King's Folly

by Jill Williamson

  “Good, that,” Father said.

  “Did you know the Pontiff has been harvesting evenroot in Armania since before the war ended?”

  “Absurd. Whatever for?”

  “At first I thought it was to smuggle it out to Magonia or Tenma and make a fortune, as they have all but depleted the resource in their realms. Then I discovered that Rogedoth is a mantic. He has been using his magic to influence you.”

  Father waved one hand. “He does no such thing. Why this attack against the Pontiff?”

  “Because he seeks to rule, Father. Ever since he lost the throne of Sarikar.” He paused, wishing he had a bigger audience. “Pontiff Rogedoth is Prince Mergest III. When his father discovered his preoccupation with mantics, his titles were stripped away and he was banished from the realm. He came to Everton and used his mantic ties to create a new identity. But the Pontiff quickly grew tired of ruling Armania in secret. Since he cannot sit on the throne of Armania himself, he used his magic to seduce one of your wives so that he might sire a son who could rule where he could not.”

  Father sputtered. “Which wife?”

  “Rosârah Laviel.”

  “Preposterous! I am Janek’s father.” Yet the king waved his fist at Schwyl. “Fetch me Rogedoth, now!”

  Schwyl scurried from the chamber.

  “Who told you this, son?”

  “Does it matter?” Wilek asked. “Investigate if you must, but there is little time. The Five Realms are dying, Father. The underground rivers of the ream have never made a stable foundation. Mining coal and harvesting evenroot have weakened it further. There’s little left keeping the soil in place. Had Rogedoth kept your decree against the use of evenroot and not harvested Armania, our realm might have survived. But he did not. Greed is to blame. Farway, Hebron, Kaptar, Ebro, and now Everton are suffering pangs of what will soon become utter destruction. The Five Woes are upon us.”

  “The Five Woes are to be heralded by a prophet,” Father said. “Where is he?”

  “She,” Wilek said. “Sir Kalenek found her in Magonia. She said those who will survive will be on ships. We must return to Everton immediately and evacuate the city. We must get on ships before it’s too late.”

  “And go where?” Father asked.

  “To a new land, the prophet said.”

  “New land, Mikreh’s teeth! Where is this prophet? I want to speak with her.”

  “Kal is bringing her back from Magonia.”

  “Lies.” Rogedoth’s voice. “Sâr Wilek is stalling, Your Highness.”

  Wilek turned to find the man standing in the doorway, Schwyl behind him.

  “If there was such a prophet,” Rogedoth said, “I would know of her.”

  “If she is true, she would have stayed far away from you,” Wilek said.

  “Why was your shield in Magonia, Sâr Wilek?” Rogedoth asked. “Perhaps you are the mantic.”

  “I sent Sir Kalenek to Magonia to translate the rune Lady Lebetta drew as she died. I have recently learned that you control my father with magic. You wanted my concubine dead.”

  “Holy Rosâr,” Rogedoth said, “Sâr Wilek is obviously unwell. He bears the rune of a mantic slav on his neck. I fear he is here under their compulsion.”

  No! How dare he turn this around? “The compulsion has been broken, Pontiff,” Wilek said. “I am here to cast you out of my father’s court.”

  The Pontiff seized the poles of Father’s rollchair and swung him around behind Wilek. “See the mark for yourself, sire.”

  “It’s true!” Father cried. “My son is one of them!”

  Wilek shook his head and turned to meet his father’s gaze. “Their magic no longer works on me, Father. But Rogedoth’s magic is controlling you right now.”

  “Look at me, my king,” Rogedoth said, kneeling beside the rollchair. “I do not bear the eyes of a mantic.”

  That was true. Rogedoth’s eyes were brown. Could magic change eye color? “Father, he lies. Can you not feel it? Or are you too blind to know he forces your hand?”

  “Watch your words with me, boy,” Father warned.

  The windows and chandeliers began to rattle. Father cried out and gripped the arms of his rollchair as an earthquake shook the room.

  “Another warning that the Five Woes are coming,” Wilek yelled over the noise. “We must act swiftly, Father. Arrest Pontiff Rogedoth for treason, then return to Everton and evacuate. Now!”

  “The sâr’s accusations bring a curse upon us!” Rogedoth said, making the sign of The Hand.

