King's Folly

by Jill Williamson

  “The Kushaw have waited long enough,” Duvlid snapped. “Do it on the road. When you return, the women will be cast down.”

  Qoatch could never attempt such a feat with Gozan watching. Only by urging his lady to fast could he keep the shadir away.

  “You know what happens if you fail,” Duvlid said, then left the room.

  For a long moment Qoatch stared into nothing, shocked that this day had finally come. He rallied himself to the cause. The Kushaw had been working for years to free Tennish men—men who were worthy of equal rights with women. Qoatch had been trained to do his part in destroying tyranny in Tenma. He had but one task. But, Great Goddess, he could not do this!

  He could not kill the woman who had saved his life.

  Trevn

  I will send a prophet before that great and dreadful day comes. And those who listen, who turn their hearts to me, they will be spared when I strike the land with total destruction.

  —The Holy Book of Arman, chapter 12

  Trevn set down his quill and leaned back in his chair, staring at the last line of the Book of Arman. It seemed absurd that the recent earthquakes could be related to this prophecy, that, with all of time to choose from, Arman might bring destruction during Trevn’s lifetime.

  He shook off the dismal thought and let the joy of having finished this arduous task sink in. After two years of hard work, he had completed his transcription of the holy text. Now he could be ordained as a neophytic priest. Not that he wanted to be a priest. Still, a swell of pride warmed his chest. He had done a tremendous amount of work. Such a feat might please even his father.

  Another thought to shake away. Father wouldn’t care, nor would his mother, who only wanted him to marry and have sons and upstage his brothers. Father Tomek, however . . . He would rejoice at Trevn’s accomplishment.

  Trevn left his room and found Cadoc leaning against the wall in the hallway outside. “We’re going to see Father Tomek,” Trevn said. “I have news that cannot wait.”

  Father Tomek, being royalty, lived on the fifth floor in the crossbar. As a young prince he had once resided in the very chambers that now belonged to Trevn. Now an aging lesser prince and mere priest, he had been relocated many times over the years. Not that the man gave a whit about such things.

  Trevn entered without knocking. A single candle burned on a wall sconce above the bed, casting enough light that he could see the shape of a body under the covers.

  Sleeping? This early? He slowed his footsteps and whispered, “Father Tomek?”

  “Praise to the God,” a weak voice replied. “Close the door, Sâr Trevn, and come.”

  “Cadoc is with me. Shall he wait in the hallway?”

  “No, no. Bring him.”

  Cadoc entered and closed the door. It was then that Trevn noticed the smell. A bitter, almost sour stench permeated the room. The smell of sickness.

  Pinpricks traveled up Trevn’s arms as he approached the bed. “Father, are you ill?”

  The old man moaned. “All is lost. I found it this afternoon, there on my desk.”

  The desk was empty but for a charred stack of parchment. Trevn reached for the first page.

  “Don’t touch it!” Father Tomek cried. “Cadoc, stop him! It’s poisoned.”

  Trevn pulled back his hand, bewildered. Before he could ask, Cadoc plowed into him like a soldier on the practice field. The impact knocked Trevn the equivalent of four steps. His right shoulder slammed against the wall. A ceramic vase slipped off its shelf and shattered on the floor.

  “For sand’s sake!” Trevn yelled. “I didn’t touch it!”

  Cadoc released Trevn, stepped back. “Sorry, Your Highness.”

  “It’s covered in poison,” Father Tomek said. “Burned by magic to destroy it and whoever touches the pages.”

  Trevn’s mouth went dry. “You touched it?”

  “I won’t survive the night.”

  “Nonsense!” Trevn cried. “I’ll call for the physician at once.”

  “You’ll call no one,” Father Tomek said. “They must believe they’ve succeeded or they might come after you. Now tell me, how much of the Holy Book have you transcribed?”

  “First tell me who ‘they’ are,” Trevn said. “Filkin Yohthehreth?”

  “Don’t play games with me, boy. I have little time. Answer my question.”

  The intensity of his voice brought tears to Trevn’s eyes. “All of it. I finished only just.”

