King's Folly

by Jill Williamson

  The boy shrank a little, and Kal felt they finally understood one another. “To bed, the both of you.” He shoved them away.

  Burk stomped back into the cistern.

  But Grayson lingered. “Don’t make me sleep near him, please. He’ll beat me again when you’re not looking.”

  Why had Jhorn, a former soldier, not taught this boy a thing about fighting? At Grayson’s size, Kal had been fearless. Then he remembered the boy’s true age and sobered. “You must learn to fight your own battles.”

  “Jhorn won’t teach me,” Grayson said, his voice forlorn. “Says violence begets violence. But I don’t know what begets means.”

  Kal fought back a smile. “It means to create. He means that violence only creates more violence. And he’s right.” It wasn’t Kal’s place to usurp Jhorn’s authority over the boy. “I’ll give you some advice.”

  “Oh, thank you, Sir Kalenek! You won’t regret it. I’m a fast learner.”

  Oh, this boy . . . “Keep your enemies close,” Kal said. “Get to know Burk, and you’ll learn his weaknesses. He may even confide in you. Then you’ll know how to thwart his plans.”

  Grayson nodded. “Keep him close to thwart his plans. Yes, sir. I will.”

  “Good. Now get some sleep.”

  The next morning they continued south toward Ebro and saw at least two dozen mule deer moving in a herd.

  “Haven’t seen so many travel together before,” Jhorn said. “And never this far north.”

  The deer were not the first animals to cross their path. There were squirrels, jackrabbits, prairie dogs, ossabey, lizards, snakes, dune cats, quail, rats, a torterus . . . even a fang cat that picked a fight with Rustian and lost.

  A dusty cloud bloomed on the horizon. First Kal wondered if there might be a fire, but as they came closer he realized it was dust, not smoke. Foreboding kindled in his gut.

  That afternoon they met a group of travelers who claimed Ebro was blocked off.

  “A quake two nights ago,” the man said. “The ground caved in from the Ebro Tip to the Great Ice Canyon.”

  It couldn’t be. “How wide is the gap?” Kal asked.

  “A league or two, and fifty paces deep. There’s no way to cross.”

  “I’d like to see it,” Kal told Jhorn. He could never believe it otherwise. “We’re nearly there.”

  They continued on, and Kal discovered the travelers had been in earnest. The new canyon looked like any other, except that it was fresh. He recognized the signs of a fall-in from what he had seen in Farway, the way the soil was smooth along the walls but for the river holes that dotted the side. Water gushed from several, making muddy waterfalls.

  “River holes,” Burk said.

  “Not all of them.” Grayson pointed at smaller holes that were either dry or partially caved in. “Those are root holes.”

  “Then where are the roots?” Burk asked.

  “Gone,” Grayson said. “Evenroot tunnels often collapse after being harvested. That’s partly why smugglers pay so much for children to harvest root.”

  “So we turn back?” Jhorn asked.

  Kal pictured a map of the Five Realms in his mind. “If Hebron and the bridges are gone, and Ebro and all of Sarikar are cut off, we have no choice but to head north. We can stop in Lâhaten for supplies. Empress Inolah is a friend of mine. She’ll help us, I’m certain. Then we go on to Jeruka and catch a ship for Everton.”

  “Friends with the empress?” Burk snorted. “Sure you are.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Grayson said to Burk. “Sir Kalenek Veroth is shield to Prince Wilek Hadar, the empress’s brother.”

  “If he’s a shield, what’s he doing in Magonia?” Burk asked.

  “My business is my own,” Kal said. “Our journey has just lengthened, friends. We’re nearly one hundred fifty leagues from Lâhaten. Three weeks, I’d guess.”

  “It might as well be forever!” Burk said. “I didn’t leave Kaptar to die in the desert.”

  “You’re free to go your own way,” Kal said, wishing the boy would.

  “I only hope we have enough time,” Jhorn said.

  “I’m open to other ideas,” Kal said, but he knew there were none.

  “Could we climb down the canyon and cross on the bottom?” Grayson asked.

  Leave it to Grayson to find an actual alternative. “I suppose we could.”

  “I’m not going into the canyons!” Burk yelled. “Barthos will eat us.”