  The moment the Pontiff kissed his fingers, the earthquake stopped.

  Silence fell complete. Wilek watched his father’s expression twitch and fuss. Was Rogedoth controlling him, even now?

  “The Pontiff is right,” Father said finally. “All was well until you returned.”

  “You were lost in lies!” Wilek motioned to Rogedoth. “You still are! I bring you truth.”

  “He has always been difficult,” Rogedoth said. “Questions everything.”

  “Janek favors me more than you ever did,” Father said. “Janek does my will. He has even married before you.”

  “Married a child!” Wilek said.

  “Janek will be Heir,” Father mumbled. “I can trust Janek.”

  Arman, forgive him. Wilek had failed. He hoped, at least, that Rayim had found the evenroot. “Trusting Janek is a mistake, Father.”

  Father’s face purpled. “Again you contradict me! I am rosâr. I know best.”

  “Rogedoth is a mantic!” Wilek affirmed one more time. “He is using magic to sway you. And Janek, Rogedoth’s son, plots with him. Once Janek is Heir, they will kill you!”

  “He threatens your life,” Rogedoth said. “This is treason.”

  “I will hear no more,” Father snapped. “Guards! Arrest Sâr Wilek. Barthos is clearly displeased with his presence here. We must offer worthy sacrifices to ease his anger. I have decided that Sâr Wilek will go first.”

  Charlon

  Magon brought word. Lady Zeroah had left Everton. Gone to Brixmead. So the Magonians changed their course and their plans. While Charlon and Mreegan entered Castle Brixmead, their acolytes set off to commandeer a great ship. A ship they could sail to Everton. Once Charlon had captured Lady Zeroah.

  Then Chieftess Mreegan set her sights even higher.

  She wanted to take King Jorger. Wear the man’s mask. This, she felt, would give them the freedom to do what they must. Charlon argued against it at first. The risk was too great. If they were caught, all would be lost. But Magon assured her. Magon’s sovereignty and powers would be sufficient.

  Magon made their company invisible. The rest was easy.

  Charlon had been learning to do magic without her altar mat and runes. The Chieftess reminded her that to wear a mask was different. It required a token from the donor. One could not create a mold spell with word alone.

  Charlon and three of the men assisted the Chieftess. Once she appeared in the form of King Jorger and the real king was locked away, they moved easily throughout the castle. Invisibility was no longer necessary.

  They asked for Lady Zeroah, and servants directed them to a sitting room on the second floor. Chieftess Mreegan let herself in. The small room was sweltering. A fire raged in the hearth. Lady Zeroah was sitting on a longchair. Embroidering. She saw the king, stood, and curtsied, frowning slightly. Her embroidery slid down her dress to the floor.

  The girl was a twig. Skinnier than Charlon. Taller. Small eyes. Pointed chin. Too much hair piled high.

  “Grandfather, hello. What brings you to . . .” Her words faltered as she caught sight of Charlon.

  Charlon wore only a blue-and-white kasah. Shoulders, arms, legs, and feet bare. The men entered next, wearing kasahs as skirts. Chests bare. Torol carried the stone basin and rolled-up altar mat. Nuel and Morten carried nothing.

  “Who are your companions, Grandfather?” the girl asked.

  Mreegan said nothing as she circled the room, inspecting eve
rything with a sour expression. “I suppose this will have to do.”

  “Do not worry,” Charlon said. “I can manage.”

  Mreegan’s gaze fell on Lady Zeroah, combed her up and down. “But I do worry,” she said, scowling at Zeroah. “Look how she stands. You are not capable of such dignity. No one will believe your mask.”

  “Magon can do all things, Chieftess,” Charlon said. “Do not forget. She chose me.”

  “As if you would let me.” The Chieftess grinned at herself in a mirror on the wall. “I rather like having the body of a man. I now understand why they are such forceful creatures. He is old and sore in spots, but still . . . to have such strength . . .” She flexed her upper arm and smiled. “I would change his title, though. I prefer Godking to the God’s king.”

  “Who . . . ? Who are you?” Lady Zeroah asked.

  Charlon approached the girl. Reached up. Twined her fingers through one dangling curl. Zeroah flinched and pulled back. Charlon saw her fear, fed off it. Grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked. Zeroah’s head jerked to the side. She cried out.