  “You finished transcribing a book that sits there on my desk? How?”

  That was the Holy Book? “I’ve, uh, been taking original pages to my chambers each night. I wanted to work faster.” He swallowed his guilt. “To surprise you.” And to keep his mind off the fact that he could see little of Mielle these days.

  Father Tomek cackled. It was a wheezing sound, rather than his regular laugh. “You delightfully disobedient boy. I should punish you greatly for such an act, but the God used your ambition for good. Wonderful irony, isn’t it? You have the original last pages?”

  “The last chapter, yes, in my room. Shall I fetch it?”

  “No! You must hide everything. The original chapter and your copy. Take care. They’ll come looking to see what you’ve been transcribing. Cadoc, he will need extra protection.”

  “I’ll see to it, Father,” Cadoc said.

  “I don’t understand,” Trevn said. “Why destroy your book?”

  “You’ve been transcribing the Holy Book of Arman, not Rôb.”

  “I know. Father, if you’re dying, let me try to get help.”

  “There’s nothing any physician can do for me, my boy. Do nothing but hide the book for now. It must survive! After my shipping, visit my son Barek and tell him all that you know. He will help you.” Tomek began to cough. Blood misted from his lips.

  Trevn searched frantically on the bedside table for a handkerchief. Cadoc handed his own to Trevn, who nodded his thanks and dabbed the blood from his mentor’s lips and chin.

  “One more thing,” Father Tomek said. “The rune marking you gave me.”

  “Yes?” Trevn asked, eager.

  “The Lahavôtesh was a sect of Chokmah Rôb that started in Sarikar. The rune was its insignia.”

  “Eudora said it is a symbol to ward off evil.”

  “I suppose it could mean that to some nowadays. People are very superstitious in Armania. There are so many false gods, it’s hard to keep track of them all. I left the research on Lahavôtesh in our classroom, under the tablets of the Five Woes. Read them for yourself.” The old man gasped in a breath. “Would you recite to me?” Another breath. “From the book?”

  Trevn knew only common sayings and children’s stories from memory. All that came to mind was the creation story from the wall mural of Miss Mielle’s childhood home. “In those days, Arman lived in the heavens with his bride Tenma and their two sons, Sarik and Rurek.”

  In the midst of Trevn’s story, Father Tomek began coughing up blood again. Trevn swallowed his tears and took care of his mentor. By the time he finished the story, Father Tomek had stopped breathing. Eyes were closed. Lips curved in a slight smile.

  Father Tomek was dead.

  Someone had poisoned him.

  Someone who hated Arman. Who? Which god opposed Arman?

  “Forgive me, Father,” Trevn said, both to Father Tomek and to Arman, the father god Tomek had served so relentlessly. “I won’t rest until I avenge you.” He clutched his mentor’s sleeve and wept.

  News of Father Tomek’s death reached Trevn before morning prayer bells the next day. He was relieved not to have to report to his classroom and feign ignorance. He dressed in his blacks and went about his day, aching inside, but keenly aware of everything and everyone.

  Someone had killed Father Tomek and destroyed the Holy Book of Arman. That person might come for him next.

  Let them. Last night Trevn had hidden the book in a secret room in his mother’s apartment. No one would find it, not even if they tumbled the place.
>
  The book was safe.

  Father Tomek had been well loved. Piles of flowers quickly became a nuisance at the castle gates. Trevn was summoned to the Throne Room to help plan Father Tomek’s memorial. He sat silently among his father’s council members, trying not to openly glare at Yohthehreth, whom he knew was guilty of something, or Janek, whom Yohthehreth wanted as Heir over Wilek.

  “His body might be contagious,” Yohthehreth said.

  “Perhaps he should be burned,” Janek said.

  “He was a prince of Armania,” Trevn said, disgusted with the cowardice around him. “He must have a sâr’s last rites and shipping.”

  “Agreed,” Father said. “The physician knows how to handle contagion.”

  Contagion. His dear mentor’s body lay on a slab in the pyre house, alone.

  At that moment, a soldier arrived, breathless—one of Wilek’s men. He handed a missive to Schwyl, who read it, then handed it to Father. The eyes of every man in the room fixed on the king, waiting as he read.

