King's Folly

by Jill Williamson

  “What are you doing?” Kal asked.

  “I’m staying on the Baretam.”

  “And abandoning your charges?”

  “I can’t be seen on the Seffynaw. If anyone wondered over Grayson’s skin, word of a legless man would confirm their suspicions. I’ll stay with the empress for now. Keep them safe for me?”

  Grayson and Onika were both crying, yet neither protested. Jhorn must have prepared them for this.

  “I will guard them with my life,” Kal said.

  Jhorn nodded, took one last glance at Onika and Grayson, then vaulted away.

  Dazed, Kal signaled to the sailors on the Baretam. The dinghy jerked and began to lower toward the sea.

  Wilek

  Wilek’s and Harton’s inquiries about Gran led them to the Temple Arman. Inside they found the great statue of Nesher the sunbird in a pile of rubble. At the edge of the crumbled stone, the Mother Rosârah was kneeling, hands clasped in prayer. Blood ran down the side of her face and dripped onto her lap.

  “Gran!” Wilek ran toward her. He knelt at her side, gripped her shoulder. “Gran, what happened?”

  She did not look up from her prayers.

  He examined her. Something had gashed open her head. “Gran, please.” His voice shook. “We must go.”

  She opened her eyes, looked upon him, and smiled. “No, Wilek. I will die here in my home, with my God.”

  “The gods are mere fables. I killed one!”

  “No.” She gripped his wrist with her gnarled fingers. “You know better than that. Arman is alive. He is angry, and rightly so. We have mocked him for far too long.”

  “Gran, please.”

  “Listen to me, Wilek Hadar, the Dutiful, Heir to the throne of Armania. Obedience to your father the king is no longer necessary. His folly has destroyed this great land. If our people are to survive, you must obey Arman from now on.” She shook his arm. “He is a jealous God, prone to fits of anger and rage. But in his great mercy he always leaves a remnant.” She squeezed his wrist. “Lead that remnant back to his holy throne.”

  Yes, yes. Whatever you say, Gran. “I will. Now let us go.”

  “I told you, I will remain here. It is too late for me.”

  “The physician will be the judge of that.” Wilek scooped her into his arms and moved one foot to the floor to stand.

  “Wilek Hadar! Put me down at once.” Gran took hold of his chin. “You will not take my choice from me. That is something your father would do, and you are better than that.”

  He wavered, wanting to ignore her.

  “This wound is too grievous. I would not survive a sea journey. Let me die here, in the place where I first met the God.”

  Wilek remembered Harton then. “My backman is a mantic. He can heal you, Gran.”

  “How dare you threaten me with magic! Put me down at once.”

  Wilek stopped. He squeezed her to his chest and kissed her wrinkled cheek.

  “I love you too,” she said.

  Wilek set her down. She moved back to her knees at the altar, bare feet sticking out behind her. Wilek adjusted her dress to cover her feet and wondered briefly where her shoes had gone.

  “Pia belongs to me,” she said.

  The statement was so odd, Wilek thought he must have misheard her. “I’m sorry?”

  “Janek’s concubine Pia. The girl is my spy. A good one too. She will help you keep an eye on your brother. Tell her I gave you the word weed, and she will serve you the same.” Gran chuckled. “All this time there was a weed in his garden that he never thought to pull.”

  Pia Gran’s spy? It was too much too fast. “I cannot do this without you, Gran.”

  She patted his cheek. “Of course you can. You are a good boy.”

  He wasn’t good. Not really. “I cannot leave you.”

  “Arman will not let me suffer long,” she said. “You must go.”

  Wilek nodded once and stood.

  “Seek him out and you will find him,” she said.

  Seek him. Wilek nodded again.

  “Take care of our people.” She bowed her head in prayer.

  Wilek backed slowly away, tears clogging his breath and choking his throat. A crash outside in the hall jolted him.

  Harton stepped inside the room, looking pale and faint. “We should go, Your Highness.”

  Wilek nodded and walked from the room.

  Charlon

  The driver skirted the fall-in, but the crowd on the other side forced him to stop. The horses tossed their heads and whinnied.

  “Get out of the road!” the driver yelled.

