King's Folly

by Jill Williamson

  “Where are you going?” Hinck called after him.

  “To see Pontiff Rogedoth.”

  The Pontiff did not reside in the castle but in the Priest House attached to Temple Everton. The temple had been built between the castle and High Street. It was white marble and had five towers, each with five-tiered roofs. Diamond-paned windows with blue glass glittered in the light of the setting sun. Not quite as old as the castle, the temple had been built some two hundred years ago when King Halak II had converted to the Rôb faith.

  Trevn and Cadoc tied their horses at the door of the Priest’s House, on the back side of the temple. Trevn had never been inside the Priest’s House before, and its extravagance surprised him. He thought priests lived humbly. The Pontiff certainly didn’t. Marble floors, silk rugs and tapestries, golden lampstands, wooden furniture—not even the king owned this much wood. Trevn supposed privilege came with power.

  The Pontiff’s onesent led them to the receiving room to wait. Trevn found the room similar to the king’s Presence Chamber. It even had a throne.

  Trevn felt every bit a Renegade in confronting the Pontiff, but if what Lau said was true, the Pontiff felt himself above the king. Why, then, would he answer the demands of the youngest sâr? What if the man refused him?

  “Sâr Trevn.” The deep voice made Trevn jump. Pontiff Rogedoth entered from a door on the side wall, his onesent in tow. “I am pleased you came by. There is a matter I wish to discuss with you.”

  Was there? “I hope it explains why you sent a priest to search my chambers.”

  “It does.” The Pontiff sat on his throne and did not offer Trevn a seat. In fact there were no other chairs in this room. “Have you chosen a new tutor?”

  “I have not. As you can see,” he said, motioning to his black attire, “I am still mourning.”

  “That is commendable, Your Highness. If you need suggestions for a new tutor, I would be happy to provide a list.”

  “Thank you,” Trevn said, “but why were you searching my chambers?”

  “Concerns have arisen as to the curriculum Father Tomek taught you.”

  “Why not ask me? Is not a civil conversation simpler than trespassing?”

  The Pontiff didn’t answer right away. Trevn noted the man’s extremely pronounced brow, which reminded him of Hinck’s speculation regarding the Pontiff and Queen Laviel. Could Hinck be right that the man was Janek’s father?

  “I will grant you a civil conversation,” the Pontiff said. “It was common knowledge that Father Tomek was a follower of Arman. No one would begrudge him his right to choose which five to follow. The father god is mighty, indeed. What you might not know is that Father Tomek was a devout Armanite. He served no god but Arman. He also had in his possession a copy of the Armanite text. That document is pure heresy and has been outlawed by the Rôb church for centuries.”

  Trevn struggled to keep his expression passive. That Pontiff Rogedoth might have had something to do with Father Tomek’s death made his hands tremble. “I fail to see what Father Tomek’s possessions have to do with me,” Trevn said.

  “Simply to confirm he did not lead you astray.”

  Madness! “I assure you, had he done so, I would have told my father immediately.” Lying came so easily. Did the Pontiff have the same ability?

  “Most gratifying to hear, Your Highness. Bring the manuscript you transcribed as part of your apprenticeship for my inspection. It could be that Father Tomek misled you to transcribe his illegal tome.”

  “I think I would have noticed,” Trevn said, realizing he was a terrible priest, for it hadn’t occurred to him to wonder why he had been transcribing the Armanite book over the Rôb.

  “Most certainly. But only the text will set my mind at ease.”

  My mind, the man had said, as if he were the master of this investigation. Of killing Father Tomek. Five Woes, a murdering priest.

  “No matter to me,” Trevn said, scrambling for a way to stall. “I have made little progress, though.”

  “It has been two years, Your Highness. How far along are you?”

  “Oh, maybe half.” Trevn hoped that sounded convincing. He shrugged. “I will have my pages sent to you, if you like.”

  Rogedoth’s smile looked more like a snarl. “Your cooperation is most appreciated.”

  Trevn left Rogedoth’s luxurious quarters with a mission in mind. Back at the castle he asked Beal to fetch a copy of the Rôb text and take it to his old bedchamber in his mother’s apartment. Then he returned to his chambers, where he found two guards stationed outside the door. Inside, Hinck was pacing before the hearth, brown furrowed in despair.

