“Rustian dislikes water, but he is an excellent swimmer.”
“He is an unyielding protector,” Kal said. “You are lucky to have him.”
“Not luck,” Onika said. “Providence. And now I have a second protector. Though I might lose you for a time, Sir Kalenek, you will return to me someday. Never forget that.”
Kal pondered her words as he swam slowly toward the others. Everyone had survived. Grayson was bleeding from his temple, having been hit in the head with a rock, but there were no other injuries reported.
They swam east along the coast, where they could get a better look at the remains of Jeruka and the port. The sight of so many boats, still intact, comforted Kal. Surely one could carry them back to Everton.
It wasn’t long before they were picked up by a fishing vessel. The captain was awestruck to learn he had rescued the Imperial family, and they were instantly taken to port. From there, wagons carried them toward the palace. As they moved through the city, Kal observed the destruction. Roads were cracked and uneven, houses collapsed. In the rubble, people held their dead and wailed.
They found the seaside palace eerily silent. When word spread of the Imperial family’s arrival, servants came running. Their group was divided and swept in different directions. Priestess Jazlyn insisted Qoatch bathe, and the eunuch was forced to join Kal and Burk in the steams.
Kal bathed, dressed in a fresh Rurekan guard uniform, and was led to a private room, where he lay down, tucked his dagger under his pillow, and dozed off, wondering how long it would take before they could set sail for Everton.
Qoatch
After bathing, Qoatch set off for his chamber, which was across the hall from Jazlyn’s. As long as he framed his requests as being for his Great Lady, the servants of Jeruka were eager to comply. A maid brought him a length of white linen that could be tied into a fresh kasah skirt. There were no sand cat pelts to be found, so he would have to go without.
Once he was dressed, he set off in search of appropriate clothing for his lady. The only white gowns he could find were plain servant dresses. In high quality he found only ivory. He tried to commission a white gown, but the dressmaker first wanted approval from the empress.
“I’m certain there is a Tennish gown in the palace,” the dressmaker’s maid said. “A gift from High Queen Tahmina for the empress.” But she could not recall what had become of it.
So Qoatch carried his dismal clothing options to his lady’s chambers and knocked.
“Enter.”
Hearing Jazlyn’s voice brought great relief. He hated being apart from her. She was the only person he cared for in the world. They must protect one another. He entered and found Jazlyn wearing a saffron-colored robe, standing at an open window, looking out at the city. Gozan he did not see.
Jazlyn turned her round eyes on him and frowned. “What are you wearing? Answer.”
“A kasah I made from a length of fabric.”
She grunted. “I suppose you’ve brought me something equally disappointing.”
He laid the two options on her bed. She came to stand beside him, looking down her nose at both.
“These are unacceptable. Did you speak with the tailor? Answer.”
“He is waiting on approval from the empress to begin your dress, Great Lady.”
Jazlyn growled and strode back to the window. “I want to go home. I am tired of living like a vagrant. I have begun to shake from the lack of consistent evenroot. Those measly tails did little for my appetite.”
Qoatch nodded. He would have to find his lady some root, but he would take his time. A fast would do her body good.
A knock at the door preceded the dressmaker’s maid, holding a white gown and an earthenware crock.
The girl swept inside without being invited. “I found it!” She strode to the bed and laid the Tennish gown beside the other two. “It’s going to be a bit big, but I’ve come prepared.” She set the crock on the bed, lifted the lid, and withdrew a shard of yellow chalk.
Jazlyn came to look over her shoulder. “This is acceptable.” She shrugged off her robe and handed it to Qoatch.
The maid jumped and looked away, embarrassed it seemed by Jazlyn’s nakedness. Qoatch took charge and grabbed the gown, shook it out.
“Reverse it,” the girl said. “So I can mark the seams.”
Qoatch turned the gown inside out and helped Jazlyn into it. The dress hung off her shoulders and pooled on the floor at her feet. Jazlyn lifted her arms to the side and the girl set to work.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Your Highness,” the girl said. “It must be awful to experience such a betrayal.”
