King's Folly

by Jill Williamson

  Trevn scaled the wall steadily, moving diagonally from balcony to balcony. When his arms tired, he took short breaks by sitting on balcony ledges.

  Before he had met Mielle, his days had passed in a haphazard state of busyness, drawing maps and exploring the castle or the city. Now nothing compared to being in her presence, and he hadn’t seen her in over a week. Why would Princess Nabelle disapprove of his friendship with Mielle?

  He pondered this as he approached the underside of a balcony on the fourth floor. The soft hum of men’s voices slowed his ascent. He didn’t wish to be seen, especially not eavesdropping.

  He backtracked a little so his head remained below the balcony, where he could pass underneath. The sound of his own name stopped all movement.

  “How can you be sure?” A man’s voice, deep and grating. Trevn recognized it immediately as belonging to Filkin Yohthehreth, his father’s favorite prophet.

  “I know what I heard.” This from a voice that Trevn could not place. One of Yohthehreth’s disciples, perhaps?

  “But if Father Tomek is an Armanite, he must be teaching the sâr the same,” Yohthehreth said.

  “The rosâr says his uncle is no devout follower of any one god, but His Majesty has always been blind where his relations are concerned.”

  “Indeed,” Yohthehreth said.

  “We should investigate the matter ourselves. If he is teaching the sâr lies . . . Should the boy ever become rosâr—”

  “Sâr Trevn will never sit on the throne of Armania,” Yohthehreth snapped. “If all goes to plan, Sâr Janek will be king for a very long time. After that, Rosâr Janek’s heir.”

  Trevn’s heart pulsed in his ears so loud that he was certain the men could hear it. He pulled himself as high as he dared, peering between the stone rails. He caught sight of the men but was too close to see more than the folds of two robes against the stone floor of the balcony: one white, the other cobalt. Yohthehreth was the prophet in white, but who was the Rôb priest?

  “Find out for certain what god Father Tomek serves,” Yohthehreth said. “Then we’ll know how to proceed.”

  “It will be done, lord.”

  The robes fluttered. Trevn saw the soles of the men’s sandals as they walked away. The priest wore a silver cuff around his ankle. It was adorned with the shapes of the Rôb Five chiseled out of turquoise.

  Trevn continued his climb, reeling with all he’d overheard.

  “Find out for certain what god Father Tomek serves.”

  “Sâr Trevn will never sit on the throne of Armania.”

  “If all goes to plan, Sâr Janek will be king for a very long time.”

  With all the questions these words raised within Trevn, the biggest was why Wilek had not been mentioned. Fear for his brother’s welfare made Trevn’s arms tremble. He needed to speak to Father Tomek right away.

  By the time he climbed around the corner of the castle, Cadoc was waiting on his balcony. Normally Trevn would slow down to punish Cadoc’s impatience. Today he crossed the wall like a spider evading a stomping sandal. He reached his balcony and tumbled over the rail.

  Cadoc helped him stand. “Would you like a drink, Your Highness?”

  Trevn gasped in air and pushed past Cadoc. “I must go immediately to Father Tomek.” He ran into the hallway, bare feet slapping the stone floor.

  Cadoc’s boots thumped behind him. “Your Highness, wait!”

  Trevn ran all the way to Father Tomek’s chambers and let himself in without knocking. His tutor was sitting at his table, which was covered in piles of scrolls.

  “Sâr Trevn.” Father Tomek stood and bowed. “Is something wrong?”

  “You’re in danger, Father.”

  Cadoc lumbered into the room, closed the door behind him, and stood wheezing and clutching his knees.

  “Sit down, both of you.” Father Tomek gestured to a longchair before his balcony.

  Trevn had no patience for formalities. “I overheard Filkin Yohthehreth and a priest speaking about you. About us.”

  Father Tomek took Trevn by the arm and led him to the longchair. They sat together, side by side. “Start from the beginning and tell me everything.”

  Trevn related the tale with as much detail as he could. “What does it mean?”

  Father Tomek glanced at Cadoc, his expression pinched as if trying to surmise the man’s soul with a mere glance.

  “Cadoc is trustworthy,” Trevn said. “I’d stake my life on it.”

