King's Folly

by Jill Williamson

  The prisoner yanked free from Novan and sprinted toward the exit.

  “Shall I chase after him?” Novan asked.

  “Let him go,” Kal said, wiping the dirt from his face. “Help me with our rune reader.”

  Between the two of them, they managed to hoist Jhorn out of the pit. The man was short and light, like a child or perhaps a dwarf. He seemed quite hairy, but perhaps that was simply the filth of prison life.

  “Is that you, Grayson?” the man asked.

  “Yes, sir.” Grayson dropped the torch and fell to his knees to hug the man. “I fell in the lake water.”

  “Oh, my boy. For how long?”

  “Not long. Sir Kalenek pulled me out.”

  Kal retrieved the torch, which illuminated Jhorn.

  Well, ship me to Shamayim . . .

  He had no legs.

  Kal stared, knowing he was being rude, yet struggling to understand what he was looking at. Jhorn’s legs ended just above the knee. Each pantleg had been sewn closed over the stump.

  It was too late to stop Kal’s mind from circling back to the war, to the melees where he had trod upon severed limbs. This was the man Onika claimed had learned to heal his battle wounds?

  “To answer your question,” Jhorn said, looking from Novan to Kal, who were both still staring, “I lost my legs in the war.”

  “Ah,” was all the answer Kal could manage.

  “That must have hurt, sir,” Novan said.

  “I thought I’d died,” Jhorn said. “When I woke and found myself with no legs, I wished I had. But that was the past.”

  The man had neatly ended discussion on the matter, so Kal said the next thing that came to mind. “You’re Armanian.”

  Jhorn smirked. “So are you.”

  “Some of the pits were flooded and some were dry,” Grayson said. “I prayed you were in a dry pit and you were!”

  “Not totally,” Jhorn said. “We had a steady leak. Had to work to keep the water draining into the privy hole. What happened, anyway?”

  “An earthquake broke the dam,” Kal said. “The lake flooded the entire city.”

  Jhorn nodded. “Onika was right. We have little time.”

  Novan and Kal exchanged dark glances.

  “Let’s get out in fresh air, shall we?” Novan said.

  Grayson jumped to his feet. “What about Dun?”

  “In his cell?” Jhorn asked.

  Grayson’s eyes widened. “Guard said everyone in the cells drowned.”

  A heavy moment of silence passed.

  “I could carry you backsack, Master Jhorn,” Novan said. “Then you could take a look in the cells.”

  “I’d appreciate that very much,” Jhorn said. “Grayson, you wait here.”

  “But I want to come!”

  “You’ll do as you’re told,” Jhorn said in a tone that settled the matter.

  Grayson hung his head. “Yes, sir.”

  Kal had no desire to see more dead. “We’ll meet you at the barge.”

  Novan crouched in front of Jhorn and lifted the legless man to his back. Kal gave Novan the torch. They left together, parting ways in the hall. Light streamed in the open front door, so Kal and Grayson had no difficulty finding their way out. They had barely stepped onto the barge when Onika rushed toward them, fingers gripping the tail of her dune cat.

  Grayson hugged her around the waist as if he were still a much shorter boy. “Jhorn’s alive!” He went on to tell the full story of the search, adding far more detail about the dead body than Onika likely cared to hear. “But Dun wasn’t there. Novan carried Jhorn to look for him in the prison cells.”

  Onika nodded, tears in her crystalline eyes. “He is in the arms of the God now.”

  “Don’t say that!” Grayson yelled, pushing away from her. “That’s not true!”

  Novan stepped up onto the barge and helped Jhorn sit on a wooden crate at the bow.

  “I’m afraid it is, boy,” Jhorn said. The legless man wiped tears from his eyes. Those caught in his bushy beard glittered in the sunlight.

  “No!” Grayson yelled. “You’re wrong!” He ducked into the open barn door, footsteps quickly fading.

  “I’m so pleased to hear your voice, Jhorn,” Onika said.

  “Thank you for coming,” Jhorn said. “Are you well? These men hurt you?”

  “We’re all fine,” Onika said. “They’re good men.”

  Jhorn glanced at Kal and nodded. “See to the boy, Onika?”