  “What happened?” Hinck asked.

  Trevn relayed Rogedoth’s demand.

  “You think Rogedoth was involved in Father Tomek’s murder?” Hinck asked.

  “Seems likely. I cannot give him my book, so I will transcribe a new copy.”

  “So quickly?”

  “I only need to do half. You will help me stall by spreading rumors about me and Miss Mielle and secret outings. I’ll write to her and explain. Will you take her my message right away?”

  “Of course.”

  Trevn scratched out a plea to Mielle and sent Hinck to deliver it. Then he gathered all the map tubes he could, emptied them, and gave them to Cadoc to carry. Trevn grabbed a stack of parchment, and they set off for his mother’s apartment.

  When they arrived, Beal was waiting with the Book of Rôb.

  Trevn took the tome from him. “Is my mother here?”

  “She is still at dinner, Your Highness,” Beal wheezed.

  “Dinner.” Trevn hadn’t realized it was so late. This was good, though. “Thank you, Beal. You are dismissed for the evening.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Beal bowed and departed. Trevn led Cadoc into his mother’s bedchamber, closed the door, and went into the privy, where a secret door led to a short passageway.

  “How did you find this place?” Cadoc asked.

  “I followed my mother here as a boy,” Trevn said, stepping into the dark space. “Back then she still cared about advancing her own causes at court. Now she only cares about advancing me. Hand me that candlestick.”

  Cadoc lifted the candlestick from the privy wall and passed it to Trevn.

  Trevn held it aloft, squinting. He stepped to the second secret door and pushed it in. The room wasn’t much bigger than the privy. It was triangular in shape, a space left behind by the architecture of the rooms beyond. Cobwebs and dust coated walls of unfinished stone. It was furnished with a small stone desk and stool, brackets on the wall to hold candlesticks, and a basket hanging from the ceiling that held a dead plant. The map tube holding his Book of Arman still hung from a nail on the wall. The two scrolls Father Tomek had left concerning the Lahavôtesh lay on the desktop.

  Trevn set the candlestick on the desk. “Once Mother stopped coming here, I claimed the space as a fort. There are two peekholes. One looks into the sitting room, the other into her bedchamber. She would rage at her servants, looking for me. Never knew I was right there, watching.” Laughing. “This will be a safe place to hide while I transcribe.”

  “While everyone thinks you are out with Miss Mielle,” Cadoc said.

  Yes. “Was I wrong to ask it of her?”

  “I think she’ll be eager to help.”

  Trevn hoped so. “Hang the map tubes there.” He pointed at the dead plant.

  Cadoc reached up for the basket.

  Trevn wiped a swath of dust off the desk with his sleeve and set the parchment and Book of Rôb down in the clean space. He began transcribing right away. It did not banish his sorrow over losing Father Tomek, his fear for Wilek, his dread at possibly being forced to marry Lady Zeroah, or his worry that he might have lost Mielle forever. Still, it was a relief, truly, to have something to distract from the madness.

  The next midday, Trevn was summoned to his father’s office to sign the betrothal agreement. He and Lady Zeroah sat be
fore the king’s desk. Father and King Jorger had already signed, as had Trevn’s mother and Princess Nabelle.

  Trevn read the agreement twice, carefully looking for any loophole that might force the wedding sooner. It seemed written to his specifications. “What did Miss Mielle say about this?” he whispered to Lady Zeroah.

  “She does not know,” Lady Zeroah said. “Please, do not tell her. Sâr Wilek will return. There is no need to upset anyone.”

  A nice thought. Trevn glanced around the room. Two footmen stood by the door. Five of his father’s guards were posted outside. Word would likely get out. It always did. He hoped Wilek would return soon.

  Trevn nodded to Lady Zeroah and signed his name.

  Kalenek

  Wymer and his men opted to go their own way, so Kal led Grayson, Onika, and Rustian out of the city, with Jhorn atop the female camel. Horses would speed their journey back to Everton, but the only horses Kal had seen still living in Kaptar were carrying yeetta guards, who didn’t look willing to share.

  They passed out of the city, and Kal scanned the horizon. “Is there higher ground nearby?” He didn’t want to camp in the valley in case another flood came in the night.

  “There are hills to the southwest,” Jhorn said. “About six leagues.”

