King's Folly

by Jill Williamson

  “Excellent, Your Highness,” Kal said. “Say nothing of our plan. I will suggest the guards move you and your mother to the library to keep you safe from the mantic. Once we are there, I’ll attack the guards. When we’re fighting, you must lead everyone to the secret door. Can you do this?”

  “Sure I can. I know just how to—”

  “We must hurry, Your Highness. Shall I carry you or would you rather walk?”

  “I can walk. I’m almost a man, so my father says.”

  “He is right to say so. You’ve been very brave.”

  Ferro beamed and tugged Kal by the hand toward the door. “I want to see my mother now.”

  “I live to serve.” Kal approached the doors and banged with his fist. “It’s the commander. Open up.”

  The doors opened to a wall of wide-eyed guards.

  Kal shoved through, pulling Ferro along. “I’m taking the boy to his mother.”

  “But the emperor said—”

  “The emperor would want him far from the mantic witch.” Kal walked on. Bootsteps pattered after him. No one argued.

  Back in the main hall the number of guards seemed to have doubled. Kal made it through half the men before anyone noticed who he was walking with.

  “He’s got Prince Ferro!” said one.

  Surprisingly, no one tried to take the boy. The crowd parted, and he and Prince Ferro walked easily up to the guards surrounding Inolah and Ulrik.

  “Ferro!” Inolah pushed through the guards and embraced her son.

  Glad of the helmet, Kal hoped she would not recognize his voice when he said, “The emperor wants his family away from the mantic. We’re to move them to the library, where they’ll be safe until the witch is captured.”

  The guards seized Inolah, Ulrik, and Ferro by the arms and dragged them down the hallway and through another set of gold-leaf doors.

  Kal passed into the library and raised his hands to stop any other Igote from entering. “The emperor said there were rebels in the castle who were trying to help the empress escape,” he said. “They’ll say anything to get into this room. Guard this door from the outside, and keep the rebels away at all costs.”

  “Yes, Commander,” a guard said, and he pulled the doors shut.

  Hopefully that would buy them some time. Kal examined the doors. No way to lock them. He would have to move quickly.

  Qoatch

  Qoatch ran back to the shattered stone wall and stepped into the dining room. Jazlyn stood beside Gozan, who still held the emperor in his fist. The other shadir were gone. The end of the dining room no longer had a roof. Guards stood clustered in the doorway, several dead bodies piled up before them. Out the window, smoke hung above the city like a thunderstorm. Jazlyn had been busy. Her face was gray and wrinkled, her hair white. She had little strength left.

  The emperor was blathering, his face covered in tears and snot. “I’ll take no more women from your realm. I’ll give back those I’ve taken. I’ll send men to you. You can—”

  “It is too late for you, mighty emperor,” she said. “Life is more blessing than you deserve.”

  “Don’t kill me! My people will be lost without me. I am this city.”

  “Then you can join it.” Priestess Jazlyn chanted a long string of mantic words. Gozan carried the emperor out to the shattered bay windows and set him down.

  Hunched and trembling, the emperor asked, “What are you going to do?”

  But Jazlyn was still speaking her spell.

  “What are you saying?” the emperor yelled.

  Gozan thrust his hands at Nazer’s feet. The balcony, which was made of stone, began to soften.

  The emperor’s feet sank slowly. He yelped, tried to lift one leg, then the other, failing both times.

  The soft mixture grew over his feet, turning his ankles to gray stone that crept slowly up his legs and hardened at mid-thigh.

  “No!” Nazer squatted, tried to scrape away the stone. “Stop this at once!”

  “You claim to be part of this city,” Jazlyn said. “I have made it so. Watch your city burn until you burn with it.”

  Emperor Nazer reached for her, cursing her name, but she stood just outside his grasp. She shouted spell after spell in the ancient language. Qoatch understood none of it. Out the broken bay windows he saw the other shadir had returned. At their touch, buildings fell and gardens withered. In the distance, a new smoke cloud shot from the mountain like steam from a kettle.