  “Rustian.” Onika reached out her hand. “To Grayson.” The cat threaded around her legs and stopped with its head under her hand. Together they moved into the barn.

  “That never ceases to amaze me,” Kal said.

  “And just who are you?” Jhorn asked.

  “Sir Kalenek Veroth, shield to the First Arm of Armania.”

  “If you’re his shield, what are you doing here?”

  “Sâr Wilek sent me on a mission to get a rune translated. Miss Onika said if I helped free you, you’d be able to help me.”

  “I’m no mantic, but I’ll take a look.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Kal said, relieved that he might have finally reached the end of his mission. He withdrew the rolled leather from his pocket and handed it to Jhorn.

  “Hmm . . . It’s not one of the five mantic runes. Where’d you find it?”

  “Drawn in blood beside a dying concubine.”

  “Ominous. Whose concubine?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “With concubines, it always matters.”

  Kal supposed that was true. “Sâr Wilek’s concubine.”

  “Prince Wilek’s old enough to have a concubine, is he?”

  “He’s been old enough for ten years.”

  “I suppose it has been that long. Wasn’t sure he’d make it to manhood, the way his father made sacrifices. Does he still?”

  “Rosâr Echad visits The Gray each full moon,” Kal said. “But he hasn’t again sacrificed his own blood.”

  Jhorn grunted and narrowed his eyes at the scrap of leather. “Like I said, I’m no mantic. The only symbol I recognize is this one here, though it’s no rune. Surprised you didn’t see it.” Jhorn traced his finger down one line, over a shorter line that crossed it, and along the five short lines in an arc above. “This is your mark, isn’t it?”

  Kal’s arms pimpled. It was the mark of a Knife, a royal assassin. “What makes you think that?”

  Jhorn shrugged. “Onika said an assassin would save us.”

  But Onika had called him rescuer. “All this time she thought I was an assassin?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Years ago. I gave up knifing when I married.” Kal studied the symbol of the knife within the rune mark. If Lady Lebetta had been killed by a Knife, only one person could have given the order: King Echad. “You have my thanks, Jhorn. But I still need a translation for the runes before I can return to Armania.”

  “There’s no time,” Jhorn said. “You must return now and take us with you.”

  Oh no. Kal had had enough company to last a lifetime. “Why would we do that?”

  “A true prophet is born to serve the king. I’ve protected her for years, waiting, but she must go to Sâr Wilek at once. For counsel, mind you, not as a bride or concubine. Grayson goes as her onesent, I as her shield.”

  Kal looked to Novan and had to fight to hold in his shock. He couldn’t imagine a legless man being anyone’s shield. And Grayson, a onesent? It was laughable.

  “You doubt her still?” Jhorn asked. “Surely you’ve heard her prophesy? During the Great War, priests of Rôb murdered every last true prophet. Since then the king has had only false prophets, and the realm has suffered for it. The Five Woes are upon us. Onika is not certain how long we have. A month, maybe? Two at most. It’ll happen before summer ends. We must warn Sâr Wilek to evacuate Everton or the realm of Armania will end forever.”

  Onika had a gift. Kal had seen her power. But the Five Woes of myth? That
he could not grasp. “If I agreed—and I’m not saying I do—why Sâr Wilek and not the rosâr?”

  “King Echad has been compromised for decades,” Jhorn said. “Salvation for Armania will come through The Heir who convinces the king, as Onika has prophesied. Unless you think her a charlatan.”

  She wasn’t that, but Kal didn’t like feeling cornered.

  “There’s more you need to know,” Jhorn said. “Grayson is gifted. He doesn’t fully understand it yet, nor do I, but he must be protected.”

  “Gifted how?” Kal asked. “He grows fast?”

  “Evenroot doesn’t affect him the way it does you and me,” Jhorn said. “Legend says a root child is conceived by a woman who takes evenroot during her pregnancy. The magic is in his blood, and the child is born with powers. I think that’s why his skin is the way it is.”

  A mantic that required no root?

  “He ages faster than most, and if he takes evenroot or gets into the poison lakes, his aging accelerates for a time,” Jhorn said. “If he fell into the lake, my guess is he’ll grow another few inches before the effect wears off.”

  “How old is he really?” Kal asked.