The words shook Qoatch, prickling his conscience.
“I am not a Highness,” Jazlyn snapped. “I am a Great Lady. And what do you mean, my loss? Answer, girl.”
The maid’s eyes widened. “You don’t know about the rebellion in Tenma?”
Qoatch felt dizzy. The Kushaw. He’d almost forgotten. Had they gone through with it? Had they killed the priestesses?
“I have been in Rurekau these past few weeks on a diplomatic mission,” Jazlyn said. “Explain this rebellion at once.”
“Yes, Your . . . Great Lady,” the girl said. “Four days ago we received a group of Tennish refugees coming from Larsa who told us of an uprising of men in Yobatha. Rebels murdered all the high mantic priestesses and the child priestesses-in-training.”
Jazlyn sank to the edge of the bed. “What men could kill a priestess?”
“They were eunuchs,” the girl said, glancing at Qoatch. “They’re calling it the Eunuch Rebellion.”
Jazlyn stared at Qoatch. “Did you know of this? Answer me truthfully.”
Qoatch tried to remain composed, but his eyes watered and he looked away.
“Leave us,” Jazlyn commanded the maid.
The girl practically ran from the room.
“Wait!” Jazlyn yelled. “Where are these Tennish refugees now?”
“They’ve set up a camp on the outskirts of the city, Great Lady.”
Jazlyn waved her hand at the girl, who fled. The clump of the door brought a heavy silence over the room.
“You knew of this,” Jazlyn said. “Speak your answer now.”
Qoatch must be careful. He needed to twist the truth just enough so that she would believe. “They are called the Kushaw. They came to me the night before we left Yobatha and told me their plan. They wanted me to take your life.”
Jazlyn’s stare burned his courage and he looked at the floor. “You’ve had plenty of opportunities,” she said. “Why did you let me live?”
His hands shook. No answer but the truth would possibly convince her. “Because you saved me, Great Lady.”
“When?”
“The Kushaw were harsh, but as a boy, I believed in their cause—I still do.” He risked a glance and swallowed. “But when I came to the palace in Yobatha, where the High Queen makes us, compels us . . . Her cruelty . . .” He broke off, trembling at the memories of Queen Tahmina’s torture. “You claimed me—saved me from her wrath.”
“It wasn’t compassion. I needed a eunuch.”
Qoatch knew better. Jazlyn disdained Queen Tahmina’s unnecessary cruelty. And in taking Qoatch as her own, she had spared him further pain—had never used pain against him.
He shook his head. “You saved me, Great Lady.” And he bowed low.
Her burst of laughter made Qoatch tense. He straightened and found her in a fit of hysterics. She laughed hard and long and deep.
Qoatch’s cheeks burned. He wanted to leave, to flee from this humiliation.
Before he could, she took hold of his hand, squeezed it. “Oh, Qoatch, sweet slav of mine. Do not fear. You have given me rule of Tenma. I will not cast you aside, not ever. Now, fetch that maid to finish this dress. I must visit the Tennish refugees to establish myself as High Queen.”
Immense relief washed away shame. Qoatch stood before her—a trained assassin meant to take her life—and again she h
ad granted him mercy. Humbled, his heart swelled. He bowed and departed, eager to please his Great Lady.
He would be devoted to her for life.
Inolah
Ulrik son of Nazer, at sixteen years of age, was now Emperor of Rurekau.
The officials in Jeruka had rallied to crown him immediately. They did not like taking orders from a woman. So, just like that, Inolah’s power was gone. She still had authority as the emperor’s mother, and would continue to have it until he married, but it was not the same.
That was fine. She did not want power. But she wasn’t certain her son was ready to handle so much of it all at once.
She sat on a chair in the corner of the council room, watching Emperor Ulrik in his first council meeting. So far he was exercising wisdom by remaining silent and listening. He was bare-chested, with henna tracings all over his torso, and wore the medallion of his office on a single gold chain. They had also given him fresh tracings on his head and around his eyes that set off the thick golden crown he wore.
