King's Folly

by Jill Williamson

  “Yes, Chieftess,” Charlon said.

  “We leave for Everton tomorrow.”

  As the Magonians journeyed toward Everton, Mreegan taught Charlon all she knew of compulsion spells. Charlon practiced. Forced Kateen to crawl on all fours like a dune cat. Made Five believe he was One and pick a fight with Rone for wearing the lure. Once compulsions on others were mastered, Charlon practiced on herself. Cast a spell that she hated furs and could not sleep that night from the chill. Made herself loathe water until she could barely speak for her dry throat.

  Charlon became proficient at placing spells on herself. Finally capable, she retreated to her tent and cast the spell she needed. To banish her fear of men. Her fear of human touch.

  But had it worked? Could she even know?

  She must test it. But not on any man. Torol had always been kind. Torol she trusted.

  She petitioned Magon for cleansing, then walked out of her tent. Three passed by with a tray of food. “Fetch Torol,” she ordered, and he scurried away.

  She went back inside to wait. Soon Torol entered her tent.

  “Are you well, Mother?” he asked.

  “I must test my spell.” She reached for him. “Take my hand.”

  He walked to stand before her. His fingers slid over hers, up her palm, and bent around the side of her hand.

  She shivered. Not from fear. She found his touch pleasant. Only in the back of her mind did the soul-binding cause her to hesitate.

  “Will you kiss me?” she asked. Not a compulsion this time. Torol’s choice.

  He looked hesitant. Stepped closer. Ran his fingers up the back of her arm.

  Her mind did not scream. She did not flinch. Had she done it? Please, Magon! Say that she had.

  Torol’s eyes searched hers, afraid. Likely wondering if this was a test. If she would punish him later. Roya played too hard with the men.

  “You’re safe,” she whispered. Her stomach fluttered within.

  Torol pressed his lips to hers. Soft lips. Prickly beard. Solid arms. An intense sorrow seized her. This was not the prince—not her soul-bound.

  She pulled Torol closer, fighting the soul-binding magic. Shocked and delighted. No fear of being touched. Only the nagging horror that she was betraying her prince.

  She shoved aside that guilt. Drew Torol to her bed. They knelt, fell together. Arms clutching each other. While she felt no fear, she wept for Prince Wilek. She was betraying him in the worst way and sensed that he knew it. These emotions would be too strong for him to ignore.

  So she let herself cry while at the same time celebrating. With Magon’s help, she had mastered men. She had mastered fear. Now nothing could stop her from mastering Prince Wilek.

  She only had to beat him back to Everton and his betrothed.

  Wilek

  Wilek had been a boy the last time he had ridden through this part of Sarikar. He found it vastly altered and suspected the changes were recent. A half dozen fall-ins had claimed large sections of the road, forcing their party to take alternate routes that added at least two days to their week-long journey. They came upon Cheyvah’s Maw ten leagues too soon. Somehow the crack had lengthened, likely from the recent earthquakes. This would delay their return even more.

  As they followed the crack north, Wilek thought about Charlon constantly. Not since adolescence had he felt such random longings for a woman.

  The soul-binding was to blame, no doubt.

  Panic seized him suddenly, and he found he couldn’t breathe. Waves of conflicting emotions surged through the soul-binding link. Confusion, affection, remorse, pleasure, desperation, but strongest of all, joy.

  Charlon was free! She had overcome her fear.

  With someone else.

  Wilek found his own unworthiness suffocating. He had failed to save her and she’d chosen another. Torol! She’d chosen Torol. Wilek would kill him.

  Madness! He forced himself away from such deep thoughts, studied his surroundings, and started counting shrubs in a desperate attempt to distract his mind. He’d reached seventy-six shrubs before his emotions tapered off.

  Illogical or not, Charlon’s rejection remained heavy on his heart. Wilek would ask Teaka again to reconsider breaking the soul-binding. The old woman feared Charlon had been truthful about Magon being her shadir.

  “Magon is too powerful,” Teaka had said. “To tamper with the spell of a great shadir is foolishness, indeed.”

  And so Wilek was left to suffer.