  Father let out a cry.

  “What is it, Father?” Janek snatched the message and read it. “Wilek is missing. His contingent was attacked east of Dacre. They believe it was the Omatta.”

  The room erupted into turmoil, everyone talking at once. The king moaned. Trevn clamped his eyes shut, praying that this news was false, tempted to grab Yohthehreth and shake him, demand answers.

  “They’ll want a ransom, I suspect?” Avron Jervaid asked.

  Canbek grabbed Jervaid’s arm. “One must not negotiate with outlaws.”

  “This is the sâr!” Hinck’s father said. “We must bring him safely home.”

  “All is not lost,” Jervaid said. “We have Sâr Janek, and Sâr Trevn after him.”

  Surely Wilek wasn’t dead. “If they’d wanted to kill him, he’d be dead!” Trevn said, thinking of Father Tomek. The room fell silent, and he realized he’d shouted. He tried again, this time in a more reasonable tone. “If they’ve taken him alive, they want something. We must wait for their demands.”

  “Well said, my son,” Father said. “I’ll order Wilek’s men to find the Omatta and bring him home. If they fail, they can all feed Barthos next full moon.”

  The men clucked their agreement and began arguing whether or not to send a second army to search for Wilek.

  Trevn sat dazed. His logic had calmed his father and the council, but he felt as though his world had ended. All at once he had lost the two men who mattered most to him. It was too much to bear.

  Kalenek

  When Kal finally woke, he had no strength. Each breath felt as if his lungs had shriveled to prunes. Wymer brought him a cup of water, which he gulped eagerly.

  “You’re a strong man, Sir Kalenek,” Wymer said. “Many have died from less of the water’s touch.”

  “Where are we?” Kal’s voice came out a soft whisper.

  “Outside the Kaptar prison,” Wymer said. “Couldn’t reach the lake. Too many felled buildings. Met a guard on a raft who said Miss Onika’s man had been put in the solitary pit. Master Heln figures since we are stuck here, we might as well give in to Miss Onika. She won’t let up, so Master Heln means to let her see the man’s body.”

  Novan seemed to have taken charge. Good. “How many days since I touched the water?”

  “Three.”

  Three days? “And Grayson?”

  “Healthy as a camel and bouncing off the walls. Not a hint of what you went through, though he’s grown a bit.”

  Grown?

  Kal fell asleep, wondering what Wymer could have meant. When next he woke, he was able to sit and eat some dried fish. Wymer helped him stand, and Kal found his legs as strong as ever. Only his right arm, blistered and swollen, was still weak.

  Novan rushed toward him. “The way everyone was talking, I was afraid you’d die, sir. I’m glad you didn’t.”

  “As am I. What’s this you’ve planned for tomorrow?”

  “To enter the prison and search for Miss Onika’s man. Will you be well enough to lead us?”

  “I’ll be fine.” Hopefully.

  Novan nodded. “I promised to bring Grayson as well.”

  This instantly sat wrong with Kal. “Whatever for? The errand will be much faster without that mischief-maker.”

  Novan leaned close and whispered. “It’s for Miss Onika, sir. If we come back without her man, she’ll never believe we did our best. Better to bring Grayson along as her eyes.”

  Kal humphed. Novan was too smart for his own good.

  Kal went back to bed, but he’d slept enough. He stood, wanting to sit outside in the fresh air. Low voices pulled his gaze across the barn. Onika was standing with Novan in one of the stalls. Rustian was perched on a nearby fence post, watching them with lazy eyes. Onika patted the brown camel’s nose. The moment she stopped, the creature nudged her hand, eager for more attention. Novan said something Kal couldn’t hear, and Onika laughed.

  Jealousy twisted Kal’s stomach into a stone. He berated himself for such childish emotions and found comfort in the fact that come morning, they’d find Jhorn’s body and have reason to leave the prophetess behind forever.

  When Kal woke the next day, he caught a young stranger going through Onika’s pack.

  “Hey! Get away from there!” he yelled.