“The city is in chaos, Emperor,” the Igote general said. “We cannot offer aid fast enough, and just when we manage to restore some level of calm, another earthquake turns everything upside down again.”
“The Tennish refugees keep coming,” the sheriff said.
“We have Rurekan refugees coming in as well,” the general added. “From Nindera and Lâhaten.”
Ulrik lifted his hand. “We will deal with these problems. But first I want to talk of Sir Kalenek’s recommendation for relocation.”
Inolah was pleased that her son had included Kal in the meeting. The High Shield had yet to speak, but Ulrik had already informed his council of Kal’s recommendation.
“It’s hogsfeed,” the general said. “The earth cannot be destroyed. Perhaps Barthos is merely ridding the land of transgressors.”
“My brother was killed in yesterday’s quake!” the sheriff yelled. “You know full well that he was a better man than any of us.” He turned to Ulrik and spoke calmly. “I think we should go, Your Eminence. These quakes are growing more powerful and frequent.”
“It would be madness,” the general said. “The fleet isn’t large enough to take everyone, and the Igote numbers are too small to stop thieves from stealing smaller crafts.”
“What do you think, Mother?” Ulrik asked.
“I trust Sir Kalenek with my life,” Inolah said, looking at Kal. “He is honorable and would never deceive us. If he says that Farway, Hebron, and Kaptar are no more, I believe him. I cannot say whether every word the prophetess speaks is truth, but seven major cities destroyed so close together is highly suspect.”
“I agree,” Ulrik said. “But I cannot desert my people or my land.”
“Forgive me, Your Eminence,” Kal said, speaking for the first time. “Your land won’t be here much longer, and if you insist on staying, your empire will end. I recommend you gather as many of your people as you can and put them on ships.”
“All because of the words of an aberration,” the general said. “Why should we believe her?”
“Bring her here and ask her yourself,” Kal said. “She knows things that are impossible for her to know. She warned of Kaptar’s demise before it happened, predicted it to the very hour. Do not make light of her words.”
The prophetess had clearly won Kal’s support. Inolah wondered if he had feelings for the pale woman. She was at least ten years his junior, but Inolah couldn’t deny that Onika was alluring in an alien sort of way.
“Whether you stay or go,” Kal said. “I must obey her wish to meet my sâr.”
Which meant he would set sail for Everton as soon as possible. Inolah wanted to go too.
“I have spoken to her,” Ulrik said. “And I agree with Sir Kalenek. But without land I have no empire. I must do what is best for Rurekau and my—”
An earthquake shook the room. Several of the councilmen cried out. The Igote general dove under the table. The shaker did not last long.
Inolah spoke before anyone else could. “The empire is in the hearts of the people, my son. Rurekau can find new land and build new cities. But only if we survive.”
Ulrik took a deep breath. “It is decided. We will sail to Everton and join the Armanian fleet. My next concern is the Tennish people. I cannot trust them. Priestess Jazlyn, whom I greatly admire, threatened war against Rurekau before Lâhaten fell. She is a cunning woman. While she has been a friend to my mother and me during this ordeal, in the end she will do what is best—what is most prosperous—for her people.”
Inolah relaxed, glad to hear Ulrik speak some sense regarding the priestess. She still was uncertain they had done right in keeping secret Jazlyn’s involvement in destroying Lâhaten and killing Nazer. But to confess Ulrik’s knowledge now would risk his crown.
“There are too many Tennish refugees,” the general said. “They could overpower us.”
“Not without their evenroot,” Kal said. “Do they have some?”
“Probably,” the sheriff said.
“We must divide the Tennish people between the ships,” Ulrik said.
“Won’t that give them more power?” the general asked.
“Quite the opposite,” Ulrik said. “If we give them, say, five of their own ships, they might, in time, plot against us. But if we separate them, allow no more than twenty per ship, they will be unable to rise up. They will be nothing more than passengers. And we must make sure they bring aboard no evenroot.”
“I like it,” the general said. “But I won’t like telling the priestess.”
Ulrik flashed a wide smile. “Leave the priestess to me, General.”