  “Odd . . .” Charlon said. “The slights told me it wasn’t attached.” She released Lady Zeroah’s hair, reached for the bun on top.

  The girl ducked under her arm and hurried toward the door. Upon seeing the men standing there, she changed directions and fled across the room to the fireplace, spun around, and pressed her back to the corner, where the wall met the bricks of the hearth. She grabbed the fire poker. “What do you want?”

  Charlon stalked toward her. Stopped just out of reach. Put her hand on her stomach as if cradling it. “To be the Mother. Of Sâr Wilek’s child.”

  Lady Zeroah flushed. Fear strong within. She glanced across the room. To the king. The Chieftess picked up the girl’s embroidery. Inspected it.

  “Grandfather,” Lady Zeroah said. “Why do you allow this woman to insult me? Why do you say nothing?”

  “What?” Chieftess Mreegan looked up. “Oh, do as Charlon says, Granddaughter.”

  Lady Zeroah shifted her gaze back to Charlon. She shook the poker. “I command you to leave this room at once.”

  Charlon laughed and glanced at Mreegan. “She and the prince have fire in common.”

  “Stop playing with her and get on with it,” the Chieftess said.

  “But I need to study her if Wilek is to believe.”

  Jealousy burned in the girl’s eyes. “Do you know the sâr to speak so informally of him?”

  “I do,” Charlon said. “He and I are soul-bound.” She lifted her palm. Showed the rune marking.

  Lady Zeroah lifted her chin. “Sâr Wilek is promised to me by his father, the Rosâr of Armania. Just last week Sâr Wilek sent a letter renewing his pledge. We are to be married within the month.”

  “And you shall be,” Charlon said. “Or so Wilek will think.” She waved at the men. “Bind her.”

  Nuel and Morten rushed toward Lady Zeroah. She struck Nuel with the poker, but he snatched it away and grabbed her wrist. She screamed and elbowed him, kicked, pushed at his hands, trying to get him to let go. Morten seized her other arm and pulled it out to the side.

  “Release me!” she yelled. “Grandfather, tell them to stop!”

  Chieftess Mreegan said nothing. Sat on the longchair, watching. The newt crept out of the king’s breast pocket and perched on one shoulder.

  The men pushed Lady Zeroah to her knees and bound her wrists behind her. Bound her ankles next. “What have you done to the king?” she asked, tears welling in her small eyes.

  Nuel wrapped a cloth over her mouth. Yanked it tight until it forced her lips open.

  “See if her hair coil comes off,” Charlon said.

  Nuel scratched at the girl’s hair until the bun lifted away. Tossed it to Charlon. Morten picked up the girl. Carried her to the longchair. Seated her beside the Chieftess.

  Charlon took a sip of root juice from her hip flask, then unrolled the altar mat. Knelt on one end. Placed the stone basin on the other end. She unwound the lock of hair. Cut a fringe into her bowl. Poked the tip of a knife into her own finger. Mumbled the proper words as blood joined hair.

  Lady Zeroah began to pray. Mumbling to Arman. Such words slowed Charlon’s progress. Bothered her. Magonians did not believe in the gods of the father countries. But Charlon had been raised in Rurekau. There, some thought Arman to be a powerful mantic. Others believed him the Father God. The Creator of the world.

  She asked Magon for strength. Chanted louder. Waved her hands. Finally felt her face begin to narrow.

  Her hair grew longer, coiled, and darkened. Her frame thinned and stretched taller. Breasts shrank. Bronze skin blackened. Eyes shifted. Lips narrowed.

  It was done. “Get me her dress.”

  The men moved toward Lady Zeroah, but the girl was staring, horrified, at Charlon. Staring upon her own face.

  Then the girl slumped over and fainted.

  Trevn

  Trevn arrived in Brixmead four days after leaving Everton. By his figuring, Wilek should have reached Canden yesterday. He hoped Father would see reason and return to Everton at once.

  He hoped the same for King Jorger.

  The first thing Trevn noticed on his carriage ride from the docks to Castle Brixmead was the large number of foreigners in the city. By their colorful kasahs and bare feet, he guessed them to be Magonians. Why would Magonians walk freely in Sarikar?

