King's Folly

by Jill Williamson

  “I have, prophet,” Trevn lied, mind spinning with what to say. “But I must test each to see if we fit well before I pledge my faith.”

  “A wise decision,” Yohthehreth said. “Will you tell us your five?”

  Meddlesome prophet. Trevn fought to keep his expression indifferent as he spun out another flowery excuse. “I am a young man. My desires and concerns are not as important as my father’s or even yours, prophet. My choices couldn’t possibly interest this court.”

  “Do tell, my son,” Father said, “for your choices greatly interest me.”

  “Very well.” Woes, he would have to choose. Which gods would a typical, newly-of-age prince find appealing? He thought of Janek, and the answers came easily. “First and foremost, I worship Yobatha, for I seek nothing more each day than pleasure and joy for myself.”

  The crowd chuckled.

  “Second, I revere Avenis, who is the only one capable of sending beautiful women my way.” Someone guffawed at this. A man. Trevn went on, “Mikreh, of course, for he holds my fate in his very hands. And lastly I’ve chosen Rurek and his bride, Cetheria. As the youngest son of a king, I cannot be too careful with my life. Only Rurek, god of war, and his protector queen are equipped to keep me safe from harm.” Trevn looked pointedly at Yohthehreth then. Your move, prophet.

  Yohthehreth smirked. “Sensible choices for one so young, Sâr Trevn. There is safety in an abundance of counselors. If you will listen well to the advice of your five and accept their instruction, you will prosper in all you do.”

  Rubbish and nonsense, Trevn wanted to say.

  “A fortuitous prophecy,” the king said. “Schwyl, mark that down in my chronicles.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Schwyl said.

  It was customary to give the sign of The Hand when a prophet spoke over one’s life, so Trevn placed his hand over his heart, then pressed his fingertips against his lips. He said nothing.

  Father reached out to Schwyl. “Help me up. I must retire for a spell.”

  Already Father was leaving? Trevn did his best to assist Schwyl in prying his father from the throne. Once the man was on his feet, Schwyl smoothed out his robes and helped the king into his rollchair.

  “Enjoy your time at court, Trevn,” Father said. “Perhaps you will meet some young women here to add to your list, yes?”

  “Perhaps,” Trevn said.

  Father nodded once, as if the matter was settled. “With me, Miss Caridod.” The actress who had played Magon took hold of the two poles behind the king’s rollchair and pushed him away. One shoulder of her costume robe had slipped off her shoulder, giving Trevn a glimpse of bare skin decorated in a black tattoo that looked eerily like the rune Lady Lebetta had drawn in blood.

  Trevn stepped after them, but someone caught him by the arm. He jerked free and wheeled around.

  The man bowed. It was Hinck’s uncle, Canbek Faluk, the Earl of Ravensham. The same man who had accosted Mielle upon her last visit here. His hair glistened from whatever oils he had used to slick it back into a tail. The gutted face of a white sand cat stared hollowly at Trevn from the man’s shoulder.

  “Who was that woman, Lord Ravensham?” Trevn asked, watching her push the rollchair out the back door of the chamber, which led to the king’s drawing room.

  “Lilou Caridod is the rosâr’s newest mistress,” Canbek said. “Sâr Trevn, may I introduce Sir Garn, the ambassador from Rurekau, here on the emperor’s behalf to negotiate several matters with your father.”

  The Rurekan who had played the part of Barthos bowed. The man looked fortyish and well built. He was bald as a vulture with abstract henna tracings down both sides of his neck. All members of the Igote—the Imperial Guard of the Emperor—shaved their heads. So, not just an emissary, then, but a trained killer. Interesting.

  Trevn inclined his head. “How is your volcano, Sir Garn?”

  “Mount Lâhat is smoking, as always, Your Highness.”

  “Sâr Trevn shares your passion for ships, Sir Garn,” Canbek said.

  “How fortuitous,” Garn said. “Perhaps you might join me in my plea toward your father that Armania import sand.”

  Trevn had to stretch logic to find the man’s connection from ships to importing sand. “Why would we need sand? For bricks?”

  “For arenas. Immensely popular in Rurekau for tournaments and challenges. All of our executions and sacrifices to the gods take place in arenas. Emperor Nazer knows that the gods love to be entertained.”