  No one listened. The mob pushed in. Swarmed the carriage. Grabbed the sides. Rocked it. Hide! her heart said. Charlon slid off the seat and onto the floor. Terror surrounded her.

  “Do something!” she yelled to the Chieftess.

  “I am spent and must cleanse,” the Chieftess said, her face a mass of gray wrinkles. “My root juice is gone.”

  Not all. Charlon had her flask. She must act. To get them to the boats before the masks wore off. She pulled up the layers of her wedding dress. Removed the flask from its leg sheath.

  Princess Nabelle was standing now, facing the mob. “Sâr Wilek is waiting for his bride-to-be,” she yelled to the crowd. “Will you let Lady Zeroah pass? Lady Zeroah, who has always served you?”

  Two men reached inside the carriage. They grabbed the princess’s arms. Yanked her over the side. The woman screamed as she fell into the mob. Hoyt reached for her. Seconds later he too was taken. Gone.

  The driver hadn’t noticed. He continued to crack the whip at the horses. Gained a few paces. Not enough.

  Charlon could not be taken. Could not miss the boat. “Magon, help!” She whispered a spell and stood, thrust her hands out. Trusted that Magon would save her.

  She saw into the Veil then. Magon stood beside her in the wagon, but only Charlon could see her. The goddess flew into the crowd, shoving people aside. They screamed. From their perspective, people moved without walking. Heels scraped across the dirt. Bodies piled up on one another. Fell into porches and alleyways. Charlon caught sight of Princess Nabelle among them, yelling for the driver to wait. Charlon’s heart quickened. Better for the woman to die with Mielle.

  The carriage jerked forward. “Many thanks!” the driver called to the people, as if they had moved on their own. The fool. He still hadn’t realized Nabelle and Hoyt were gone.

  The carriage quickly increased speed. Fatigue growing, Charlon sat down but kept her spell active, watching in amazement as Magon carried out her wishes. The faster the carriage went, the more unnatural the moving crowd looked. Flying aside as if blown by the wind.

  Charlon eyed the masts of the ships in the distance. Almost there. She held fast, and Magon cleared the way. Without even a prayer mat or runes. With Magon at her side she could not fail.

  They rolled into the harbor, and the driver stopped beside the Seffynaw, where a wall of guards stood before the gangplank. Charlon and Chieftess Mreegan scrambled out of the carriage. The driver, shocked to discover he had lost Nabelle and her manservant, turned into a blubbering mess. Enough of him. Charlon summoned three King’s Guards from the crowd. Ordered them to carry her trunks on board. She and the Chieftess followed the guards. Up to Lady Zeroah’s fancy cabin. There she ordered the trunks placed under the bed. Under the bed, where they would be safe and unseen.

  Only when she and Mreegan were alone did Charlon fall to the bed and call to Magon for cleansing.

  Trevn

  Beal wanted the book? Trevn’s own onesent? Why?

  “Seize them!” Beal yelled.

  The five guards advanced. Cadoc drew his sword and stepped toward the guards. Oli fumbled with his, which—now that his right arm was useless—was belted on the wrong side. Even so, he managed to get it out of its scabbard and into his left hand in time to meet the attack.

  Hinck had no sword. Nor did Trevn. And Trevn still didn’t understand what was happening. Something was differen
t about the onesent. His confidence, for one. But his eyes were odd. They looked gray. “Explain yourself, Beal.”

  Beal chuckled softly. “You, sir, are no longer my master.”

  Cadoc attacked one of the guards. Their blades met with a clash. Oli leapt forward to engage a second.

  “Hinck! With me!” Trevn ran to the wall and yanked the Rurekan longsword out of its display.

  Hinck grabbed the handle of a combat sword that hung framed beside it, but as he pulled the weapon, the whole frame came with it and thudded to the floor. Hinck set his boot on the frame and pulled.

  Trevn lifted the longsword, finding it lighter than expected. A quick glance showed Cadoc fighting two of the guards at once, blocking their way to Trevn. A third lay motionless on the floor. Oli stood against the wall, not moving. Beal, hand raised, stood before him. Then Oli’s sword flew from his hand and landed across the room.

  Oli met Trevn’s stare. “Your onesent is a mantic.”

  A shiver ran down Trevn’s back.

