King's Folly

by Jill Williamson

  “Oh, Oli. Go easy on him,” Eudora said. “Please?”

  Hinck watched Eudora carefully. Was she worried for him? He considered winking at her, but what if Trevn was right and he couldn’t wink?

  Oli walked to the middle of the graveled courtyard. Hinck joined him, feeling very small. Oli stood a full head taller than him with arms as thick as Hinck’s thighs. Oli raised his fists, so Hinck pulled his up to his face—probably too high.

  How had he gotten himself into this?

  Oli took a swing. Hinck dodged it. Oli punched again. Hinck ducked right into Oli’s cross. He staggered under the force, head ringing.

  “Don’t let him get away with that, Hinck!” Janek screamed. “Get him!”

  Hinck did the only thing that had ever worked on Trevn. He faked a swing to Oli’s face and punched him in the stomach.

  Oli grunted. Hinck’s knuckles stung.

  Janek whooped. “That’s better!”

  “I was going to go easy on you,” Oli said through gritted teeth.

  “Don’t bother,” Hinck said, confidence soaring now.

  But Oli punched Hinck so fast he couldn’t react. Gut, ear, jaw, ribs, and square in the nose. Something crunched, and Hinck collapsed on his back in the gravel, clutching his face.

  “Oh!” Eudora cried out.

  Hinck couldn’t believe how quickly Oli had moved—or how badly his nose hurt.

  “Oli, you dog,” Janek said. “Couldn’t you have played with him a little? You’re a terrible entertainer.”

  “Because I’m not an entertainer,” Oli said. “I don’t play with my victims. I destroy them and move on to the next. Care to step into the ring, Your Highness?”

  A gust of lavender rolled over Hinck. He opened his eyes. Eudora was kneeling at his side, studying his face. “Oli, you beast, you broke his nose!”

  Broken? Panic shot through Hinck, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Eudora: her pinched brow, frowning lips.

  “Let me have a look.” Oli crouched on Hinck’s other side. “Gods, I did. Sorry about that. I can try to push it back. Shall I, Hinck?”

  Push it back?

  “Yes, do, Oli. He was on the cusp of being handsome.”

  Wait, what?

  “Only if you want me to, Hinck,” Oli said.

  He nodded dumbly, lost in Eudora’s half praise.

  “Janek, ask Timmons to bring a cut of raw meat,” Oli said.

  “Ask him yourself,” Janek said.

  Eudora squeezed Hinck’s hands. “Be strong, Lord Dacre.”

  “This will hurt.” Oli took hold of Hinck’s nose and jerked it to the side.

  Hinck’s nose crunched in a spike of agony. He screamed, but overall the pain lessened.

  Eudora glanced over his face. “Better.”

  “There will be a bump,” Oli said, sitting back.

  Eudora smiled, her eyes focused on his. “A battle scar.”

  “That was no battle,” Janek yelled from somewhere. “Oli pummeled him!”

  Oli stood and looked across the yard. “Did you send Timmons for a steak?”

  “It’s not my job to play fetch,” Janek said.

  “Shall I go, lady?” Eudora’s honor maiden asked.

  “Yes, Kless. And I with you. I’ll bring you some water, Lord Dacre. We’ll be right back.”

  Footsteps crunched over gravel. Hinck thought about sitting up, but someone came into view above, potted plant hugged in one arm, smirking down. Janek. His ridged brow made him look so much like Pontiff Rogedoth that Hinck wondered how hard Oli had struck his head.

  “You’re welcome,” Janek said.

  “For what?” Hinck rasped.

  “Fonu and I have a bet going. He thinks you don’t stand a chance with Lady Eudora. Thanks to me, you now have her attention. That’s all the help I’ll give you, so make the most of it.” He walked toward the house.

  Hinck pushed himself to sitting. He and Oli were alone now, Oli sitting on the side of his longchair, hands clasped. Hinck wanted to stand, but his head throbbed to the point of dizzying him.

  Eudora returned in a rush of footsteps and knelt beside him, pressed a stone cup to his lips. “Here. Drink.”

  He sucked down the cool water, praying he wouldn’t choke or sputter in her presence. How could a beaten man look dignified before such a lady?

  “Oli, help him up.” Eudora stepped away and Hinck was shuffled to Eudora’s longchair. Then Oli retreated into the house the way Janek had gone.