  The sun was high in the sky when the city of Pixford came into view on the horizon. Wilek’s heart quickened, knowing he would soon cross the border and into his own realm. The road descended into a canyon that would wind and twist before letting out a mere league before the Pixford gates. Halfway through the canyon they came upon a contingent of Armanian soldiers blocking the road.

  “You Armanians forget that Sarikar isn’t your realm?” Rand called out.

  “You have our sâr,” one of the Armanians said. “We want him back.”

  Dressed for battle with helmets hiding their faces, Wilek couldn’t be certain these were Armanians at all. He nudged his horse to the front. “Your sâr is here. Who leads you?”

  “It is I, Your Highness.” A man in the center of the line removed his helmet. Agmado Harton.

  “Hart! What have you been doing these past weeks?” Wilek asked, wondering where his men had gone after he had been taken.

  “Looking for you, Your Highness. You’re my responsibility.”

  “He’s my backman,” Wilek told Rand.

  “Seems your backman failed you,” Rand said, a little louder than necessary.

  The Omatta laughed.

  Harton’s face clouded. “Hand over our sâr or die.”

  “I’ll turn him over to the man who hired me,” Rand shot back. “That wasn’t you.”

  Harton drew his sword and nudged his horse forward. “I will fight for my sâr.”

  “Wait!” Wilek rode his horse in front of Rand’s. “I am safe, Harton. Take word to the king and my mother that I am coming home.”

  “You’re not yourself, Your Highness,” Harton said. “They’ve bewitched you.”

  What madness compelled Harton to openly defy a direct order? “Have I not suffered enough? Do as I command, Hart, or you shall face the pole!”

  Harton seemed to consider Wilek’s threat a real one, which it was. He signaled to his men, who turned in retreat. “I’ll send a man to Everton with word of your coming, Your Highness,” Harton said. “But as your shield I’ll remain nearby.”

  Sands! Wilek had forgotten he had assigned Harton as acting shield when he sent Kal into Magonia. The king had likely threatened Wilek’s men with sacrifice if they returned without him. “You set my mind at ease, Hart. I thank you.”

  The Omatta group followed the Armanians through the remainder of the canyon and along the outskirts of Pixford. Wilek was shocked to see the city decorated for the Feast of Rain, which celebrated the arrival of the stormmer season. Every house had some kind of blue bow or ribbon mounted on the door with a bucket underneath.

  If stormmer had already arrived, that meant Wilek was twenty-five now. His ageday had come and gone. Had his trip to Farway gone as planned, he would have married Lady Zeroah sometime last week.

  He felt sick at the idea of marrying anyone but Charlon—obnoxious, unfaithful, soul-binding witch—and sicker still when he realized he had been gone ten weeks longer than planned. Ten weeks. Had his mother given him up for dead? Harton hadn’t, so that was some comfort. He hoped Father had not yet named Janek as Heir.

  The Omatta made camp that night before the first link in the Cobweb Bridge. Wilek didn’t trust Harton not to get antsy and attack, so he asked one of the Omatta to invite his temporary shield to join them.

  Harton rode into camp, three men on either side, all with swords drawn.

  Wilek stormed out to greet them. “What is the matter with you? I am safe with these men. Why do you continually ignore my comma
nds?”

  “They might have you under a compulsion,” Harton said. “They cut your hair, and you have a rune on the back of your neck.”

  Wilek shivered at the word compulsion. “Well, I’m no longer with the mantics, am I?”

  “No, but—”

  “A compulsion would have forced me to go back. Put away your swords, all of you.” Wilek waved at the guards. “The Omatta mean us no harm. They will escort me home.”

  “We can do that without their help,” Harton said.

  “I’m aware of your skills, Harton. But the Omatta freed me from the Magonian camp, and that is the report I will give my father. These men deserve our respect. I’ll have no more of this rudeness from you, is that clear?”

  Harton glowered. “Very, Your Highness.”

  They remained locked in a stare until Wilek said, “Well? Dismount, Harton. Come, enjoy the food.”

  Harton obeyed, though it seemed to pain him greatly. Did the man have some bad history with the Omatta?