  “Just over eight,” Jhorn said.

  “Eight!” No wonder he talked so much and could never sit still.

  “If the mother took root when carrying a child, wouldn’t she die?” Novan asked.

  “She did die,” Jhorn said.

  “Who was she?” Kal asked.

  “A woman named Darlis Nafni.”

  Nafni was Queen Laviel’s maiden name. “Related to the second queen?” Kal asked.

  “Sisters,” Jhorn said. “Darlis died in childbirth, leaving Laviel with her child.”

  “How did you end up with him?” Kal asked. “And how do you know all this?”

  “I found him by accident in Canden,” Jhorn said, “while I was recovering from the loss of my legs. I had been one of Laviel’s personal guards before the war, so I noticed the boy’s nurse and recognized his skin when I saw it again. I knew Laviel would try to use the child to put her son on the throne, so I stole him away and came to Magonia.”

  “You kidnapped the queen’s nephew?” Novan asked.

  “I did what I had to,” Jhorn said.

  “Then Everton is the last place the boy should go,” Kal said. “With his skin and the way he prattles on, he won’t escape Rosârah Laviel’s notice for long.”

  “I don’t plan to keep him in Everton for long,” Jhorn said. “I simply want him to stay with Onika until her prophecy has been fulfilled.”

  “Keep him with Onika . . . why?” Kal asked.

  “Arman won’t let his prophet die young,” Jhorn said. “Onika has seen herself years into the future.”

  “You want the boy to live,” Novan said. “You believe her prophecy about the destruction of the land.”

  “If Grayson stays with Onika, he will survive the Five Woes,” Jhorn said. “Will you help us? Every moment we tarry, more will die. We must get Onika to Sâr Wilek.”

  Or at least her message. It looked like Kal would be spending a lot more time with these people. He met Novan’s gaze. “Could you find your way back alone?”

  Novan’s expression sobered. “I think so, sir.”

  “One can travel much faster than all of us together,” Kal told Novan. “I’ll write a coded message to Sâr Wilek and advise him to question you as a witness to what we’ve discussed here. Return to Hebron. Gather your horse in Raine, and ride for Everton at top speed. Tell Sâr Wilek what happened here in Kaptar. Tell him Onika’s prophecy about the destruction of the Five Realms. Say nothing of Grayson for now, but give my recommendation that Everton prepare for a seaward evacuation. Let nothing stop you.”

  Wilek

  Wilek trudged alongside the man called Torol, shivering with each step. It mattered not that the sun hung high in the sky or that sweat trickled down his back. He had been cold since meeting Charlon. Her magic had changed him. He could hear her, back in her tent, casting some spell and talking to her demons. The farther he went from her side, the more he thought of her.

  They had taken his clothes and forced him to wear a kasah as a skirt, leaving his chest bare. All the Magonian men dressed this way. He felt ridiculous and all the more naked without his hair.

  Torol led him toward a cistern, around which several men were pounding sticks into bronze pots. Wilek eyed a rocky ledge, wondering if he would survive a jump off the side. He drifted toward it.

  His own body fought him. Every limb, every muscle repelled from the cliff. The disorientation caused him to stumble. His ankle twisted and he fell. He caught himself on hands and knees, wincing at his stinging palms.

  Torol offered him a hand. “The compulsion takes some getting used to. It will force you to obey, and it won’t let you run away or harm yourself, so don’t bother trying.”

  Compulsion. How many spells had they placed on him after shearing his hair? He stayed close to Torol, wanting to avoid the unwelcome tug the compulsion inflicted.

  They reached the cistern. The men who weren’t pounding poles into pots were sitting in pairs at small millstones, working as teams to spin. A half-dozen poles were stacked by the cistern’s edge with a pile of gloves. Torol picked up a pole and set of gloves and handed them to Wilek. “Find an urn and mash root. When you’re finished, take it to the men at the wheels.”

  Wilek pulled on the gloves. “Is it flour?”

  “Ahvenrood. Get busy before one of the maidens catches you standing around.”

  Wilek found an urn filled with chunks of starchy root and mirrored the other men by pounding the end of his stick into them, though he did so warily, not wanting to touch the stuff of magic. Slowly the chunks broke apart and turned to mash. As Wilek worked, he plotted the many ways he might kill Charlon. If she were dead, would he be free of the soul-binding?