Ulrik made Inolah wait outside the council room with Qoatch while he spoke to the priestess alone. It was incredibly foolish. The woman could have found a new supply of evenroot by now. She could kill Ulrik for his attempt to force her hand.
The door was not closed for long. Priestess Jazlyn shot out like a hawk, the door banging in her wake. Nostrils flaring, she stopped before them. Qoatch stood to greet her, but her eyes were focused on Inolah.
“He is starting down a path just like his father,” she said.
Arman, help them. What had Ulrik done?
“On the contrary,” Ulrik said, strolling out of the council chambers, hands tucked innocently behind his back. “My father would have left your people to die. Compared to him, I am a hero—the savior of your people.”
“You are an arrogant man pup who will someday soon be taught a valuable lesson in humility. I will not be sorry to hear you failed to survive it.”
A chuckle from Ulrik. “Would you like to divide your people into groups of twenty, or shall I?”
“I will do it.” Jazlyn stalked away with Qoatch in tow.
“I’ll have a schedule of departures sent to your chambers so you can arrange matters,” Ulrik called after her. “Good midday, Priestess!”
She did not reply.
“Ulrik, was that wise?” Inolah asked.
Ulrik turned his delighted expression on Inolah. “I cannot be certain, Mother, but I am beginning to think the priestess likes me more than she lets on.”
The next morning, the fleet began to set out. The council had decreed to send five ships immediately, filled with the most important citizens of Rurekau and enough provisions to reach Armania. The rest of the fleet would follow once each ship could be filled with food and supplies. The ships would anchor outside the Everton harbor until they decided on which direction to sail.
There were thirty-three great vessels—both merchant and military—at port in Jeruka, and hundreds of smaller, personal craft. Already there had been riots among the private sector from people fighting over places in boats. The sheriff had his hands full dealing with it all, which pleased Ulrik. Inolah knew her son disliked how the council hovered and gave him advice, as if he were a fool who knew nothing.
Ulrik was no fool. But he was vastly untrained and overconfident, the latter of which Inolah feared might be his undoin
g.
The day passed in a blur. Ulrik assigned Sir Kalenek and his band to the Baretam, the emperor’s warship. He asked the High Shield to help him keep an eye on Priestess Jazlyn, whom Ulrik had assigned to the same ship.
Inolah stood on the bow of the Baretam and watched the priestess board, her white gown fluttering in the wind. Qoatch, stunning as always, shadowed her. Then came eighteen Tennish refugees.
Inolah’s baby kicked, and she pressed her hand to the place she had felt the movement. She had never been so uncertain about the future. Her husband was dead. Her son was emperor. Her daughter was missing. And the place she had lived these seventeen years was no more. She was leaving. Starting over. Yet she had never felt so lost in all her life.
Wilek
Wilek sat with Harton in a metal cage on a cart headed for The Gray, the mist wetting his face. All his life he had feared this moment, yet he found himself oddly calm. He had prepared Trevn and Rayim for the possibility that he would not return. Armania would survive the Five Woes. His only regret was that Father had ordered Harton to be sacrificed too.
“I’m sorry, Hart,” Wilek said. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Harton shrugged, jaw set. “No one really knows what’s down there, Your Highness. It’s not my destiny to die tonight.”
Such confidence amazed Wilek. He didn’t want to give up either, but in his over two hundred visits to The Gray, no one had ever survived. Not once.
The caravan arrived at the shrine, and Wilek and Harton were brought before the stone ring. The moon was barely a sliver tonight, so it was harder to see the bronze platform, the circle of stones, and the Barthos pole.
What to do, Arman? Should he fight to get away? Stand with dignified pride? Scream truth to the witnesses?
No option seemed right.
Wilek eyed the chute box warily, knowing he would be sent down first. Right into Barthos’s open maw.
He studied the crowd. Janek had stopped his horse in the center position of the arc, where the First Arm belonged, the very place Wilek had sat some two hundred times before. He wore the Heir’s ring on his right hand. The blue diamond above Father’s Barthos insignia gleamed in the torchlight.
King's Folly Page 52