  A rather vulgar idea.

  A man and a young woman stepped up on Trevn’s right, standing patiently until he acknowledged them. “And you are?”

  “My pardon, Your Highness,” the man said. “I am Keson Orrey, one of the rosâr’s minstrels. This is my daughter Fairelle. May she sing for you?”

  Trevn slid back a step. “Oh, I don’t think—”

  “Go ahead, girl,” Keson said. “Sing ‘The Great Parting.’”

  Fairelle closed her eyes a moment, then opened them slowly, keeping them half-lidded. She sang low and monotone. “Deep in the reign of noble House Hadar, the Mother tribes fled to the east afar. . . .”

  This. This was why Trevn preferred to keep to himself. While Fairelle sang, Trevn studied her. She was slender. Dressed in green and gold layers. Her hair was pulled back in cornrows that ended at the crown of her head and fell back into dozens of tiny braids. The look made her forehead seem huge. Time crept along in agony as she sang all six verses of the ancient song. Finally she closed her eyes and bowed her head. Finished at last.

  Trevn faked a wide smile. “Very nice.”

  “Sâr Trevn.” A large woman waved her handkerchief at him and pushed between Sir Garn and the bard, completely ignoring proper etiquette. “My daughter would so love a position in your mother’s household. Does the rosârah need any honor maidens?”

  “I know not, Lady . . .” He did not know her name. Not that it mattered. She went on to ask the same of the other queens and even Lady Zeroah’s household, as if Trevn would know such things.

  Trevn’s time in the Presence Chamber was nothing but nonsense from that moment forward. A nonstop current of people swirled around him, asking favors or flirting. Somehow he had lost their respect, as all ignored the command of not speaking to a sâr until acknowledged by him. No wonder his brothers stayed away. As the nobility of Armania continued to accost him, he edged slowly toward the exit and finally managed to open the doors.

  “Cadoc!” he yelled, and his shield emerged from the shadows. “Sands, that was a spectacle!” Trevn said. “How can my father stand it?” As they walked away, he went on to tell Cadoc all that had happened inside.

  “You were too nice to them,” Cadoc said. “Your father has trained the people to know that if they dare speak to him without asking first, they face the pole. You must set boundaries or the people will take advantage. Did you learn anything useful inside?”

  “Perhaps.” Trevn thought of the tattoo under Lilou Caridod’s shoulder blade. “Though I know not what.”

  Mielle

  Mielle loathed court. Lady Zeroah had been brave to ask her grandfather, King Jorger, to intervene with Princess Nabelle. Lady Zeroah felt that in Prince Wilek’s absence, it was imperative that she been seen in Castle Everton each day to remind everyone that Sâr Wilek would soon return, that they would be married, and that, hopefully, he would be declared Heir.

  Though King Jorger hated just about everyone in Armania, he heartily agreed with his granddaughter’s wisdom.

  Princess Nabelle raised the point of the murdered concubine, Prince Janek’s appalling behavior to Mielle, and Mielle’s “ongoing flirtations with Sâr Trevn”—which Mielle felt was a terribly unfair way to put the matter. The king still sided with Zeroah. Her mother was displeased but congratulated Zeroah on using her head for once.

  So Mielle sat on a cushion behind the thrones of Queen Brelenah and the Mother Rosârah in the colonnade, watching Lady Zeroah dance with some courtier. Nothing p
leased Queen Brelenah more than watching couples dance—besides her dogs, of course. The day was proceeding as slowly as the one before until the herald’s trumpet broke the monotony with a familiar tune on his trumpet.

  “His Royal Highness, Trevn-Sâr Hadar, the Third Arm, the Curious.”

  Mielle’s heart raced. She rose to her knees on the pillow. The dancing had ceased. It was Trevn! How dashingly regal he looked as he approached the thrones. Much better than when he had been covered in mud from the Sink.

  “Forgive the interruption, Your Majesty,” Trevn said, stopping before the throne. “I hoped I might join you today.”

  The sound of his voice made Mielle’s stomach ache to speak with him. She traced the scarred line of the R she’d scratched into the side of her hand and wondered when he might see it.

  “You’re most welcome here, Sâr Trevn,” Queen Brelenah said. “Do you dance?”

  “I’m capable of dancing,” Trevn said.

  The crowd chuckled.