  “Then he has my trust as well,” Father Tomek said. “I am what they say, though I’ve never hidden that from you.”

  “What’s so bad about worshiping Arman?”

  “Nothing whatsoever. But you were raised in Sarikar, where Arman is everything. In Armania, priests of Rôb refuse to give any one god absolute authority for fear that god will become a tyrant. The Armanite faith is considered archaic and dangerous.”

  “If they’re so certain Janek will rule, why do they care what I learn?”

  “Because someday they’ll die, leaving behind a younger generation of priests to lead the king. You very well might rise to be a high priest or even Pontiff.”

  They feared Trevn might influence the king to worship Arman alone. “But what of Wilek? They never spoke of him, as if he didn’t exist.”

  “That bothers me greatly. Could be the Farway claim was a trick to lure Sâr Wilek out of the city, where he would be vulnerable. Heir wars can be ugly things.”

  Trevn’s stomach clenched at the very idea of someone trying to kill Wilek. “What shall we do?”

  “Pray for his safe return. Trust Arman to protect him. I will go to Captain Veralla and ask his advice as well.”

  Good idea. Veralla and Wilek were close. “Thank you, Father. Please be careful.”

  “My god will keep me safe.”

  Trevn hoped so.

  “I discovered the identity of your dead newt.” Father Tomek stood and walked to his desk. He picked up a scroll and unrolled it. Trevn came to stand beside him. There was a sketch of the long, pale newt. Beneath it, the tiniest writing.

  “What language is that?”

  “Ancient Armanian. It says that the letaha lives on evenroot. Isn’t that fascinating? What kills us, feeds this creature.”

  Strange more than fascinating. “So how did it die?”

  “My guess is starvation. Especially if someone was harvesting all its food.”

  A mantic, perhaps. One who had something to do with Lady Lebetta’s death, Eudora’s runestone, or both. “Did you learn anything about the runes Lady Lebetta drew when she died?” Trevn asked.

  The old man shook his head. “Nothing yet, but I shall keep looking. You are welcome to join me in the archives. Two sets of eyes are better than one.”

  “I will think on it,” Trevn said, hesitant to spend hours of free time with his tutor, who would likely turn the search into extra lessons.

  Halfway back to his chambers, Trevn and Cadoc came upon Hinck in the hallway.

  “Come with me,” Trevn said. “I’ve something to tell you.”

  “Don’t you want to know how I fared with Lady Eudora today?” Hinck asked.

  “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

  “She wasn’t there. That’s what. How can I succeed in Janek’s challenge when I never see Lady Eudora? I’ll face the pole for certain.”

  “We have bigger things to worry about at present than your courting my cousin.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Your Carelessness. Never you mind my unscarred back. Do tell. What catastrophe has befallen the youngest sâr of Armania this day?”

  The pinched look on Hinck’s face made Trevn feel bad, but now was not the time to baby him. “In private, Hinck,” was all he said.

  Once they were in Trevn’s chambers with the door secured—and Cadoc had made sure no one hung underneath his balcony—Trevn told Hinck all that had happened.

  “Go to your father,” Hinck said.

  That would help no one. “I must get a bette
r look at the local priests, see if one of them wears an anklet of the Rôb Five.”

  “Oh yes. Walking around the castle and inspecting every priest’s ankle won’t draw any extra attention to your actions.”

  “Maybe I should visit court.”

  This comment brought a heavy silence.

  “I am of age now,” Trevn said.

  “You’ve been of age for several weeks. People will wonder why you go now. They will think you seek to bolster your own position for Heir.”

  “Let them,” Trevn said. “I want to see who panders to my father. I want to hear the gossip firsthand.”

  “It will only sicken you,” Hinck said.

  No doubt it would. “I do not go for my own enjoyment,” Trevn said. “I go to be Wilek’s eyes and ears.”

  “May I make a suggestion?” Cadoc asked.

  “Please,” Trevn said.

  “You might also visit Rosârah Brelenah’s court. See who spends time with her.”

  “Excellent notion, Cadoc. I shall attend both.” How tedious the morrow would be. He turned his attention to Hinck. “You’ll keep watch for anything strange in Janek’s crowd?”

