside and I’ll make you comfortable.”

  Everything happened too quickly for comfort. Kal collapsed onto a bedroll. A fever came upon him. It was difficult to breathe. His arm burned as if covered in flames. He couldn’t bend his elbow. He fell in and out of sleep, tossing and turning, restless.

  Shadir swarmed him, whispering in his ear to follow them to Gâzar’s court where Livy was waiting. Kal knew the creatures were lying. Livy had followed Arman. She would never step foot in Gâzar’s court. Still, he wanted desperately to go. To see if he might find her.

  He overheard people talking but understood nothing. A guard. A prison. A pit.

  Kal drifted between that strange reality and his familiar nightmares of the war, which were worse than ever. And this time they did not end, because he did not wake.

  Trevn

  After a tiring morning on the practice field, Trevn walked back to the castle with Cadoc. Swordplay had never been a favorite pastime, but lately it had served as a release for Trevn’s pent-up frustration over not being allowed to visit Mielle. Today, however, despite his fatigue, he still felt unsettled, restless.

  “I’m going to climb,” he told Cadoc. “Care to accompany me?”

  Cadoc’s displeasure was evident as he looked up the side of the castle. The shield was no faintheart—had followed Trevn places Hinck had never been willing to go—but he had not yet forced himself up the walls after Trevn. Perhaps this was his line in the sand. “You’ll go straight to your chambers?”

  Trevn gave the man a curt nod. “I will. I promise.”

  “Then I will meet you there, Your Highness.”

  “Very well.” Trevn pulled off his boots and sword belt and handed them to Cadoc.

  Cadoc tucked the things under one arm. “Please don’t fall.”

  “Never on your watch,” Trevn said, grinning. “If I decide to fall, it will be when Beal is under me. I’d prefer a new onesent, anyway.” He grabbed hold of the vine stonework that trimmed the castle walls and hoisted himself up and to the left, leaving his shield on the ground outside the eastern entrance of the castle.