  “He danced very well at his ageday ball,” his grandmother said.

  “Oh, yes! I heard that,” Brelenah said. “Would you dance for me, Sâr Trevn?”

  “Alone?” Trevn asked, eyes bulging slightly.

  Another round of laughter from the crowd.

  “Gracious, no. I don’t approve of solo dancing except from jesters.”

  “And you cannot ask him to tumble about in that silk damask,” his grandmother said.

  More laughter.

  Lady Zeroah, who now stood beside the throne, whispered in the queen’s ear.

  “Is that so?” the queen asked. “Sâr Trevn, Lady Zeroah tells me you danced your first public somaro with her honor maiden.”

  Zeroah! Heat rushed over Mielle.

  Trevn grinned: wide and perfect. “That’s correct. Miss Mielle is a close friend.”

  Close friend.

  “Wonderful! Miss Mielle!” The queen glanced around her feet, as if Mielle might be curled against her legs like one of her pups. “Where are you, girl?” Two of her dogs pushed to their feet and yipped.

  “Here, Your Majesty.” Mielle stood, slightly dazed that Trevn had again publicly acknowledged their friendship. He watched her with a half smile as she made her way forward.

  “Come dance with Sâr Trevn,” the queen demanded. “I want to see what all the talk was about. My apologies for not attending your ball, Sâr Trevn. Without Wilek here, I just didn’t feel up to a party. The Mother Rosârah told me everything, though. Let’s see, they were playing a somaro, yes?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty, the ‘Ages of Man,’” Trevn said.

  “Pipers? Play on.”

  Mielle stepped past the throne and the song began. Trevn took her hand, and it was like going back in time to his ball.

  “This ensemble suits you better than your ageday one, Sâr Trevn,” Mielle said.

  “I chose it myself,” Trevn said. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

  “Lady Zeroah appealed to King Jorger, who gave her permission to attend Rosârah Brelenah’s court until Sâr Wilek’s return. Though Princess Nabelle has still forbidden me to see you.”

  Trevn glanced at the princess, who was standing on Lady Zeroah’s other side. “She does look cross.”

  “She won’t speak out against the queen’s wishes,” Mielle said. “Maybe later in private.”

  “So this could be our last dance until Wilek returns?”

  “Doubtful. If Rosârah Brelenah likes us, do not be surprised if you and I dance until the midday bells toll.”

  “You cannot know how overjoyed I am to find you here. I visited my father’s court this morning for the first time, and I am still recovering.”

  Mielle laughed. “That, I understand completely.”

  “How fare the orphans?”

  “Better. Without homes, they are still in danger. The almshouse cannot feed everyone. There is likely no easy solution.”

  “I have several ideas. First, a sleephouse. I’ve drawn plans for such a building based on military barracks. That way we can house many in a single room. Second, evaluations. If we can find a skill or an affinity for a particular trade, a child might be assigned as an apprentice. And perhaps my father would give tax allowances to those who take on orphan wards.”

  “Oh, Trevn!” Mielle’s eyes widened at her public use of his given name. She glanced to the throne and lowered her voice. “You are brilliant.”

  “It won’t happen overnight,” he said. “I’m not entirely certain where to begin. My father did not respond when I first broached the topic.”

  “It’s a start, though. And I’m certain you—”

  The song ended and they were forced to stop talking. The queen applauded, upsetting one of the dogs on her lap. It jumped to the ground and stretched.

  “A fine pair of dancers,” Queen Brelenah said. “You must go again. Pipers—”

  “Perhaps the sâr would like to dance with some of the other young ladies,” Princess Nabelle suggested.

  Rage swelled up from Mielle’s stomach. Of course the princess would intervene and try to crush Mielle’s joy. She kept her head down, hoping no one would see the anger in her eyes.

  The suggestion seemed to completely puzzle Queen Brelenah. “Well, I am uncertain.”

  “Perhaps it’s Princess Nabelle who wants a turn with my grandson,” Trevn’s grandmother said.

  The crowd chuckled.

  Queen Brelenah frowned. “No, I am quite put out by the suggestion, Princess. I so like them together. Miss Mielle is too tall for the other men. Sâr Trevn, what say you? Would you dance again with Miss Mielle? Or would you rather choose a new partner?”

