King's Folly

by Jill Williamson

  Charlon’s fear stabbed through him. She could feel him leaving. He saw her then, in his mind. She was kneeling on her mat, casting a spell on herself. One that would remove her fear.

  Sands, she was beautiful. The idea of leaving her seized his heart. “Wait!” He stopped running of his own accord. “There is a woman.”

  “It’s a Magonian camp, man. There are a lot of women.”

  “But only one that did this.” Wilek held up his palm bearing the rune. “She is wearing a necklace with this same mark. I need it to be free.”

  “Someone soul-bound you? Where’s this crow?”

  “In her tent. The maidens usually rest before the evening repast.”

  “’Course they do, precious lambs.” Rand turned back to the rock face. The two black-clad men were a few dozen paces behind. “Hey!” he yelled. “Fetch us a woman called . . . ?” He glanced at Wilek.

  “Charlon,” Wilek said.

  “Charlon! Bring her to camp. Don’t get killed.”

  The men started back up the rocks. Rand and Wilek continued on. Ten more steps and Wilek’s knees locked. He had to start dragging his legs one at a time. Rand hefted Wilek over his shoulder and carried him. Wilek writhed, trying to get down. Pain stabbed through his neck, cold and deep. He gritted his teeth and fought the urge to scream.

  “It would be easier if you stopped thrashing about,” Rand said.

  Wilek made a sound like a dying buck.

  “Woe-bound crows,” Rand muttered. “Nothing I hate worse than compulsions.”

  Wilek continued to fight the magic while the magic fought Rand. Fear from Charlon suddenly gripped him. The black-clad men had found her. Struck her. Wilek kicked Rand so hard in the back that the man dropped him. Desperate to keep Charlon safe, Wilek scrambled away, sprinting toward the Magonian camp. Until something bashed against his head.

  He tripped, fell to his hands and knees, dazed.

  “All right, Wil? Tried to go easy.” Rand heaved him over his shoulder again. “Got to be some trick to head-bashing I never learned.”

  Wilek floated away on a flurry of icy wind. He smelled a horse. They were galloping over a darkening prairie. The compulsion snatched at him with icy fingers but found no purchase on his addled mind.

  Sometime later voices pulled him back to focus.

  “Where are the others?” a man asked.

  “Right behind, should be.” Rand slung Wilek off the horse and into the arms of another. “Get Teaka over here. The rest of you, bind him to that tree. Cursed crows compelled and soul-bound the poor slig. See if you can find him some real clothes too.”

  A bit later, intense pain cleared Wilek’s vision. It felt like someone was carving out his brain. He had gone too far from the Magonian camp. Did the pain increase the farther he went? Would it kill him?

  The sky was charcoal gray, just light enough to display the shapes of several tents in the distance. A bonfire glowed fiercely and cast light over the occasional nomad who wandered past. They had tied Wilek to a squat whitethorn tree on the outskirts of their camp. Rand and a man closer to Wilek’s age paced around the tree.

  “You said I was going home,” Wilek said, breathing through his teeth.

  “Welcome back, Wil.” Rand crouched before him. “It’s these woe-bound crows. Hate them. Always have. Never liked anyone who thinks they’re better than the rest of us.”

  Sands, Wilek’s head hurt. “Then you cannot much care for a sâr.”

  “Don’t,” Rand said, waggling his eyebrows. “Care for my coffers, though, and they’ve been light of late. Earthquakes have people scared. Not much need for mercenaries when you’re too frightened to get out of bed.”

  Wilek could understand that. “But the Omatta hates the monarchies. You cannot be that desperate.”

  The younger man chuckled. “Got you there, Father.”

  “My son, Meelo,” Rand said, nodding at the younger man. “But you’re right, Wil. The one who’s paying your ransom is an old friend. So, despite your being royal spawn, his wish is good enough for me.”

  “Who is this person?” Wilek asked.

  “Rayim Veralla,” Rand said. “We were boys together before he went into training.”

  Rayim! “Captain Veralla friends with Randmuir Khal of the Omatta? I never would have guessed that,” Wilek said.

  “Shows how clever a sâr is, doesn’t it?” Rand said. “Ah, here they come.”

  Two more men ushered an old woman over to Wilek. She was so slight she might have been mistaken for an adolescent girl if not for her white hair and lined skin. She walked with her arms out to the side as if trying to keep her balance.