  So Kal veered southwest. They traveled all day under the scalding sun, digging up desert ground cones when they found them and sucking on the roots. They gathered bits of wood—mostly tumbleweeds of sticky snare and the occasional cat’s claw branch. It was nearly sunset by the time they reached the foothills.

  Grayson, Onika, and Rustian had fallen behind, so Kal halted the camel. As they waited, Jhorn shared about his time in the war. He had fought in the Scablands Invasion, just south of Raine. It had been one of the bloodiest battles in the Centenary War. Jhorn told the story in detail, sharing how he fell in battle after a yeetta shard club severed his right leg and half his left.

  “How about you?” he asked Kal. “Where were you stationed?”

  Kal merely shook his head. Hearing Jhorn’s nightmare had been bad enough. He didn’t want to relive his own.

  “Talking about it helps,” Jhorn said. “You wouldn’t think so, but it does.”

  “I’ve never seen skin like Onika’s,” Kal said, deliberately changing the subject. “Are there more like her in Magonia?”

  Jhorn watched Kal for a long moment. “Never seen any,” he said, finally. “Five years back I found the cat scratching at my door. It wouldn’t come in. Wouldn’t eat. Kept scratching and mewing until I followed it to a river hole in a nearby stepwell. There sat Onika, thirteen years old, blind and spouting prophecies. You have children, Sir Kalenek?”

  Kal hated that question. He should say yes and be done with it. Instead he said, “Of a kind.”

  Jhorn looked down from the camel. “What kind of children, then?”

  Now he had to explain. “When I married, my wife had two younger sisters she cared for who became part of our household. When she died, they became my wards.”

  “That’s good of you,” Jhorn said.

  It had been. Until he had lost their fortune to Captain Alpress’s blackmail. “They are good girls.” Which made Kal wonder if Mielle had kept away from Sâr Trevn. Somehow he doubted it.

  The others had nearly caught up. In the distance beyond them, Kal caught sight of movement. He withdrew his grow lens and peered through. “Someone follows us. Looks like the young man who shared your pit.” Kal handed the lens up to Jhorn.

  Jhorn took a look and sighed. “Burk is a thief and a bully. If he reaches us, we will need to take care.”

  They climbed the hill to the summit. They had no tents, but Kal built a fire from the wood scraps, and everyone gathered around for warmth. Everyone but Kal, who continued to watch the young thief’s approach.

  Jhorn borrowed Kal’s knife and began to whittle the fat end of a cat’s claw branch. Grayson teased Rustian with a bit of rope. Onika stared into the flames. Could she see the brightness? Her face was pink, having been burned by walking all day under the sun. Tomorrow Kal would give her his head scarf to protect her skin.

  “The one comes who will seek to end my calling,” she said suddenly, her eyes shifting. “He will not deter me for long.”

  It had been days since Kal had heard Onika prophesy. The power of her voice squeezed his heart. He followed her gaze to the approaching boy, who was but fifty paces out and moving closer.

  “Should I send him away, Onika?” Kal asked. “I won’t allow anyone to harm you.”

  “Trials come to us all, Kalenek Veroth, as you well know.” She stood and crept away from the campfire. Three steps and she stumbled on a clump of sagebrush.

  Grayson popped up and took her arm. “I’ll help you to your bedroll, Onika.”

  The sound of approaching footsteps pulled Kal’s attention to the newcomer.

  “Jhorn! I hoped I’d find you,” the boy said in Kinsman as he stopped before the fire. He was gaunt and greasy with shrewd eyes. His hair was dyed rusty orange and twisted into short locks like a rat’s tail cactus. He looked at Kal, up and down, as if gauging an opponent. “You were at the prison.”

  Jhorn dropped his whittling to his lap and regarded the young man. “Burk, this is Sir Kalenek Veroth. We have him to thank for our freedom.”

  The boy bowed low, his arm sweeping across bony hips. “I thank you, noble knighten. If not for you, we might have died in that pit.”

  “We want no trouble.” Kal set his hand on the hilt of his sword. “What do you want?”

  Burk lifted both hands, his expression all eyes. “Only to travel with you. I can catch wattlelop and squirrels with my sling. Plus I trained for a time with the Rurekan army, so if you give me a sword, I—”

  “Rurekau your home?” Kal asked.