  Eudora sat beside Hinck, a bowl in her lap that held a slab of raw meat, the water cup in her hand. Kless stood at her side, holding another bowl. Hinck couldn’t see what was inside it.

  Eudora picked up the meat with her fingertips. She wrinkled her nose and lifted the bloody mass toward him. He shut his eyes just as the cold meat slapped over his face, covering his eyes, nose, and mouth. He reached up to adjust it, and she swatted his hand aside.

  “I know it’s distasteful, but it will help. I’ve seen my father do it.”

  “Can’t breathe,” he managed to mumble.

  “Oh! I’m sorry.”

  The cold meat slid up on his face until his mouth was free. He gasped in a breath, the tang of blood bitter on his lips. “Thank you.”

  “Kless, set that by my feet and fetch some fresh rags.”

  “Yes, lady.” Footsteps crunched away.

  Then they were alone. Hinck’s mind raced as quickly as his heart. He should talk to her, ask her questions before he lost his chance. “So, um . . . your father taught you this?”

  “You aren’t the first to be needlessly wounded in this company. Oli has been Sâr Janek’s backman since they were boys.” She lowered her voice. “Oli could easily best the sâr now, but it wasn’t always that way. Sâr Janek used to dominate, especially with fists.”

  “But not now?”

  “Once he discovered women, he lost interest in fighting. He’s getting soft. And fat. But don’t tell him I said so.”

  He heard a smile in her voice and steered the subject away from Janek. “You don’t approve of fighting?”

  “Bloodsports are barbarous. But Sâr Janek always gets his way. Oli’s the only person who can talk him out of things.”

  “You seem to hold your own.”

  “Propriety is a woman’s friend in public, but when I am alone with him . . .”

  Hinck fell silent as he imagined all she implied. Finally he managed another question. “What interests you, Lady Eudora?”

  “I like playacting. I like wearing pretty dresses that make men stare. I like dancing. Do you dance, Lord Dacre?”

  “Yes, though I have little opportunity in Sâr Trevn’s service. I danced more than he did at his ageday ball. His mother forbid him to dance a second with Miss Mielle Allard.”

  “She is so plain. What does he see in her?”

  “Adventure. She ran the roofs with him.”

  “That explains it.” She laughed softly. “I well understand the pressure to marry. Father has lost me to Lord Ravensham in many a game of dice, though Mother says I’ll not be given so freely to anyone.”

  The tone of her voice burned Hinck’s cheeks. “Uh . . . so you must, uh, choose between Sâr Janek or my uncle Canbek?”

  “Oh, no. There are many others. Prince Ulrik of Rurekau, but I won’t live in a realm that abuses women. Lord Rystan, of course.”

  “But he’s thirteen.”

  “He won’t be thirteen forever. There are several princes of Sarikar I could marry, though I wish a prudish husband as little as an abusive one. There is you.”

  His heart nearly stopped. “Me?”

  “You are in the royal line, which makes you my parents’ fourth choice after Sâr Janek, Sâr Trevn, and Prince Ulrik.”

  Gods, Trevn too? “They want you to wed royalty.”

  “My parents want me to be a rosârah, so I understand Sâr Trevn’s reluctance to obey his mother’s demands. Haven’t your parents tried to marry you off? As an only child, I’
d think your mother would be adamant about it.”

  “She is, but my father wishes me to marry for love. They were an arranged marriage. My father had once loved another.”

  “A tragic and common tale.”

  The raw meat smell was turning his stomach. “It doesn’t matter. I belong to Sâr Trevn, and he gives me little time to meet anyone. I’ll likely die a bachelor, having fallen from a rooftop while trying to rescue one of the sâr’s precious maps.”

  Eudora giggled and removed the steak from Hinck’s face, thank the gods. “That’s enough of that.” She dropped the meat in the first bowl and lifted the second into her lap. It was full of water. Kless had returned and was standing behind Eudora. She handed her lady a rag. “Now let me wash off that blood and we’ll see what’s left of you.”

  Hinck did not complain.

  When he finally passed through the house on his way out, he thought it deserted until he heard the low murmur of a man’s voice coming from the altar room. Four guards exited, leading a woman and sobbing little girl away, both with hands bound. The woman wore a plain brown dress, but the gold silk gown the girl wore rivaled that of any queen. How very odd. Voices were still talking in the altar room, so Hinck slowed and peeked inside.