  Qoatch came to stand on his lady’s left, where he could see the ground below. People ran from the crumbling structures, screaming. One man staggered from the garden shed, covered in blood. A dog stood over a fallen child, barking, a shadir pulling on its ears. Out in the open spaces the people of Lâhaten stood staring in wonder at the smoking mountain.

  Jazlyn’s eyes were ringed with withered gray skin. Her cheeks were sallow. She was dying, and in her anger could not even feel it. “Great Lady,” Qoatch said softly. “Take care of your strength. I fear the haze will take you.”

  “I have strength enough with Gozan beside me. Did you see how his swarm brought fire from the mountain? He is truly the most powerful shadir in all the Five Realms.” She swiped her hand through the air, and the slights sent a group of servants flying into the stable wall. Another motion brought liquid fire up from the mouth of the mountain. It slid slowly, menacingly toward the city.

  “The emperor has wronged you,” Qoatch said, “but must his people die too?”

  Jazlyn turned to him, eyes ablaze. A muttered “Athah” turned him visible. “Contradict me again and you will join them.”

  So Qoatch remained silent and watched his Great Lady and her shadir destroy Lâhaten.

  Kalenek

  Only three guards had remained inside the library. Kal would need help to defeat them. He glanced at Prince Ulrik, wondering if the young man could fight. He hated to put Inolah and her unborn child in the path of a sword, but the guards had been ordered not to harm the royal family. She should be safe.

  “You men, check the windows,” Kal said. “Make sure they’re secured.”

  Two of the guards crossed the room. Kal approached the third, knowing he might have to kill this time. The thought made his fingers tingle.

  Voices rose outside the door.

  “Let me into the library at once,” a man said.

  “No one enters,” said another. “My orders are from the emperor.”

  “There is an impostor in there!”

  Kal needed to hurry. When the two guards reached the windows, Kal asked the third, “Is there any other way out of this room?”

  “I don’t believe so, sir.”

  “Good.” Kal struck a hard punch to the guard’s face while he disarmed him. The guard stumbled. “Nola!” Kal tossed the guard’s sword to Inolah and drew his own. The moment he raised it to the guard, who was pushing back to his feet, Kal’s hand went numb and he dropped the weapon. “Five Woes!” He growled and kicked his sword toward the prince. “Prince Ulrik!”

  The guards at the window rushed Inolah, who faced them, sword in hand, gods help her. Prince Ulrik scooped up Kal’s blade and went to join his mother.

  Kal tackled his guard. They hit the floor and squirmed over the wood, stopping partly under a table. The violence took Kal back in time. His enemy rolled on top and punched him. Kal bashed his head against the man’s temple while he used his left hand to pull his knife. He rammed the blade between the side laces that held the man’s leather armor in place. The man croaked, his glassy eyes pinched, and he slid off Kal to the floor.

  Kal’s mind went blank. He lay on his back under a table, paralyzed, metal clanking somewhere above. A helmet on his head . . . He pulled it off. One thought emerged. The helmet was Rurekan.

  “Surrender your sword if you refuse to fight,” a woman said.

  “I cannot do that, Empress,” a man answered.

  Inolah. Kal came to his senses. He scrambled out from under the table and took stock of the room. Princ
e Ulrik had wounded his man. Inolah’s guard had his back to Kal. Inolah looked furious, jabbing and stabbing while the guard merely defended himself and dodged her blows.

  Something banged outside the doors. Kal looked for Ferro and found the prince in the corner of the room, watching and waiting, a narrow door open behind him.

  Good boy. A moment more and they could escape. Kal reached for his sword. Gone. His knife was stuck inside the man he had killed. He had to use his left hand to pull it out since his right was still limp and useless. Arman, why? Onika had said this was the God’s doing. Would the God let Inolah and her children die?

  A heavy grunt drew Kal’s attention. Inolah’s guard crumpled, fingers grasping a line of blood blossoming across his throat. Seconds later the prince finished his man with a stab to his chest.

  “Well done, Ulrik,” Inolah said.

  The elder prince picked up his opponent’s sword and tucked it and Kal’s blade under his arm. “We must hurry.” He pulled his mother toward the secret door, slowing when he passed Kal. Narrowed eyes took in Kal’s hair and scars.