  “Kill them all!” Beal rasped.

  The other two guards edged around the far side of the couches, approaching Trevn.

  Beal wanted him dead? Beal? “Hurry up, Hinck!”

  With a slow splintering sound Hinck wrenched the blade free of the frame. He came to stand beside Trevn and held out the sword, mounting screws dangling from the top of the tang.

  One of the guards stabbed at Trevn. He parried and wheeled to the side, dodging the second guard’s blade. The first guard swung at Hinck, who yelped and ducked. Trevn countered the second guard, who came at him with tireless fury.

  “This is treason, you know,” Trevn told him.

  The man answered with a series of cuts and stabs that Trevn wasn’t ready for. He parried blow after blow, arms already tiring. Should have spent more time on the practice yard and less on the roofs.

  The guard struck hard, knocking back Trevn’s parry far enough that his blade cut into Trevn’s shoulder.

  Trevn gasped, shocked at the strangeness of such smooth pain. Hot and pulsing. Not so bad. Until he tried to lift his sword and his arm barely moved. The guard advanced, so Trevn lunged behind the couch to give himself a barrier.

  He glanced at Hinck, who was pulling the combat sword from the chest of the first guard. The man lay on his back, clutching the wound, a low keening sound coming from his lips.

  “You killed one?” Trevn asked, sidestepping around the sofa as his attacker tried to decide which way to go around. “Get over here and help me!”

  Trevn’s guard gave up and stepped on the sofa seat. Trevn ran around the end of the couch and stood beside Hinck. Together they raised their swords. Cadoc had killed another guard. Only two remained.

  The floor shook beneath them. Another earthquake rattling the weakened castle.

  “Sands! It’s not going to let up, is it?” Hinck said.

  “Not this time,” Trevn said.

  The map tube’s strap snapped, freeing the weight from Trevn’s shoulder. He spun around in time to see Beal picking up the tube from the floor, a dagger clutched in his other hand.

  “No!” Trevn dropped his sword and tackled Beal before the man had a chance to raise the knife. They crumpled to the rug, struggled. Trevn managed to get on top. Hot pain seared his thigh. He tried not to think about the wound and straddled his former onesent, squeezed both hands around his throat. To his right, Oli picked up Trevn’s discarded sword and joined Hinck and Cadoc. Blades clashed like irregular timpani. Three against two now. Good. It would be over soon. Trevn kept his hold on Beal’s throat and tried to stall, to wait for help.

  The man whispered, “Redu lee!” and someone pulled Trevn off Beal and threw him.

  He rolled three times before coming to a stop against the wall. A glance back showed no one but Beal.

  Thrown by magic?

  Beal stood up, knife in hand, its tang bloody. “It’s over, spoiled little sâr. You cannot win.”

  Those sinister gray eyes made Trevn shiver, but he gritted his teeth and pushed down his fear. “Traitor! I thought you served my mother.”

  “Who do you think sent me?” Beal asked as another Queen’s Guard fell to the floor behind him. “She’ll be angry you died, but glad to have fulfilled her orders.”

  “Liar!” Trevn picked up the closest chair and charged, using the chair as a battering ram. He knocked Beal to the floor. The knife went flying. Trevn dropped the chair and pounced. He clapped his hand over Beal’s mouth, hoping that silence might keep him from using magic. This left Trevn with only one free hand, and Beal easily rolled him to his back.

  Movement overhead. Behind Beal’s back.

  Beal grinned down on Trevn. “Hareshet nisge—”

  A sword emerged from Beal’s chest as someone stabbed him from behind. A death groan eased Trevn’s fear. Beal’s face pinched, gray eyes lost focus, and he collapsed on Trevn just as something sharp pierced Trevn’s stomach.

  “Too far!” Trevn yelled. “Pull back, you fool!”

  The sword withdrew, and Trevn shoved Beal’s dead body off. Hinck stood over him, wincing.

  “I got you?” Hinck asked.

  “Yes.”

  Beside Hinck, Oli held his sword ready. Over by the couches, Cadoc pulled his blade from another guard. The map tube lay on the floor beside Beal. Trevn grabbed it and cradled it in one arm. His shoulder stung, his thigh stung, and Hinck had stabbed him.