  “I was born there, but I don’t call anyplace home.”

  Kal didn’t want the thief here. He was a fugitive, Onika was wary of him, and Rurekans tended to think they were better than everyone else. But he couldn’t very well turn him away.

  Kal stepped close, chest to nose, and glared down. “Cause trouble and you deal with me. We have no extra bedroll, so you’ll have to make do with dirt.”

  “Making do is my specialty,” Burk said, stepping around Kal to crouch by the fire.

  Grayson returned and glared across the flames at the thief, but Burk either didn’t see the boy or pretended not to.

  Continuing northwest the next day, they met several travelers who claimed Hebron and the Cross Canyon Bridges had fallen in an earthquake. The news silenced all but Grayson.

  “Think Novan made it?” he asked.

  “Should have,” Kal said, uneasy that Onika’s prophecy continued to become reality. Novan was smart. If the bridges were gone, he would have gone south. “We head for the Ebro Tip.”

  They camped that night in an empty cistern. By now Jhorn had carved two canes from cat’s claw branches and used them to vault himself around, sticks and stumps acting like horse hooves in a slow-motion canter. His speed and balance were amazing.

  “How do you do that?” Kal asked.

  “Years of practice,” Jhorn said, inspecting the canes. “These aren’t as comfortable as my old ones. I’ll likely get some blisters.”

  “You should see him with his pegs,” Grayson said. “He can kick a man in the face.”

  “Grayson,” Jhorn admonished.

  But Kal didn’t doubt it.

  They sat around the campfire and ate roasted wattlelop, which Burk had caught. Grayson and Burk told tales of their heroic exploits, each trying to one-up the other. Burk put his arm around Onika’s shoulder and whispered in her ear. Whether by his words, touch, or both, she somehow looked even paler. Kal was about to intervene when Grayson knocked into Burk, separating him from Onika. Grayson took her hand and pulled her up and away to her bedroll. Rustian stayed behind and hissed at Burk.

  Kal was glad to see Onika had plenty of protectors, but the words she had said s
till haunted him. “The one comes who will seek to end my calling . . .” What mischief was Burk going to try, and how might Kal prevent it?

  “Onika is a beautiful woman,” Burk said, still watching her and Grayson.

  “I’ll thank you to keep your hands off her,” Jhorn said. “I don’t need legs to kill a man.”

  Kal liked Jhorn more and more each day.

  Burk forced a laugh. “Like I’d bother with a blind girl. I want a woman who can cook and clean and keep house.”

  “What house?” Kal asked.

  “I’ll have one someday,” Burk said. “A mansion.”

  “Best wait till you have that mansion to be looking for a wife, eh?” Kal walked to the entrance of the cistern to stand watch, eager to cease communications with the pompous child. Burk went to bed, and eventually Jhorn did too. Kal walked above ground to scan the landscape. The moon had waned but still shone bright. He wondered where Novan was, if Wilek was home, what Mielle might be doing, if Amala was in bed yet.

  A yelp brought him to attention. A grunt. The dull thuds of punches.

  Kal ran around the cistern and found Burk pummeling Grayson in the dirt outside. The lad was getting a terrible beating, but he had clamped his teeth onto Burk’s leg like a rabid dog.

  “Enough!” Kal grabbed Burk’s shoulder, Grayson’s arm, and wrenched them apart. Shook them hard. “What are you doing out here?”

  “He threw a stone at me,” Burk said. “Then ran away.”

  “He was bothering Onika,” Grayson said. “Jhorn said it’s my job to protect her.”

  “You couldn’t protect her from a spider,” Burk said. “Besides, I’m not going to hurt her. I like her.”

  “Exactly why she needs protecting,” Grayson said. “And Onika loves me. She told me so.”

  “Like a brother, maybe,” Burk said. “An annoying brother.”

  “Shut up, both of you.” Kal shook them again. “Neither of you has a thing to offer Onika. No sense fighting over a woman who’d never have you.”

  “She’d have me, given time,” Burk said. “I’m good with women.”

  Kal pulled him close; the boy reeked of body odor. “Just you push that thought out of your mind, Burk, you hear? If I catch you anywhere near her, I’ll bury you alive in a box of drice.”