  The mere thought of her death made his eyes sting with sorrow. Madness! Between the soul-binding spell and the compulsion, he doubted his body would let him harm her. He needed to think. To do something that—

  “Another load, Father.”

  Behind Wilek a man dropped the handpoles of a pull cart filled with small evenroot tubers.

  “Yeah, I’m talking to you,” the man said. “Get over here and unload this.”

  The invisible hook of the compulsion yanked Wilek forward until his body slammed against the cart, knocking the wind from him. He held tight to the cart’s side to keep from crumpling.

  A gray-eyed woman stood on the other side of the cart, the Third Maiden, he thought. Roya. “You’ll obey the Chieftess’s men, Father.”

  “Yes,” Wilek said, without wanting to.

  “That’s better.” She reached across the cart, smirked.

  He didn’t understand. Did she want him to take hold of her hand?

  The other men watched eagerly. Torol frowned and gave a slight shake of the head. What did he mean? Obey her or refuse?

  “Well, Father?” Roya asked.

  Touching her as lightly as possible, Wilek took hold of her hand.

  “Fool,” she spat, and slapped him hard across the face.

  His cheek burned. Wrong choice, apparently.

  “Never touch a maiden without being ordered,” Roya said.

  He looked to his feet, hating her, hating them all.

  She walked around the cart, pointed at the ground. “Kneel before me.”

  Before he could decide, his knees hit the ground and his spine bowed low until his forehead touched the dirt.

  “Lazy fool!” Roya yelled. “Get up and empty this cart.”

  Wilek sprang to his feet and grabbed an armful of the dirty tubers.

  “Here,” Torol called, waving Wilek to a large rock where a kneeling man was slicing the tubers into chunks.

  Wilek carried the tubers to the rock and dumped them in the small pile beside the man, then marched back to the wagon to fetch another load. His body moved of its own accord.

  Roya laug
hed, as did several of the men who were watching. Anger pooled within Wilek. Was this how his slaves felt? Fear and shame and having no control over their own choices?

  When the cart was empty he slowed, until Roya ordered him to return to his pot of root and finish it. He grabbed up his pole and pounded so fast his hand blurred.

  “Better.” Roya walked away.

  Wilek felt her hold on him release. He loosened his grip on the pole and flexed sore fingers, glad it was over.

  “It’ll get easier,” Four said.

  “Why do they call me Father?” Wilek asked.

  “Maiden Five, the one called Mother, she will give birth to the Deliverer. You are her One.”

  “One what?”

  “Mate. Servant. Slav. Whatever she asks of you. The Chieftess keeps Five Men to do her bidding. Mother has only one. You.”

  Wonderful. “Will the, um, Mother claim other men?”

  Four shrugged and picked up Wilek’s urn. “Perhaps. We’ve never had a Mother before.” He carried the urn to a pair of millers and traded it for an empty one, which he filled with chunks of tubers and brought back to Wilek. “It’s best if you don’t fight.”

  Four’s hair had been cropped short, like Wilek’s. He had a sun-like rune inked on the back of his neck. Wilek scratched his neck, sick over his next question. “Do I have a mark here? Like yours?”

  Four nodded. “The rune holds the spell that compels you.”

  “Is it permanent?”

  “Never heard of a man who had it removed. Though I’ve never heard of a man who left the Chieftess’s service either.”

  Never left? “Then how do new ones arrive?”

  “When one of the men is killed.”

  Killed. Not dies. But killed, as if by intention.

  For the first time Wilek was thankful for his father. The man was cruel, possibly insane, but in upholding laws prohibiting magic, he had shielded the Armanian people from such atrocities.

  “Stop talking and get this root milled!” Roya yelled as she strode between them. “I need water hauled for my bath.”

  “If we all spit on her at once, she could have her bath now,” Wilek mumbled.

  Four’s eyes widened and he spoke no more to Wilek.

  Perhaps Wilek should guard his tongue more carefully. At least Roya hadn’t heard him. She continued to bark orders, and whenever she commanded him, the runes on his neck itched fiercely. He rubbed them, but only obedience brought relief.