  “I prefer Miss Mielle to any other partner, Your Highness, excluding yourself and my grandmother.”

  The queen waved her handkerchief. “Such a charmer, you are. I don’t dance myself. Avenelle? Will you dance with your grandson?”

  “Pish,” the Mother Rosârah said. “I can see by the gleam in his eye he wants to dance with the honor maiden. Play on, pipers, and let the youngsters dance.”

  And dance they did. Until the midday bells rang and beyond.

  Hinck

  Hinck had not seen Lady Eudora at Seacrest since that first day. He suspected she’d had enough of the unpredictable environment. Deep down he wondered if it was his fault. Was she staying away because of him? If so, how would he ever manage to complete Janek’s challenge?

  But when he stepped into the garden that morning, there sat Lady Eudora on a longchair with one of her honor maidens. Hinck stared a moment before giving Janek the proper greeting. The sâr sat his wicker throne, holding his potted plant. At least it looked like the same one.

  “You see Lady Eudora has returned to us, Dacre Dan?” Janek said. “We shall endeavor to treat her well today. Thankfully Fonu is absent. He tends to steer the conversation to bawdy topics.”

  “I shall do my part to honor the lady,” Hinck said, dipping his head toward Lady Eudora.

  She rolled her eyes and looked away, fanning herself with a red-stemmed ruffle leaf. An awkward silence ensued but for the rush of distant waves.

  Gods, she truly hated him.

  “Did you miss the fact that my mother, the rosârah, is here today, along with the Pontiff?” Janek asked.

  Hinck’s eyes cast about until he located Rosârah Laviel and Pontiff Rogedoth sitting on side-by-side wicker chairs. Five Woes! He bowed to the Pontiff. “Your Eminence.” Then another bow to the queen. “Your Highness.”

  Rosârah Laviel stood, looking bored, and curtsied to her son. “The heat tires me, Janek. I will retire.” She started toward the house, brushing past Hinck as if he were completely invisible, leaving behind a cloud of hyssop. The woman was a goddess, dark and perfect despite being twice Hinck’s age. Her shiny black hair parted in the middle and had been combed flat and straight as a horse’s mane, down to her narrow waist.

  “I shall join you, Laviel,” the Pontiff said in his slow voice. The balding man
scowled at Hinck as he passed by, or perhaps it was simply his ridged brow that made him look angry.

  No one spoke as the pair made their way toward the house. Hinck turned to watch, taking note of the way their gaits dovetailed, Laviel’s hair and Rogedoth’s priest’s lock swaying together like pendulums.

  “Finally,” Janek said when the door shut. “You are Mikreh’s blessing, Dacre Dan. I thought they would never leave.”

  Janek’s greeting gave Hinck some comfort over the fear that the pair had left because of his arrival. “Do they visit often?”

  “Once or twice a week. Mother holds no court of her own, nor will she attend any in the castle. When she gets lonely, she comes to hound me for legitimate grandchildren.”

  Hinck snorted. “Rosârah Thallah does the same to Trevn.”

  “Does she? Will my little brother obey his mother?”

  “Have a child? Trevn?” Hinck chuckled and shook his head. “Trevn prides himself on disobedience, especially to his mother.”

  “Mikreh’s teeth, he and I do have something in common,” Janek said.

  “I grow bored,” Eudora said. “Perhaps I shall join your mother indoors.”

  “Do not go, lady,” Janek said. “I will see you properly entertained. Oli. Fight Hinck.”

  Fight?

  “I’d rather not,” Oli said. “Why don’t we recite a play?”

  “Oh, yes,” Eudora said. “A play would be diverting.”

  “I want to see blood,” Janek said. “Come now, Dacre Dan. Be a good sport and let Oli bloody you up a little.”

  Was he insane?

  “But Oli will kill him!” Eudora said.

  Well, Hinck couldn’t let that slide. “I know how to fight, lady.”

  Eudora met Hinck’s gaze. “He’ll still kill you. Oli doesn’t know his own strength.”

  “I do so,” Oli said. “There’s none stronger my age.”

  “Prove it,” Janek said.

  “I’m six years Hinck’s senior,” Oli said.

  “So? He’s a man now,” Janek said. “And he says he can fight. Stop talking back and obey me at once.”

  Oli sighed and got up. “Very well.”