  “Kalenek.” Inolah was staring too. “This is my brother Wilek’s shield,” she told Ulrik.

  “Hello, Princess,” Kal said. “We did not know you were expecting another child.”

  “Nazer will not send my letters,” Inolah said, palming her belly. “He is keeping me prisoner in my own—”

  “There will be time to catch up later,” Prince Ulrik said, slipping through the doorway. He kept hold of his mother’s wrist, pulling her after him.

  She paused in the doorway and said to Kal, “I’m Empress here, you know.” She grinned and ducked in after her son.

  Kal went back and grabbed the sword from the guard Inolah had killed. At least his fingers were working again. Behind him the doors slammed open. A dead guard fell inside the room, followed by the real city commander from the outhouse, still in his underclothes.

  “Stop them!” he yelled.

  Kal ran to the secret door, squeezed inside, and looked for a latch. “How do you close this?” He peered into the darkness on each side of the corridor and saw no one.

  “Above your head!” Inolah yelled.

  Kal dropped the sword and fumbled overhead. The guards were coming. His fingers found a dangling string, which he pulled so hard it snapped.

  But the door fell shut.

  Outside someone slammed against it. Pounded. The movement shook the entire wall.

  The door remained closed.

  Someone grabbed Kal’s arm. “Come, Kalenek!” Inolah.

  He crouched, found the sword at his feet. “How can you see?”

  “I cannot, but I have taken this route before.”

  A distant boom shook the castle.

  Inolah gasped. “That woman. We must hurry.”

  Kal had no argument there. “I live to serve, Princess—sorry, Empress.”

  “I prefer Princess.”

  Kal grinned as he crept along behind her. “As do I, Your Highness.”

  They emerged in the Open Quarter beneath a billowing cloud of gray smoke that made it dark as night, though it couldn’t yet be midday. An orange glow reflected off the bottom of the clouds near the mountain. The air crackled with heat and ash. People were dashing everywhere at once—merchants, guards, and commoners, howling at one another, at no one—all running toward the North Gates.

  “Something burns!” Prince Ulrik yelled.

  “She has awakened the mountain,” Inolah said. “We must hurry!”

  “She who?” asked Kal.

  “Priestess Jazlyn of Tenma,” Prince Ulrik said. “My father insulted her.”

  She must be dry by now, though. No mantic could last this long.

  Inolah led the way down one filthy alley after another to avoid the frenzied horde scrambling for the North Gate. Ash continued to rain down, and Kal pulled his tunic up over his mouth and nose.

  They reached an inn. The attached stables had been abandoned—most of the horses taken—but they found three cow-hocked workhorses and saddled them. Inolah mounted and Kal handed Prince Ferro up to her. Ulrik returned Kal’s sword and climbed on the second horse.

  “Which way from here?” Inolah asked.

  “To the East Gate.” Kal sheathed his own blade and kept the extra guard’s sword in hand. “The North is closer but likely overrun. We will reach the Nindera road faster if we head east now. I have companions waiting there.”

  “Lead on,” Inolah said.

  Kal mounted the third horse and set off against a tide of chaos. The horse could do no more than walk around people hauling carts filled with all they owned, pushing, shoving, and trampling each other. Behind Kal, fire climbed from the mountain into the sky on ropes of smoke.

  Inolah screamed. A man was pulling her off the horse. Kal rode alongside and bashed the pommel of the guard’s sword against the man’s head. The man fell into the flow of people. So did Kal’s sword, his hand limp. Kal roared, weaving his horse hard left and right through the crowd to make a path. He wanted out of this city. Now.

  “This way!” Ulrik called, turning down another alley. He’d found yet another twist of near-empty backstreets and soon exited just south of the East Gate, where a much smaller group of people was flowing from the city.

  Once they passed through the gates, Kal kicked his horse into a gallop. They rode hard, due east. Overhead, the darkness spread above and blocked the daylight.

  A league or so later the ground rocked with the roar of a thousand sand cats. A pulse of wind shoved them from behind. Kal slowed to a stop and looked back.