  “Beyond the everyday oddities, you mean? Because today Prince Janek made us all weed his sandberry patch.”

  “You know what I mean, Hinck. You, Cadoc, and Tomek are the only people I trust in this castle. I need your help.”

  “Like I have anything better to do,” Hinck said. “I’m not a sâr.”

  The next morning a single knock preceded Hinck’s arrival. Cadoc let him in and shut the door behind him. Trevn waved away the garment Beal was holding. “Too lacy. What else is there? Something a knighten would wear. Plain but at the same time . . . I don’t know, strong.”

  “I will look again, Your Highness,” Beal rasped, retreating into Trevn’s wardrobe.

  “What are you doing?” Hinck asked, coming to stand beside him.

  Trevn took a bite of fig bread. “Readying for court,” he said between chews. “I need people to like me. Especially Queen Brelenah.”

  “You’re a prince. People will like you for that alone. And if you’re worried about Brelenah, take her a puppy.”

  Trevn swallowed. “I’m not taking her a puppy.”

  “At least they’ll welcome you. How am I supposed to proceed with Lady Eudora? She despises me.”

  Beal returned and held up a dark blue tabard with silver embroidery.

  “Perfect,” Trevn said. “Find whatever things match it.”

  “Of course, sir.” Again Beal entered the wardrobe.

  Hinck raised one eyebrow. “Lady Eudora? You were about to save my hide?”

  Trevn raised two eyebrows back and grabbed another fig roll from the tray. “How is this my problem?”

  Hinck glanced at the wardrobe and whispered, “Because you sent me to Janek and he gave me an impossible task, and if I fail him, I fail you and get my back shredded. If you want me to find answers about the rune, I need your help winning Lady Eudora. Or at least knowing how to talk to her. She won’t even look at me.”

  “What makes you think I can help?” Trevn asked.

  “You’re doing fine with Miss Mielle.”

  Trevn scoffed. “That’s different. Miss Mielle is madly in love with me.”

  Cadoc laughed, and both Trevn and Hinck turned toward the door where he was standing.

  “Something funny?” Trevn asked.

  “Only if I may speak freely.”

  “You may always speak freely, Cadoc,” Trevn said.

  “You both amuse me in your quests for female affection,” Cadoc said. “It is not as difficult as you make it.”

  Hinck leaned closer. “Share your secrets, then, Cadoc.”

  Trevn continued eating, pretending he didn’t desperately want to hear Cadoc’s answer, but he stopped chewing so he could hear clearly.

  “Treat her well,” Cadoc said. “Speak to her interests, let her talk while you listen, look for ways to compliment her without sounding like a charmer.”

  Hinck’s expression grew eager. “Give an example.”

  “Sâr Trevn once told Miss Mielle she was honest and cared for people. She seemed to like that, didn’t she?” Cadoc asked.

  Trevn scowled. “How did you know that?” They’d been in a river hole when he’d said that.

  “It’s my job to hear,” Cadoc said.

  Trevn disagreed, but now was not the time to reprimand his nosy shield. “Well, I meant it, what I told her.”

  “My point exactly,” Cadoc said. “Make your words genuine. Otherwise just ask questions to get her talking. The man who listens wins the woman.”

  “Ask questions.” Hinck stared out the balcony window. “But what if she’s not there?”

  “If she’s not there today,” Trevn said, “we’ll find out where she is and send you to her.”

  Hinck slumped in his chair. “Very well.”

  Beal exited the wardrobe carrying a cushion that held a gold circlet with various buckles and baubles piled in the center.

  “All right, Beal,” Trevn said. “Help me dress. I have a host of nobles to impress.”

  “The king requested you enter and remain silent until he calls for you,” the herald said.

  “Very well.” Trevn had come to observe, not cause disorder. He left Cadoc outside with the other guards and servants and stepped into the Presence Chamber. There he met a wall of bodies and heat. Incense burned in braziers, but rather than mask the body odor, the combination created a stench that rivaled that of the Sink. The chamber was packed with courtiers, all with their backs to him, all silent. Loud voices in the front of the room led Trevn to believe he’d entered upon a fierce argument.