  “I’m not aware of a low enough place to enter the canyon,” Kal said, ignoring the thief. “We could keep watch for one. I’m not opposed to trying to cut across.”

  “We’d still have to find a place to climb up on the other side,” Jhorn said. “And, god or not, something lives in The Grays. I’d rather not be trapped down there when whatever it is feels hungry. Lâhaten would be safest, if we hurry.”

  Kal nodded. “We head for Lâhaten. May the wind be at our backs.”

  Qoatch

  By twilight on the twenty-second day, Priestess Jazlyn’s delegation reached the city of Lâhaten in Rurekau. Its stone buildings stood like soldiers surrounding the fortress. The setting sun caught on the glass windows of Castle Lâhaten and glimmered like orange jewels. In the distance, Mount Lâhat smoked. It had been years since it last blew ash into the sky. The Great Ladies of Tenma all agreed it would soon pour forth again.

  A Kushaw assassin knew ninety-six different ways to kill, and Qoatch had gone over them all on the journey. He had focused on passive ways to fulfill his oath: poison, accidents, or deadly insect bites. It mattered not. He could not kill Jazlyn. He did not want to.

  He hated himself.

  He should have told Duvlid the truth, asked for reassignment. To say nothing . . . He selfishly risked everything so many men had struggled for, for so long.

  As he berated himself, the delegation rode under the city gate. Bald Igote soldiers dressed in brown leather armor with gold accents stood on the wall above, longpole spears in hand. The city was shutting down for the night, but those who were out stopped to stare at the stately procession. Tennish Protectors wore white. Even covered in dust, they looked like demigods compared to the Rurekan commoners.

  They stopped before the gates to the Imperial Quarter. Moaba, Jazlyn’s head Protector, got off his camel to speak with the gatekeeper. The Veil was void of shadir at the moment. Gozan had gone ahead to search the castle, taking his slight and common shadir minions with him.

  It wasn’t long before Jazlyn lost patience. “What’s taking so long? Qoatch, go find out.”

  Qoatch commanded his camel to sit, dismounted, and approached Moaba at the gate. They were speaking Kinsman, which Qoatch knew well.

  “We will not be put off,” Moaba was saying. “This is an insult to the Great Lady.”

  “I have my orders,” the gatekeeper said. “No foreigners allowed in the Imperial Quarter without Emperor Nazer’s approval.”

  “Then send for it,” Moaba said.

  The gatekeeper’s gaze fell on Qoatch. His eyes popped wide as he took in Qoatch’s attire. “Sands! Who are you supposed to be?”

  “This is Qoatch,” Moaba said, “eunuch slav to our Sixth Great Lady.”

  The gatekeeper and the two guards behind him snickered.

  Qoatch had received such reactions from foreign men before. Many found eunuchs pitifully amusing. Others merely laughed at his uniform, which was a long white kasah skirt, a bare chest, and the pelt of a fang cat tied over one shoulder. At least he wasn’t forced to shave his head like these common soldiers.

  “A messenger rode ahead to announce our arrival,” Qoatch said. “Did he come here?”

  “His scroll was taken to the emperor’s attendants, but he wasn’t admitted.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “How should I know where the man took hisself? Now get! You won’t change my mind.”

  Qoatch walked back to Jazlyn. Gozan and his followers had returned, clouding the Veil as they swarmed arou
nd the Great Lady.

  “Well?” she demanded. “Speak, eunuch.”

  “The gatekeeper has orders to let no one inside the Imperial Quarter,” Qoatch said. “I do not understand the emperor’s reason for snubbing you. He is either extremely rude or hiding something.”

  “He insults you,” Gozan said. “You will need to use magic to get inside, perhaps kill several guards.”

  “I am tired,” Jazlyn said. “Have my girls do it, Qoatch.”

  Qoatch said nothing. Simply remained in place, head bowed.

  “I gather you disagree, eunuch. Answer, then.”

  “These people see magic rarely, Great Lady. Seize this opportunity to show your strength. Let them fear you, not your servants.”

  Jazlyn stared at the gate, passive. Qoatch hoped she wouldn’t punish him for offering advice. She waved to her guards. “Get these people out of my way!”

  Qoatch cleared a path for the priestess, whose camel pranced behind him, head held high. Gozan flew at her side, invisible to all but the mantics and Qoatch.