  The stranger jumped to his feet and spun around. “It’s me, Sir Kalenek. Grayson.”

  It was. Yet it wasn’t. The boy had grown a full hand taller, his voice was decidedly lower, his face had thinned, and his hair now hung in his eyes.

  “What happened to you?” Kal asked.

  Though he looked near of age, his bottom lip trembled as if he might cry. “The water,” was all he said.

  “The water made you grow?”

  “The root did.” Onika’s voice, coming from where she rested on her bedroll. The moment Kal looked her way, Grayson ran out of the barn. Onika was sitting up, a blanket clutched to her chest. “It’s not his fault, and I won’t have anyone bully him about it.”

  “Didn’t mean to bully him,” Kal said. “I just want to understand.”

  “It’s Jhorn’s place, not mine. Don’t ask Grayson about it again. Please.”

  All Kal could think to say was, “Yes, ma’am.”

  The prison was a low stone building with a single watchtower that sprouted up from the center. The receding flood had painted the walls with varied stripes of wetness. Kal, Novan, and Grayson climbed off the barge, which was now partially sunk in the muck. The ground swarmed with insects, and off it rose a rotten stench that turned Kal’s stomach.

  The threesome slogged toward the prison’s front entrance. Kal opened the door, and water gushed over his boots. No! He kicked off the moisture, afraid he’d put himself in bed for another three days, but all was well. The leather had kept the poison water from his skin.

  Inside, Novan lit a torch in the darkness. The prison was small, and they quickly found the mess hall. Tables were scattered against the entrance, having been moved by the floodwaters. Novan passed the torch to Grayson, and he and Kal moved the tables aside to make a path. Soon they were standing in the middle of the room on a stone floor that was crawling with black bugs.

  “We’re looking for a trapdoor?” Kal asked.

  “The guard said there are six,” Grayson said in his new wobbling voice. “But he didn’t know which Jhorn was in.”

  They found one. Dirty leather stuck out from all four sides of the stone lid. Kal crouched and tugged on it. “To block the light. Blasted yeettas love torture.”

  “Perhaps it kept out the water,” Novan said.

  Kal grunted, doubtful that a scrap of leather could have held back the weight of a flood.

  The lid was kept in place by two pegs inserted through iron loops. Kal pounded them out with the butt of his dagger, then prised up the lid with the blade. Cool air wafted from below. Remarkably, there was no water inside. Nor were there any prisoners.

  “Shock me,” Kal said. “Could be O
nika’s man is alive.”

  This enthused Grayson, who scampered off and soon yelled, “Found another one!”

  “Sir, that boy is the strangest thing I’ve ever seen,” Novan whispered.

  Kal thought so too. “His body has aged, but his behavior hasn’t.”

  By the time they caught up, Grayson had already kicked out the pegs. Kal shoved his dagger into the crack and lifted the stone.

  The pit was filled with water. Kal drew back just as a body bobbed into the opening.

  Grayson screamed.

  Instantly Kal thought of the war, of the bodies that had been tortured and eventually drowned. He looked away and fought off the memory.

  “We’ll have to turn the body,” Novan said, “so Grayson can identify it.”

  “It’s not Jhorn.” Grayson ran off, searching for the next pit and taking the torch with him.

  “How can you tell by looking at his back?” Novan hollered after him.

  “He’s got feet!” was Grayson’s cryptic reply.

  Novan rubbed his face. “Four more pits and it’ll be over, sir.”

  “Let’s get it done,” Kal said, eager to leave this place and these people.

  The third pit was completely dry and empty.

  The fourth was filled with water but no body.

  The fifth looked dry. Kal leaned down to peer inside, and a clump of dirt hit him in the face. An arm hooked his waist and a fist punched, though there was no strength behind it.

  “Get him off!” Kal yelled.

  Novan grabbed Kal and his attacker, pulling them away from the hole and each other.

  It was an adolescent, grinning from ear to ear. “No warden? So I’m free to go?”

  “Don’t you leave me here, Burk!” a man yelled from the pit.

  “Jhorn!” Grayson held the torch down to the dark opening.