  One of the men dropped a pile of clothing and pair of boots beside Wilek.

  “Thank you,” Wilek said, though he couldn’t very well dress while tied to a tree.

  The other man spread a leather mat on the ground before Wilek and set a bowl on the end. A pale lizard was curled inside it.

  “Who is this?” Wilek said, suddenly nervous, thinking of Mreegan’s lizard.

  “My mother, Teaka. Grew up in Magonia,” Rand said. “She’s going to undo the spells they put on you.”

  Thank the gods. Maybe she could stop the pain. “Why the lizard?”

  “That’s Errp,” Rand said. “Mother’s pet. He’s a letaha newt, not a lizard.”

  Newt? Strange that both Teaka and Chieftess Mreegan had a pet newt.

  Teaka leaned close to Wilek and sniffed. She ran her finger over a scratch on his cheek, examined the spot of blood that came away, smelled it. She hobbled back to her bowl and wiped the blood inside the basin, knelt on the altar mat. The newt slithered out of the basin and onto her knee.

  A ragged scream rent Wilek’s heart. Charlon! He twisted to look beyond the tree. The black-clad duo approached on horseback, one holding a struggling woman over his lap.

  Wilek tried to stand, pulling against the ropes that bound him. “Don’t hurt her!”

  “Calm, Wil,” Rand said. “It’s only her magic making you worry.”

  It was. But that knowledge didn’t take away his fear.

  The man pushed Charlon off his saddle into Meelo’s arms, which made her scream louder. Meelo set her on her feet but kept hold of her wrist.

  “Don’t!” She elbowed him and spat in his face. “Let go of me!”

  Meelo simply grinned, leaving her spit glistening on his cheek. “When you’re through with her, Father, I want her.”

  “No!” Wilek and Charlon yelled together.

  Rand snapped his fingers and pointed at Wilek. “Put her over here.”

  Meelo pushed Charlon down on Wilek’s lap. She slid to the ground and stood, rocking from one foot to the other. “Let us go.”

  “So you can order the sâr to attack us?” Rand said. “Why don’t you sit down.”

  The black-clad men dismounted and drew their swords. Charlon knelt beside Wilek, leaving a hand’s breadth between them. Her nearness lessened the pain in his head.

  “Get free,” she whispered. “Help us escape.”

  Her command swelled inside, and Wilek strained against his bonds.

  Rand growled. “Fight it, Wil. You know this is her magic.”

  Fight. Wilek whimpered and curled his head to his knees but was unable to stop tugging at his bindings.

  “How you coming along, Ma?” Rand asked.

  “Almost,” the old woman said.

  “What is she doing?” Charlon asked, seeming to notice Teaka for the first time.

  “Undoing, crow,” Rand said. “She’s undoing your spells.”

  “No!” Charlon yelled. “Don’t take him from me. I mustn’t fail.” Charlon scrambled toward Teaka, pleading with her to leave the magic in place. Meelo stepped in her way, and Charlon drew back.

  Teaka continued muttering without even a glance toward Charlon. In a sudden rush of warmth, the compulsion broke and the pain vanished.

  Wilek gasped, shocked at how light he felt. “It’s gone. The compulsion i
s gone!”

  “Untie him,” Rand said.

  The men removed Wilek’s ropes. He stood and massaged his hands. The warmth was already coming back, but he was still cold within.

  “What of the soul-binding?” he asked.

  Teaka shook her head. “Not without knowing which spirit powered it. I must question the mantic who cast the spell.”

  “She did.” Wilek gestured to Charlon. “She wrapped our hands with the twine of that pendant.” Wilek pointed at the charm that hung around Charlon’s neck.

  Teaka’s beady eyes locked onto Charlon. “You have your own shadir, girl? What’s its name?”

  Charlon lifted her chin. “Magon.”

  The woman cackled. “Magon serve you?” She shook her head and told Wilek, “She won’t tell us the truth.”

  “But she did,” Wilek said. “That’s the shadir’s name. I’ve heard her say it.”

  “A great shadir would not bond with one so small,” Teaka said. “Take the pendant, at least. You’ll be safer in possession of it until you can find out the real name of her shadir.”