  “How long have you betrayed me and our son by embracing this human as a husband?” a man yelled.

  “What betrayal?” a woman replied. “Have you not made sport of your affections for human females? What you made acceptable for yourself, you have made acceptable for me.”

  “Fool woman! You disrespect your son when you disrespect me.”

  “We have no son between us,” the woman said. “Lâhat was begotten of Barth.”

  A gasp from the crowd and a cry of rage from the man. “Treacherous villains, die, all three!”

  Ah, a play was being acted out. The theater was Father’s latest craze. This must be Magon’s Betrayal, when Dendron learned that his wife had taken up with a human man.

  Trevn walked the perimeter of the room until the throne came into sight. Before it, four actors were dressed in bright robes. A short man in green with a thin priest’s lock was pretending to strangle a tall man in brown: Dendron attacking Barth. Behind them a woman in red cowered with a young man in robes of red, brown, and orange. They would be Magon and her son Lâhat. Trevn glanced at the priest’s feet, but his costume billowed on the floor, hiding his ankles from view.

  The play went on. Barth begged Magon’s help, and she used her magic to turn him into Barthos, god of the soil. Trevn wondered why his father so hated magic when it had, supposedly, created the god he so revered.

  Dendron and Barthos began their war, yelling out their circumstances for all to hear.

  “I, Dendron, send vines to bind you and stop your breath.”

  Barthos clutched his throat as if vines were actually choking him. “I shake the earth and break the vines that bind me,” he croaked.

  Dendron staggered about in the pretend earthquake. “The rain pours down with such vastness that you are drowned.”

  This went on and on. In the real story, their war lasted a thousand years. For the sake of entertainment, the actors jumped quickly to the end. Dendron realized he could not destroy Barthos, so he cursed him instead, taking away his human form and turning him into the mythical cheyvah dragon. Then he turned his wrath on Magon, cursing all humans who called on her for power. Not only would they be feared and hated, their magic would require poison, the use of which would bring death and fierce cold.

  Dendron’
s final curse came down upon Lâhat. Dendron made him god of fire, which could only burn with the aid of Dendron’s wind. Lâhat would have no power that was not ordained by Dendron. Never would Magon’s ice be able to come near Lâhat’s fire, or the two would destroy one another. So Dendron forever separated Magon from her son.

  “Curtain!” someone in the crowd shouted.

  The audience applauded.

  “Well done,” the king yelled, clapping wildly. “Actors, come forward! And my son as well. Herald? The trump for my youngest son.”

  From across the room the trumpet played Trevn’s tune. The crowd murmured and shifted, looking around to see where Trevn might be standing.

  Trevn walked toward his father’s throne and bowed deeply.

  The king’s sweaty face lighted in a smile. “Ah, yes. Excellent. Come stand beside me, my son.”

  Trevn obeyed, and when he reached his father’s throne, he saw the four actors standing in a row before the king. The men bowed. The woman curtsied. Trevn recognized the king’s stray son Kamran DanSâr in Lâhat’s robes, and it was Zithel Lau, the medial priest of Rôb, who had played Dendron. The last two were a Rurekan soldier and a woman he had never seen before.

  “Sâr Trevn, what did you think of the play?” Father asked.

  “Very well acted,” Trevn said, though he had little interest in theater.

  “Indeed,” Father said, all of his attention bestowed on the female who had played Magon. “Your skills are to be praised.”

  “Yobatha is delighted with your offering.” This was said to the performers by Filkin Yohthehreth, Father’s head prophet, who, as always, was dressed in white robes.

  Trevn stiffened to see the man who was so offended by Father Tomek’s Armanite faith. Their eyes met. Yohthehreth bowed.

  “Good morning, prophet,” Trevn said as politely as he could manage.

  “Is the goddess Yobatha among your chosen five, Sâr Trevn?” the prophet asked. “You have selected, haven’t you?”

  Trevn had been so obsessed with Mielle, he had yet to pick his five now that he had come of age. Normally he would have been happy to admit that fact, but he would not earn the trust of these men today by being himself.