  The mountaintop had exploded yet again. Tendrils of fiery smoke spiraled out like curling ribbons. Rivers of fire swelled down the sides of Mount Lâhat, surging toward the city in a flood of liquid fire. Kal stared in horrified wonder. Sour fear pooled in his throat.

  It couldn’t be possible.

  “We should keep moving!” Ulrik yelled.

  Right. Kal pulled away from the devastation—from prophecy fulfilled. There had been earthquakes, sinksand, floods, and now this: fire from the mountains.

  The fourth of the Five Woes.

  Trevn

  Barek Hadar, Duke of Odarka, kept a stone mansion on High Street for when he visited Everton. Trevn had spent little time in this area of the city. The houses were so grand and the estates so vast, he couldn’t jump from one roof to the next. Besides, most of the people who lived here spent more time at court than in their own homes. If Trevn wanted to see one of them, he could usually find them at the castle.

  A manservant ushered Trevn and Cadoc to a cozy sitting room on the first level, where the duke was already waiting. He was average height with squashed features and Father Tomek’s eyes. He stood and bowed.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Duke,” Trevn said.

  “Your Highness, you honor me, the island of Odarka, House Barek, and all of High Street with your presence. Do sit down. Can I offer you anything?”

  Trevn sat on the proffered chair. It was soft and oddly resembled a throne. “Nothing but privacy.” He glanced at the servants.

  The duke waved them away, all but Cadoc, who remained by the door. He sat across from Trevn on a noticeably smaller chair. Was the man trying to flatter him? Or was Trevn reading meaning where there was none?

  “The official report from the palace physician is that your father died from natural causes,” Trevn said.

  “Yes, I saw the report,” the duke said.

  “The report was false. Your father was poisoned. I was with him when he died.”

  “I figured as much,” the duke said. “He had powerful enemies.”

  As Trevn well knew. “He told me to come to you, and so I have.”

  “I admit, we did not expect you to,” the duke said. “Father was never certain where your loyalties lay.”

  “Did he think me a traitor?”

  “Nothing like that. He wasn’t certain about your faith. Which gods you served, if any. It’s common knowl
edge that you openly disdain adherence to any standard of belief or tradition for the sake of it. But what a man does and professes with his mouth is sometimes different from what he believes in his heart.”

  Trevn had never served any of the gods, had always made a point of ignoring them. “And Father Tomek hoped I followed Arman?”

  “He did. He also wasn’t certain where you stood on the Heir War.”

  “I thought that obvious. Everyone knows Janek and I don’t get along.”

  “People believe it an act. Rumors say your backman is well established in Sâr Janek’s retinue. And Sâr Janek’s concubines claim that you may summon them at will. With Sâr Wilek missing, Sâr Janek is raising a great deal of support. It’s suspected your father might declare him Heir.”

  “Before knowing whether or not Wilek is dead?”

  “Wars are anything but fair, Your Highness.”

  Trevn supposed that was true. “Father Tomek wanted me to choose a side. Publicly?”

  “He hoped you would. He left a letter for you, should you come to call.” The duke stood and walked to the hearth, removing a scroll from the mantel. He crossed the room and handed it to Trevn. Trevn unrolled it and read.

  Sâr Trevn,

  If you have come to my son, the situation is dire. Years ago Rosârah Laviel conspired with Rôb priests to murder all the Armanite priests in our realm. I am speaking of the Great Priest Scourge of 865 that we studied together. My mentor was one of those killed. There was so much more I hoped to teach you about Arman. Now I must leave that to the God himself.

  Because I was a sâr, privately tutoring you in Sarikar, my faith escaped the notice of Rosârah Laviel and the Rôb priests. I had hoped that yours would as well. But if you are reading this, the priests have discovered me and grown suspicious of you. They will find a way to test you. Be wary! They will do all they can to ascertain which god you serve.

  You are well aware of the factions fighting over whether Sâr Wilek or Sâr Janek will inherit the throne upon your father’s death. It was always my hope that you would advise Sâr Wilek in the days to come, that you might present Arman as the Only God. I know I ask a lot, that you are uncertain in matters of faith. I charge you to study this matter until you determine the truth for yourself.