  Wilek spun around and grabbed for the necklace, but Charlon ran. Meelo and his companions gave chase. Moments later her shrieks pierced the night and her irrational terror stabbed Wilek. He shook it away, reassured himself that she was fine. No one would hurt her. While he waited, he pulled on the trousers and boots, which were both a little large, then untied his kasah skirt and dropped it in a heap. Good riddance. He was just pulling on the tunic when they dragged Charlon back. Her eyes rolled with terror as she thrashed against the men’s hold. Gods, what had happened to make her so afraid to be touched?

  Wilek braced himself against the tree, fighting her fear. This needed to end. The moment she was near enough, he lurched toward her and ripped the pendant from her throat.

  She went limp in the men’s arms; they nearly dropped her. Had Wilek killed her by taking the pendant?

  But no. She suddenly squirmed out of their hold, crawled between Meelo’s legs, and sprinted away. She had been faking. Again the men gave chase, and a few minutes later they dragged her back, crippling Wilek anew with her terror.

  “Let her stand on her own,” Wilek said. “She hates being touched.”

  “She hasn’t given me much chance,” Meelo said. “I think she’d like—”

  “Hands off!” Rand yelled.

  The men backed away from Charlon, which lightened the fear in Wilek’s chest. He lifted the pendant between them. “If I break this, will it end the spell?”

  “Don’t!” Charlon said.

  “Breaking it will bind you forever,” Teaka said. “You must have the token to attempt a soul-loosing. And no mantic will perform it without knowing what type of shadir powered the spell.”

  Figured. Wilek put on the necklace and tucked the pendant into his new tunic. He would keep it safe until he could undo the magic. “Tie her up. She comes back to Everton with me. And remember, whatever happens to her happens to me. I’ll know if you so much as look at her too much.”

  “Royalty . . .” Meelo took hold of Charlon’s arm and dragged her away. Charlon shrieked. Wilek gritted his teeth, waiting for it to be over.

  “Feel better?” Rand asked.

  “I will once they stop touching—” A shard of terror stabbed his throat, and he yelled.

  In the darkness something exploded in a tiny cloud of orange flames. Rand and his men sprinted toward it. Wilek followed, peaceful now that he knew Charlon had escaped.

  Five Woes! She escaped?

  Rand and Wilek pushed through a huddle of men to where Meelo sat on his knees, holding his face in his hands and keening.

  “What happened?” Rand asked. “Where’s the girl?”

  “Meelo kissed her,” one of the black-clad men said. “She said some magic word, and his face melted.”

  “What’s that crow done to you?” Rand wrenched Meelo’s hands away from his face. A gasp rose around them. The man’s lips were gone, shriveled into two lines of raisin-like skin that bared his teeth in a perpetual snarl. His teeth were coated in blood, which dripped down his chin in a streak, as if he’d taken a bite of a living creature.

  “She dares disfigure my son?” Rand stared into the dark toward the Magonian camp, his face pinched with a venomous look. “I’ll kill the witches. All of them!”

  Meelo covered his mouth and ran off into the night.

  No one spoke or moved. Wilek kept his gaze averted from Rand, uncertain what he might do in his anger. But the man suddenly rubbed his face and sighed. “I’m starving. Let’s get some food.”

  Wilek followed Rand into camp, his thoughts fixed on Charlon. He could feel her intent to return to the Magonian camp. She was frightened. Worried how Mreegan would react to her losing him.

  Wilek sat with Rand beside the bonfire and ate dry bread and meat in silence. Throughout his meal, Wilek struggled to rationalize his way out of making plans to rescue Charlon from the Magonians.

  Teaka came and sat beside her son. “I cannot help Meelo if he hides from me,” she said.

  “He’s sulking,” Rand said. “Knows he’s a daft fool for not listening. He was warned to leave that witch be.”

  The woman turned her gaze on Wilek. “It was powerful magic for one so young. Could be I was wrong. Could be she is bound to Magon.”

  Errp the newt crawled out from the woman’s apron pocket and sat on her shoulder.

  Wilek’s mind flashed to Mreegan, then to Charlon. He pined over Charlon a moment, then forced his thoughts to Lebetta and how horribly she had died. This brought the rune to mind.

  “Teaka,” he said. “If I drew a rune for you in the dirt, could you translate it?”