  They all ate around the bonfire, and Wilek lost track of Harton for a while. He next saw him dancing around the fire with a pretty woman. Back to his old ways, apparently. At least he had put down his sword. Wilek hoped the man didn’t do anything foolish to upset Rand.

  A rush of cold desire flooded Wilek suddenly. Too embarrassed to move, he sat uncomfortably and stared into the fire, unwilling to risk eye contact with anyone for fear the smile of a pretty woman would undo him. Curse that witch. What was she doing now? He rubbed his forehead with his icy hand, and the coolness brought a tingle of relief.

  “Your man Harton has the temperament of a nomad.”

  Wilek looked up into Rand’s weathered face. “Which is . . . ?”

  “Eager, hungry, and savage, with greater mood swings than a woman in her courses. Meelo would like him.” The man spat. “Wish the fool boy would quit hiding and let his grandmother heal his face. How do you fare this night?”

  Wilek sighed. “As well as a man can be when his every thought and feeling is twined with another.”

  “Can I do something to help? Get you anything? Food, drink, a woman?”

  Sleep was all he needed. “Thank you, no. I shall retire soon, I think.”

  Rand sat down beside him. “You should know, a few hours after I accepted the assignment to bring you home, another man from Armania petitioned me to capture and kill you.”

  That was always happy news. “Strange that two sought to hire you on the same day.”

  “Not when you consider that it was the same day the messenger from your contingent informed the king of your abduction.”

  “Who was this second patron?”

  Rand shook his head. “Only a messenger. And the request wasn’t signed.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “A priest, I think. He wore blue robes under his cloak. And an anklet of the five gods.”

  A Rôb priest, then. “Someone in the Rôb faith wants me dead.” Teaka’s words came back to him. He needed to find out what she meant about the priests of Havôt who secretly ruled Armania. It brought to mind the priest scourge during the war and Janek’s mother, who had championed it. “Rosârah Laviel has given more to Temple Rôb in petition for my death than the entire realm gives in guilt offerings. But would she risk treason?”

  “I cannot say.” Rand tossed a twig in the fire. “Rosârah Laviel hates me as well. Because of her, I’m not permitted inside the Everton city gates.”

  Janek’s mother was as hideous a monster as Barthos. “How did you offend her?”

  “Not me. Sâr Janek became enamored with my daughter. But rather than give in to him, Zahara put a knife to his throat. Said the only way he could have her was if he married her first.”

  Wilek chuckled. “I like that.”

  “Yes, well, Sâr Janek didn’t. He kept after her, but my girl was always armed with an array of daggers that left the sâr with several scars.” He touched the tip of his nose.

  Wilek snorted. “That liar! He told me he cut his nose replanting a thornberry bush.”

  “Yes, well, Rosârah Laviel was outraged that the daughter of a nomad had refused her son. She summoned me, ordered me to give my daughter to Sâr Janek as a mistress. I refused. The rosâr banished us that very day.”

  Typical. “Was your daughter upset?”

  “She had no interest in the sâr. She’d been spying for me and had already learned what I needed to know. So we left and haven’t returned.”

  “Is your daughter here?” Wilek asked. “I’d like to congratulate the woman who got the best of Janek.”

  “Zahara captains a ship out of Tal. Bit of a pirate, I’m proud to say.”

  “Well, I insist you accompany me back to Castle Everton,” Wilek said. “I will speak to my father about lifting your banishment.”

  “That’s good of you, Wil.” Rand picked up another twig and pitched it into the fire. “Also, I’m not one to fret, but my mother senses something with the land. She’s got the women all stirred up. This is the first time in decades I don’t know what to do. Would you alert me if you learn anything?”

  Wilek wished he had an answer about these strange disasters. “The moment I learn anything, you shall know it.”

  Wilek finally went to his tent and bedded down for the night, but he tossed and turned, plagued with dreams about Charlon, her voice and smell, her deep eyes and soft skin. And wanting to kill Torol. Long after the distant night bells rang in Pixford, he was still wide awake.