  Jazlyn shouted down in Kinsman from her great height, voice magically magnified by Gozan. “Open the gates!”

  The gatekeeper trembled but still denied her. “I cannot, lady.”

  “Then I shall do so myself.” Jazlyn thrust her palm forward. Gozan flew toward the guard, picked him up, and carried him through the air. The guard screamed, oblivious that he was being carried. Gozan slammed the man’s back against the gates and held him there. The great shadir had the power to make the man fly without touching him, but Gozan liked to play with humans. To the common eye the guard’s body hung suspended in the middle of the iron doors.

  “Put me down!” he yelled.

  Jazlyn nudged her camel forward a step. “If you wish it.”

  Gozan pushed the man into the gates. Hinges creaked. The doors parted slightly. Light from the sunset spilled through, slowly growing as the breach widened. The guard’s back sank into the gap, causing his arms to extend out in front like he was trying and failing to touch his toes. His leather armor scraped against the iron until, in one great rush, Gozan pushed him through and out of sight. The doors yawned open. Jazlyn waved her guards forward.

  Two by two the delegation from Tenma passed into the Imperial Quarter. Qoatch ran back to his camel and mounted, quickly taking his place behind Jazlyn.

  Inside the gates a wide stone path ran under a looming archway to Castle Lâhaten. The path soon was the scene of a battle between the white-clad Tennish Protectors and the Imperial Guard of the Emperor.

  “Imbeciles.” Jazlyn murmured a command to Gozan. The shadir blew into the melee, appearing to humans as a sudden gust of wind surging forward. It picked up the Rurekan Igote. The Protectors fell back, staring at their enemies, who were now suspended in air by the force of Gozan’s power and Jazlyn’s desire.

  “Your hospitality is abominable,” Jazlyn shouted. “I could crush each of your skulls with the snap of my fingers. I ask nothing more but for you to announce my arrival to your disobliging emperor. Do so now.”

  Gozan released the Igote, who dropped to the ground with thuds of leather-clad bodies against stone.

  Jazlyn urged her camel under the arch. It stopped in front of the castle entrance and she ordered it to sit. Several attendants scurried from the vestibule and stood in a line.

  Qoatch stopped his camel beside Jazlyn’s, hoping this was the end of the disrespect toward his Great Lady. Her eyes were ringed gray, her skin had begun to wrinkle, and her hair, once black, was now streaked with gray. She had drained herself and must purge soon to find rejuvenation. Qoatch felt responsible. He should not have suggested she use magic when fatigued.

  A short man stepped forward. “Welcome, weary travelers. I have sent word of your arrival to the emperor. I hope to hear his instructions soon.”

  “Must I destroy you all?” Jazlyn yelled.

  “We have traveled a long way,” Qoatch told the man, knowing Jazlyn had no more magic in her. “The Great Lady would like to rest before meeting with the emperor.”

  “Any moment and I’m sure we will have our answer,” the man said.

  “Set up my umbrella and altar mat,” Jazlyn demanded.

  Qoatch did as asked. He instructed the slavs to erect the umbrella shade just outside the front doors, where it would be most inconvenient. He bade them hang a curtain around the umbrella to give Jazlyn privacy to conduct her sacred ritual. Once her cushions had been arranged, Qoatch led her inside and helped her sit. Her face was lined and pallid. Her girls began fanning her with palm leaves. The altar mat lay at her feet, ignored. She had done too much too quickly. Curse Gozan, anyway, for riling her so.

  Qoatch unrolled her mat. “I would be pleased to prepare my Great Lady a drink or something to eat,” he said aloud, technically to no one.

  “Chalabba,” Jazlyn whispered, “with two doses of root. And some peres.”

  She should wait before taking more root, but she would never heed his cautions. Qoatch prepared the chalabba himself, pouring the frothy drink made from camel’s milk, spices, and rock sugar into the jar and carefully adding two doses of evenroot.

  He could kill her now. Ten doses should be enough.

  The thought came unbidden, deep from his years of training. He pushed it away and fixed the drink properly. She devoured it and the fruit, then knelt on her altar mat to purge the evenroot poison to Gozan. Jazlyn was resting when word arrived from Emperor Nazer.