  When Trevn arrived at the castle, Prince Loran and his daughter, Saria, were awaiting him in the foyer with a handful of other minor royals and nobles he recognized. The prince and his daughter looked very alike. Both were slender, had small ears and narrow noses, coal-black skin, and eyes the color of curry powder. Saria, only two months older than Trevn, had been an entertaining target for Trevn and Hinck’s teasing over the years. She had never cared for their sense of humor.

  “Welcome, Sâr Trevn,” Prince Loran said. “I’m sure you did not expect to see us so far from Pixford. We are visiting my father. I was delighted when your messenger announced you.”

  “I come bearing urgent news,” Trevn said. “I must see the king right away.”

  “Of course,” Prince Loran said. “Ywan, inform the king that Sâr Trevn wishes to see him.”

  The onesent scurried away.

  “My father has not been himself of late,” Prince Loran said. “I fear he might be too ill to receive you. Can you share this urgent news with me instead?”

  “I have orders to tell the king. But if you would join me when I speak with your father, I would be glad to tell you both, for it affects the Five Realms.”

  “Foreboding, indeed,” Prince Loran said. “Ah, here is my sister. Look who has come to call, Nabelle.”

  Princess Nabelle entered the room like a queen. Her cold stare fell on Trevn, and he fought the urge to shiver, determined not to let her intimidate him.

  “Good midday, Princess Nabelle,” he said.

  “If you have come to see the honor maiden, you will be disappointed,” she said.

  “I came at the request of my brother Sâr Wilek,” Trevn stated. “He has returned safely to Everton only to discover there is nowhere safe in the Five Realms.”

  “Sâr Trevn is full of ominous warnings, sister,” Prince Loran said. “We must wait for Ywan to—ah, here he comes now.”

  Ywan bowed. “The Godking wishes to see Sâr Trevn.”

  “Let us go now,” Prince Loran said, leading the way.

  “Godking?” Trevn whispered to Prince Loran.

  “Yes.” Prince Loran sighed, his expression pinched. “Father recently announced his new title. If you do address him, please humor us by using it. Until we understand his illness, we hesitate to upset him.”

  “Why do we tell Sâr Trevn such personal matters?” Princess Nabelle asked. “It is none of his concern.”

  “Sâr Trevn is like family,” Prince Loran said.

  “Like family is not family.”

  “It is not your decision, Nabelle, and it is done,�
�� Prince Loran said. “Say no more of it.”

  They arrived in the Throne Room and entered without knocking. King Jorger sat primly on his evergold throne, eating figs. The room felt unnaturally cold, though a fire raged in the hearth.

  Trevn approached the king and gave a short bow of respect.

  “This is Prince Trevn?” the king asked.

  “Sâr Trevn, the Third Arm of Armania,” Prince Loran said.

  “Third Arm?” King Jorger narrowed his eyes and considered Trevn as if he had never heard of him despite the hundreds of times they’d spoken over the years. “Prince Wilek’s blood?”

  “Sâr Wilek is my half brother,” Trevn said, confused why this man no longer knew him.

  “Where is your brother Wilek now?” King Jorger asked.

  Such informal language. “He went to my father in Canden.”

  “Wilek has passed his twenty-fifth ageday,” the king said. “I demand he marry Lady Zeroah, as promised.”

  My my. This man was ill indeed. “He fully intends to do so, um, Godking Jorger, but he is preoccupied at present with the destruction of Castle Everton.”

  The king shifted uncomfortably. “What is it you want?”

  Trevn first shared that Prince Mergest and Pontiff Rogedoth were one and the same.

  “This confirms our own suspicions,” Prince Loran said. “Nabelle has been convinced for years, but Father did not agree.”

  They all looked to the king, but the man showed no signs of interest in the matter.

  “You did not wish conflict between Sarikar and Armania,” Princess Nabelle said.

  “That’s right,” the king said. “Very true. Now, if that is all, I am tired and would like to rest.”

  “I’m afraid that is not all, Your Highness.” Trevn then gave the prophetess’s warning, telling them about the over-harvesting of evenroot and how he believed it to be the source of the disasters in the Five Realms. “Only those on ships will survive the Woes. We ask Sarikar to join Armania in evacuating the Five Realms before it is too late.”

  “This again,” Prince Loran said. “I did not expect you to be allied with my sister, Sâr Trevn.”