  A couple knelt before the altar, holding hands, foreheads pressed together with heads bowed in prayer. Queen Laviel and Pontiff Rogedoth.

  The murmured prayer stopped. The queen looked up into Rogedoth’s eyes and beamed, kissed his cheek. He pulled her into a tight embrace.

  What in the Five Realms?

  Hinck found Trevn hunched over the table in his chambers, scribbling on some map.

  “I’ve returned from yet another day of abuse for your benefit, Your Stupendousness.”

  “Are you calling me stupid?” Trevn asked without looking up.

  “Aren’t you even going to look at me?” Hinck asked.

  “Do you wish me to?”

  “Very much.”

  Trevn sighed. He set down his charcoal and regarded Hinck. His eyes flashed wide. “Did you spend your day in the practice pens as a pell?”

  “At Seacrest, per your command.”

  “You’re purple. Shall I ring Beal to fetch the physician?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

  Trevn shrugged and went back to his map.

  Unbelievable. Trevn would never ask, so Hinck had to tell him. “Janek made me fight Oli. Said he did it to make Eudora sympathetic to me. Apparently Fonu bet him I’d fail the challenge, so now Janek wants me to succeed.”

  “Five Woes, they’re a bunch of barbarians.”

  Janek was, at least. “It worked, though. Eudora was livid with Oli for harming my ‘potentially handsome face.’”

  “Potentially handsome? Her compliments are as backward as mine.”

  “Yes, I noticed.”

  “That’s good, though. Did you get to speak with her?”

  “Lots. She played nursemaid on me, so I asked as many questions as I could.”

  “About the stone?”

  “Not yet. But we had a nice chat about parents and controlling sârs who try to ruin our lives.”

  “That is encouraging.”

  “I also saw Pontiff Rogedoth and Queen Laviel praying in the altar room. They have two prisoners. A woman and a little girl, both bound. The girl looked wealthy. The woman her nurse, perhaps. Rogedoth and Laviel were very . . . intimate with each other.”

  That made Trevn look up. “Intimate how?”

  “Holding hands. She kissed his cheek and he hugged her.”

  “Your mind lives in the Blackwater Canal. You think they’re having an affair, don’t you?”

  “I think they have been for years.” Hinck paused, working up the courage to share the theory he had invented on the ride home. “I think Rogedoth is Sâr Janek’s father.”

  Trevn burst out laughing. “What gave you that idea?”

  “The eyebrows. Next time you see Janek and Rogedoth together, look closely and see if I’m not right.”

  “I think you’re crazy, but I’m intrigued by the idea of Rogedoth and Queen Laviel working together. That would explain a lot.”

  Hinck took it as a compliment. “Who is the little girl, do you think? Some kind of sacrifice for Barthos?”

  “Gods, I hope not,” Trevn said. “Try to find out.”

  As if Hinck didn’t have enough to find out. “How did court go?”

  “I hated it—my father’s court, I mean.” Trevn shared all that had happened, ending with Lilou Caridod’s tattoo. “Someone should question her.”

  “Don’t look to me, Your Ignoramus.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Lilou Caridod. Do you truly know nothing? Your father decreed that no one is to speak ill of her. She is his favorite. You must wait for him to cast her off before you question that one.”

  “Why?”

  “How should I know why kings do what they do?” Hinck racked his memory for something about Lilou to give his prince. “Some say she’s a witch.”

  “Because of the tattoo?”

  Hinck shrugged.

  “Ask Janek about her.”

  Hinck groaned. “I feel as though I need a break from Janek’s company.”

  “No, Hinck. You are so close. I can feel it. You must persevere.”

  Qoatch

  Qoatch, eunuch slav to Priestess Jazlyn, Sixth Great Lady of Tenma, stood alone outside the doors of the Throne Room, close enough to hear if the priestess were to summon him, yet far enough away that he couldn’t overhear the private discussion. His Great Lady had been called before High Queen Tahmina, and he desperately wanted to know why.

  Her shadir had gone with her, of course. There were several slights drifting along the corridor that he could ask to spy, but shadir—especially slights—were never to be trusted.