  She shrugged one tiny shoulder.

  Wilek drew the rune in the sand in front of Rand, hoping he’d done so correctly.

  The old woman squinted at his drawing. Her thin lips twitched and curved into a smile. She chuckled, a raspy sound that reminded Wilek of a wheezing goose. “This one here”—she traced it with her forefinger—“means five. But when drawn inside the rune for fire, they become one rune that means five fires or five flames. Then there’s the rune for shadir.” She traced it as well.

  “Five flaming black spirits?” Wilek asked.

  “Five flames of the shadir,” she said.

  “What does that mean?”

  She leaned forward and traced two of the lines, then drew them apart from the rest and added five short lines of a sunburst atop them. “This one isn’t a rune.”

  A shiver ran up Wilek’s arms as he took in the mark of the Knife—the king’s assassins. “It’s upside down,” Wilek said.

  “Because they work from inside,” Teaka said. “The king thinks he rules, which is what they want him to think. But a man can’t rule a city that’s already being ruled in secret.”

  Wilek could hardly believe what she was implying. “Who is they?”

  “The men who rule Armania. The priests of Havôt.”

  Wilek had never heard of them. All this time, mantics were in Everton, manipulating his father? “How do you stop a mantic?”

  “Take away their power.” Teaka drew a glass vial from her apron pocket and held it up. Evenroot dust.

  “If I find where they keep their root dust . . .”

  “You can destroy it. Or give the root to me.” Another chuckle.

  “But how can I find it? Where would I look if I know not who the mantics are?”

  Her smile wrinkled her face. She uncapped her vial and said, “Errp, matsa ahvenrood.”

  The newt lifted its head, eyes alert. Its nostrils twitched, then it scurried down Teaka’s arm to her wrist and sniffed at the open vial. “The letaha live off root. They can find it anywhere.”

  No wonder Mreegan had one. “Teaka,” Wilek said, an idea forming in his mind. “Would you and Errp help me save Armania?”

  Charlon

  Explain yourself!”

  Charlon cowered before Mreegan in the red tent. Face cove
red in dirt. Gaze on the floor. “They came for the prince. Had a mantic with them. She broke the compulsion. Refused to meddle with the soul-binding. The prince took our token and wears it now.” Sobs came forth, deep and heavy. Such longing. Wilek gone. Gone before she could test her new plan.

  “You failed and must be punished.” Mreegan lifted her hand.

  A spell was coming. Charlon braced herself for pain.

  Nothing happened.

  Mreegan frowned, thrust her hand forward again. Stood and circled Charlon.

  Show yourself, Favored One, Magon said within. It’s time to stand as Mreegan’s equal.

  Charlon rose slowly, mustering courage. She lifted her own hand. Whispered a spell.

  Mreegan stopped moving, frozen just by Charlon’s words. Only the Chieftess was supposed to have the power to perform magic without runes.

  Mreegan’s gaze met Charlon’s. “The slight Eemahlah is no match for my shadir. Who powers your spell? Tell me the truth!”

  “Magon gives me strength,” Charlon said.

  A gasp. “You dared petition my shadir?”

  “I was desperate. I prayed to the goddess and she answered.”

  “But she hasn’t cast me down from my position as Chieftess. Why would she serve us both?”

  The two women looked at one another warily.

  “What does it mean?” Charlon asked.

  “She must want us to work together.”

  Why? The goddess had promised. Promised Charlon would be Chieftess someday. Perhaps this was a necessary step. She released her hold on Mreegan, determined to try things Magon’s way. “Magon told me I am Mother. But I despise men. Cannot touch one. Hate being touched by anyone.”

  “Ridiculous,” Mreegan said.

  “You saw within. When you healed me. You know why I fail. But I have a plan. I must place a compulsion on myself. I have been practicing.”

  Mreegan scoffed. “That’s impossible.”

  “You doubt Magon’s power?”

  “No, but—”

  “You said only the Chieftess could petition Magon. I proved you wrong. Anything is possible with Magon. I can do this. But I need your help.”

  Chieftess Mreegan stared within, saw that Charlon spoke the truth. “Very well. But I will not risk our camp by abducting the prince again. This time you must cast a mold of his betrothed and go to him masked in her form. Ask Magon to help you find the woman’s location.”