  The moment he was back at Castle Everton, he would send a squadron of King’s Guards to scour the Five Realms until they found a mantic willing to reverse the soul-binding spell. There had to be someone willing to “tamper with the spell of a great shadir.”

  Trevn

  Trevn woke to Beal, who brought news of Wilek. Word had come that very morning that he had been found! The First Arm, the Dutiful, was on his way back to Everton. It would be another day or two before the full contingent arrived, but Wilek was alive.

  Trevn pulled the covers over his head and fought back tears of relief.

  Once he had dressed and broken his fast, he went to Wilek’s onesent, Dendrick, to express his joy over the news of his brother’s return. Dendrick had come back shortly after they’d received word of Wilek’s abduction, and while the rest of Wilek’s men had continued searching for him, Dendrick had remained at Castle Everton, carrying out Wilek’s orders to send aid to Farway.

  “It’s nearly morning bells, Your Highness,” Cadoc said. “You must prepare for court.”

  “Spending time with your father this morning?” Dendrick asked.

  “I am visiting the court of Rosârah Brelenah today,” Trevn said, unwilling to let even Dendrick know of his plans until he had followed through.

  “I must visit the armory,” Dendrick said. “I’ll walk you partway.”

  The three exited Dendrick’s apartment and made their way down the hall. As they passed by the crossbar, Trevn glimpsed a soldier exiting one of the chambers: Father Tomek’s old room, it looked like. Trevn backed up and took a closer look. Indeed. A soldier stood there, nervously looking at the floor as if that might keep him from being seen.

  “You there!” Trevn yelled. “What are you doing?”

  The soldier jumped to attention. Trevn jogged toward him. Cadoc and Dendrick’s footsteps pattered behind. Filthy with ragged clothing, the soldier looked to have survived a harrowing journey.

  “Novan Heln,” Cadoc said. “You were with Sâr Wilek’s party to Farway.”

  A thrill of hope blossomed in Trevn’s chest. “Has Wilek returned?”

  “No, Your Highness,” Novan said. “Sâr Wilek sent Sir Kalenek and me on an errand while we were in Farway. I arrived alone this morning with a message for the sâr, only to hear from the stableman about his misfortune.”

  Trevn tried not to let his disappointment show. “My brother will be home soon. Who is this message from? And why were you in Father Tomek’s chambers?”


  “I . . .” Novan took a deep breath. “The message is from Sir Kalenek Veroth. He bid me show it to no one but Sâr Wilek, Father Tomek, or Dendrick.” Novan met the onesent’s gaze.

  Dendrick blinked, glanced at Sâr Trevn. “With your permission, Your Highness?”

  “I insist you read the message this instant,” Trevn told Novan.

  The soldier seemed to shrink. “Perhaps we could go somewhere private?” he asked Dendrick.

  Of all the insolent things the man could have said. Trevn’s eyes widened, and he glared so harshly that the soldier looked away. “Pretend Cadoc and I aren’t here, Guardsman Heln, if that helps you,” Trevn said with as much authority as he could muster. “We will not intrude, nor will we depart until Dendrick assures me all is well with my brother.”

  Novan opened his mouth . . . closed it. He removed a battered scroll from his pocket, glanced at Trevn again, then held it out to Dendrick.

  Trevn wanted to strangle the man.

  Dendrick took the scroll between thumb and forefinger. “The seal is broken,” he said.

  “Yes.” Novan swallowed. “I was waylaid by thieves outside Batira. Sir Kalenek wrote the message in code, however, and my captors were unable to read it. The cipher is pilaster.”

  Cipher? “You were taken captive?” Trevn asked, forgetting his promise not to intrude. “Who held you?”

  “A Sarikarian ranchman.”

  “By himself?” Cadoc asked, smiling.

  “Oh, no. He had a wife and three unmarried daughters to help. He wanted me to stay and work his farm.”

  Cadoc snorted a small laugh. “And marry a daughter, no doubt. Lucky you got away when you did.”

  “I was, indeed,” Novan said.

  Trevn watched Dendrick, who was frowning. “Well?” he prodded.

  “It will take time to decode this.” Dendrick glanced at Novan. “You know what this says?”