  The doors opened, and Jazlyn strode out and down the hallway. Her shadir, Gozan, lumbered alongside. A great shadir, in his natural form, Gozan stood twice Jazlyn’s height. He had the face of a rat, a man’s chest and arms, and legs like a standing fang cat. His skin was black as coal and covered with coarse hairs. Thick arms and beefy shoulders curled forward from muscles too big for such slender legs to support.

  Qoatch trailed behind them, silent as always. Shadir were grotesque. It was a mercy from the Great Goddess that so few people were able to see them. Qoatch only had the ability because Jazlyn had put a spell on him so that he could carry messages to the creatures on her behalf.

  “Pack my things,” Jazlyn told Qoatch without looking back. “Enough for a trip to and from Lâhaten and for at least a week in that loathsome city.”

  “Yes, Great Lady.” To Rurekau? Why?

  She said nothing more until they reached her chambers and the door was securely closed. “Lâhaten! Two months, I will be gone.” She began pacing. “She wants me to confront Emperor Nazer about the Rurekans abducting our women and girls. She knows I detest traveling outside Tenma. Why does she torture me? Gozan, do you know her motives?”

  “Her shadir told me nothing, Great Lady,” Gozan said.

  Jazlyn growled and turned her glare on Qoatch. “Answer.”

  Only when Jazlyn demanded Qoatch answer was he permitted to speak. “Perhaps she trusts only you to accomplish the task?”

  Jazlyn sighed and changed the angle of her pacing. “Yes, yes, I know. I’m her hands and feet. But is it my fault the other Great Ladies are incompetent? Answer me that, eunuch.”

  No lady was more persuasive than Jazlyn. “You’ll be High Queen someday, Great Lady. These struggles will result in a crown.”

  “I have a crown.” She stopped before a full-length mirror and adjusted the gold-and-pearl diadem on her head that marked her a Great Lady of Tenma. Another sigh. “Answer, Qoatch.”

  “Yes, but not the crown, Great Lady,” he said, hoping his words would comfort her.

  “The seer speaks wisdom,” Gozan said. “Someday you shall be High Queen; then you can send the Great
Ladies wherever you like. Order them to cross the desert to Rurekau.”

  Qoatch kept his gaze averted from the shadir. He never felt comfortable when the creature agreed with him.

  Jazlyn nodded, the words sinking in. “But Tahmina will likely live another hundred years. Even if she died, Sixth is far too low to inherit the throne.”

  “A fatal sickness could come upon the others,” Gozan said. “If they die, their shadir will be freed and will not stand against us. The seer knows how to do this.”

  A prime example of how dangerous the shadir truly were. They knew too much. About everything. Qoatch tried to keep his expression plain. Jazlyn rarely deigned to look upon her eunuch, but she did now. Qoatch’s heart raced to see those fathomless gray eyes meet his.

  “Could you really make them sick?” When he didn’t reply, she added, “Answer me.”

  What to say? “That would be treason, Great Lady.”

  “I wasn’t asking you to do it,” she snapped. “Only wondering if you had the skill. I need to know what you’re capable of in case I need to use you against the Rurekan emperor. Answer me truthfully, eunuch slav, are you a capable assassin?”

  Gozan’s rattish gaze bored into him, daring him to lie. “I suppose, Great Lady. All eunuchs are trained in the herbal arts.” This was a stretch of the truth. Qoatch had been trained better than most.

  Yet his answer seemed to satisfy. Jazlyn turned back to the mirror, lifted her chin, and adjusted her crown. “Good to know.”

  When Jazlyn—and her shadir—left to dine with the High Queen and the other Great Ladies, Qoatch set about packing her things for the coming journey.

  Duvlid arrived, carrying a tray of newly mixed lotions, which he set on Jazlyn’s dressing table. “I’ve brought new beauty creams for the Great Lady.”

  To all but a select few, the man was a castle servant, but Duvlid never visited without dual motives. Thankfully Qoatch did not see any shadir in the Veil who might eavesdrop. “You bring a message?” he asked.

  Duvlid stepped close and whispered, “The time has come, seer. Tomorrow night.”

  The words made Qoatch feel as though he were standing on the point of the temple spire, one moment away from falling to his death. The organza dress he was holding crinkled in his fierce grip, but he realized that with this journey, the great goddess Magon had given him a way to escape fate. “It cannot be tomorrow night,” he said. “Priestess Jazlyn leaves for Rurekau at dawn to negotiate the human trade situation with Emperor Nazer. You’ll have to wait.”