  “The emperor has offered your priestess a place in his castle,” the short man told Qoatch. “The rest of you must take rooms outside the Imperial Quarter.”

  “The Great Lady’s Protectors will not abandon her,” Qoatch said.

  “Her quarters have two adjoining rooms,” the man said. “She may bring as many guards as she can stuff inside. Emperor Nazer has also invited her to dinner in the great hall tonight, where she will have the opportunity to state her business.”

  “The Great Lady would prefer a private meeting with the emperor,” Qoatch said.

  Jazlyn stepped out from her makeshift tent, looking herself again, though tired. “Never mind that. Qoatch, have Moaba choose five Protectors for each room. You and my girls will sleep in my chambers. Send everyone else to wait in the city until I send word. And you . . .” She approached the short man, whose eyes widened as he took in her beauty. “Lead me to my chambers immediately.”

  “Of course, Great Lady.” The man bowed and scrambled into the vestibule, Jazlyn behind him. A green-and-brown cloud that was Gozan materialized suddenly and drifted in her wake. Jazlyn would mend fully.

  Qoatch gave the necessary orders to the rest of the contingent, then followed his Great Lady inside.

  Inolah

  Inolah was lying in bed, praying to the God, when a parade of servants entered her chambers. Two men carrying a tub, another three with buckets of steamy water, and two maids—one carrying a gown, the other a tray of jewels and Inolah’s crown.

  “What’s this?” Inolah asked, sitting up.

  “An emissary from Tenma has arrived,” one of the maids said. “The emperor has asked that you bathe and dress. He’d like you to eat dinner with the emissary in the great hall.”

  An emissary? “Why has she come?”

  “I know not, lady.”

  Always the servants were so polite. “The emperor has asked . . . The emperor would like . . .” Inolah knew better. Her husband had demanded. He had ordered. And he expected to be obeyed.

  Perhaps if Inolah could befriend this Tennish woman, she and her children could ride with the emissary when she left. From one of the Tennish ports, Inolah might book passage on a ship to Armania and be home in a month. She could have her baby at home with her mother.

  The prospect so thrilled her that she climbed from her bed and started to undress.

  The dining hall was shaped like a quarter circle that reminded Inolah of the shells she had collected from Seacrest as a girl. The entrance came in on the lowest level,
in the center of the widest arc. Ten levels had been built along the arc, each a step higher than the last and growing narrower as they ascended. All were filled with tables. The top level belonged to the emperor and his heirs.

  Nazer had not yet arrived, but Ulrik stood behind his chair, arguing with a Tennish priestess. Oh dear. Inolah needed to get the woman down a level before the emperor arrived. She hurried up the aisle and found that her son was applying himself to that very task.

  “In Rurekau, women sit below the men, Priestess,” Ulrik said firmly.

  “I will not sit below men,” the priestess replied in accented Kinsman. She was a stunning woman who couldn’t be much more than twenty years old. Dressed in a shimmering white gown embroidered with gemstones of every color, her red-tinted skin and gold-and-pearl diadem marked her a mantic priestess. Her eyes were large, her lips full, and they showed immense displeasure.

  “I have told you, lady, there is no seat for you here,” Ulrik said. “Must I call the guards to remove you?”

  “You dare threaten me?” the priestess said. “If this were Tenma, I’d make you a eunuch.”

  Ulrik smirked. “My talents would be wasted as a eunuch, Great Lady.”

  The priestess’s nostrils flared. “Impudent, hairless child!”

  “Ulrik,” Inolah said, before the woman could cast a spell to destroy her son where he stood. She would berate him later for his terrible manners.

  Ulrik flushed when he saw Inolah. “Mother! Good. Deal with this woman.” He took his seat, dismissing them both.

  Inolah smiled wide. “I am Empress Inolah. You are the emissary from Tenma?”

  The woman looked her over, eyes narrowing at Inolah’s pregnant belly. “Priestess Jazlyn, the Sixth Great Lady,” she said.

  “I would be honored, Priestess, if you would dine at my table. Only the emperor’s table sits above mine. Surely that is understandable?” She motioned to the second-highest level. It was twice as long as the emperor’s and, along with Inolah and her daughter, sat the emperor’s harem and his illegitimate daughters. It also sat above the rest of the hall.