  Trevn pulled up his tunic and noted the puddle of blood that had filled his navel. The cut was just above, a few fingers wide.

  Hinck grimaced. “I’m sorry!”

  “Get something to wrap it!” Trevn yelled. “We must go!”

  Grayson

  Grayson wiggled on the boat’s bench. They had left the Baretam with Sir Kalenek and were approaching the Seffynaw. He was going to meet a king! He stared at the Armanian flagship. It was slightly bigger than the Rurekan stoneclad vessel and made of wood painted blue and white. Gold letters spelled out the ship’s name across the side. “Sir Kalenek, will we get to see the king?”

  “The rosâr, he is called,” Kal said. “And I cannot say.”

  “But we will see Prince Wilek for sure.” Onika had spoken much of the prince who would be king.

  “Onika and I will see Sâr Wilek,” Kal said. “I do not know about you.”

  “But at some point, though, right?” The ship was big but not that big.

  “Perhaps,” was all Sir Kalenek would say.

  It grew silent then but for the glub of the oars. Onika held Rustian on her lap and cried. It always made Grayson uncomfortable when Onika cried. She had told Grayson that she would see Jhorn again soon, so he didn’t understand why she was so sad. He wished he had something important to say, something to make her smile or to impress Sir Kalenek.

  The Veil was filled with shadir today. The smoky creatures were everywhere, swirling and laughing and causing mischief. They loved the destruction the earthquakes had brought to the land. They loved death.

  Jhorn had made Grayson swear never to tell a soul he could see into the Veil. At least not until Onika told him differently.

  None of the creatures Grayson saw today were as big or as scary as the one that lived with Priestess Jazlyn. On their long journey through the ream in Rurekau, it had been hard work for Grayson to pretend he couldn’t see the monster called Gozan. He was thankful to have left it behind on the Baretam.

  Grayson didn’t fully understand what was happening on shore. Sir Kalenek, Onika, and Jhorn had been talking about it all morning. The closer the dinghy came to the docks, the louder everything became. People were screaming or crying or running or fighting. Some carried bundles. Some carried nothing. And some jumped right into the ocean and started swimming toward the boats in the harbor.

  Grayson watched a man on a small fishing boat lift a sack of grain and hand it down into the hold. This reminded him of something. “Sir Kalenek, I was wandering around the Baretam this morning and found a room in the hold tha
t was filled with evenroot. Sacks full of it. Powder, fresh tubers, even some plants. Heard one sailor tell another that it was what they confiscated from Priestess Jazlyn and her people. Do you think she knows it’s on the ship?”

  Sir Kalenek’s eyes filled with interest. Ha! Grayson knew the High Shield would want to know that. He smiled, happy to have finally impressed the man.

  “My guess is no. And the young emperor had better hope she doesn’t find out. You’d make a fair spy, Grayson.”

  A spy! Grayson liked the sound of that. “Is it bad that he kept it, do you think?”

  “It’s a risk,” Sir Kalenek said. “If the mantics get ahold of it, they could take the ship.”

  “Would they attack us?”

  “Not right away,” Sir Kalenek said. “Survival is all that matters at the moment. But once we find land, the mantics could take power.”

  “Do not fear the magic of our enemies,” Onika said. “Arman has a plan.”

  Arman did. And Grayson couldn’t wait to play his part, though he still didn’t know exactly what that meant. Jhorn and Onika had been talking about it for years, and Grayson had a feeling he was close to finally finding out.

  The dinghy scraped against the side of the king’s ship. They were here! Someone above lowered two ropes.

  Sir Kalenek and one of the oarsmen stood up, and each caught a rope. Sir Kalenek hooked his to the front of the boat, while the oarsman hooked his to the back. When they were done, Sir Kalenek called up to the men on the ship, he and the oarsman sat down again, and a few moments later the boat lifted right out of the water as the sailors above began to pull it up.

  Grayson grinned at the way the boat suddenly felt weightless. He looked up to the pulleys and watched the ropes move through the wheels. On the deck, he could just see the men there, working the cranks that lifted them. Above, the ship’s masts stretched high into the clear sky. The sails were tied up, making the yards look like the rungs of a giant’s ladder.