King's Blood

by Jill Williamson

  “Miss Onika does not prophesy on demand, Father,” Wilek said. Rosâr Echad had been told this over and over, yet he continued to ask Onika to perform parlor tricks like a jester.

  “A child should obey her elders,” the king said, rapping his ringed knuckles on the tabletop. “Should obey her king. Tell her so, Wilek. Tell her to obey me!”

  When Rosâr Echad became angry these days, his sunken eyes reminded Kal of a shadir he’d seen during the war. He concentrated to keep his mind from drifting to that place as it was wont to do.

  Onika chuckled. “Prophecy is a gift from Arman, Your Highness, not a way of fortune-telling.”

  The king growled. “Arman, Arman. He is all you talk about!”

  “Where is Janek?” Wilek asked. “You did invite him, did you not?”

  “Indeed I did,” the king said. “He had better not spurn my goodwill after I pardoned him. I can understand his anger. Having been locked up for more than a fortnight would make anyone upset, but he has yet to meet Miss Onika. Normally an exotic woman like her would bring him running to have a look. Perhaps he isn’t feeling well. Tell me something about Janek, prophetess. Why isn’t he here? Is he ill?”

  “Father, she does not prophesy on command.”

  “Yes, yes, so you’ve told me,” the king said. “And where is Trevn?”

  “Perhaps the messenger could not find him,” Wilek said. “He does tend to wander.”

  “Always exploring.” The king slammed his palms on the table. “Everyone rejects me. Even you, prophetess, ignored my summons last night.”

  “Arman allowed you to bring destruction upon yourselves once,” Onika said. “Yet you test his patience a second time by sacrificing to other gods?”

  The king’s brow furrowed. “Test Arman? How have I done this?”

  She turned her crystal gaze toward the king. “You killed a man in the name of Thalassa. This displeases Arman, who made all in his image. Never will I stand witness to such idolatry. Do not expect it of me.”

  Kal looked from face to face around the table, taking in each shocked reaction. All seemed to be waiting to see how the king would respond to such words.

  He laughed, though it was not a joyful sound. “You are too outspoken for a woman of common blood. You set a poor example for my daughters. Had you not saved the lives of my people with your premonition of the Five Woes, I would have you sacrificed to Thalassa this very moment.”

  “Arman would never allow it,” Onika said, looking back toward the bowl of melon. “He is my protector and has a plan for my life that does not end in death by your hand. You fool yourself in thinking you are the most powerful being in this world, but you are no more important than any other man, woman, or child.”

  The king slapped the table. “I am Rosâr Echad, ruler of Armania!”

  “Yet still a human,” she said. “Just like me.”

  “Enough abuse!” The king grasped the wheels of his rollchair, tried and failed to move himself, then gestured wildly to his attendants. “To my cabin. I have had my fill of this company. Summon Lady Zenobia and tell her to be ready to sing.”

  No one spoke as the attendants wheeled the king toward the hoist that had been assembled beside the stairs on the starboard side of the stern deck. Once the king was far enough away, Wilek broke the silence.

  “Miss Onika, do take care in how you speak to my father. He is a dangerous man. To bait him is unwise.”

  “I spoke the truth and will always do so, Your Highness,” Onika said. “I apologize if I brought offense, but I fear no man.”

  Kal marveled at how every time Onika spoke, she left people either speechless or furious.

  “Kal,” Wilek said, “I would like to walk the main deck with my sisters. Would you remain with Miss Onika and escort her to her cabin when she is finished here?”

  “Of course, Your Highness,” Kal said.

  He stood silent as Wilek and the sârahs departed with Harton and the other guards. The servants cleared the dishes from the table. When they had gone, Kal spoke.

  “Would you like to return to your cabin, Miss Onika?”

  “If you don’t mind, Sir Kalenek, I would like to sit here in the sun a while longer. I cannot see it, but the warmth helps me remember what it looks like. Does that sound strange?”

  He moved around the table until he was standing beside her. “Not strange but sad.”

  Pink lips curved into a gentle smile. “Do not be sad for me. My life is filled with joy.”

  “But for Jhorn,” Kal said, despair welling as he spoke the next name. “And Grayson.”

  A cruel rush of silence stretched between them. Gone went the gentle smile as Onika’s expression became very serious.

  “I promise you, Sir Kalenek Veroth, that you and I are not destined to have the same conversation over and over for as long as we shall be friends. It was Arman’s plan that Grayson be parted from us. I have always known it. Jhorn had hoped to avoid it by keeping him with me, but one does not thwart Arman’s will. Grayson and I shall be reunited again when the timing is perfect.”

  Her words did not remove Kal’s guilt. “It’s my fault he’s gone.”

  She reached out to him. “Take my hand.”

  Kal took hold. Her hands were soft and a little clammy, but her gentle touch pleased him. He so rarely touched anyone without force.

  “When it is time, Sir Kalenek, you will find Grayson and set him free. You will fulfill your calling as rescuer.”

  Warmth throbbed in his chest at the mesmeric sound of her voice. That had been a real prophecy, not just words of wisdom or warning. Still, the helplessness he felt at having lost Grayson warred with the knowledge of what her words implied. It couldn’t be that easy. Nothing in life was that easy.

  “Tell me a story, Sir Kalenek.” She pulled their joined hands down to her lap, making Kal hunch awkwardly. He supposed she, as a blind woman, had no idea how bent over he was. He pulled close the chair on her right and carefully sat on its edge.

  “What kind of story?”

  “About you. Your first love.”

  He suddenly felt cornered and pulled his hand away. Why would she ask such a thing? Did she really expect him to answer? “I’d rather not.”

  Rustian came out from under the chair and rubbed his head against Onika’s leg, purring. Onika sank her pale fingers into the dune cat’s thick, golden fur. “I know the story of your marriage did not end happily, but I imagine that was not how it began.”

  Kal did not wish to discuss Livy with anyone, especially Onika. “Liviana was not my first love, Miss Onika.” Frustrated, he added, “I am surprised you don’t know that already.”

  She gave him a scolding frown. “I am not omniscient. I only know what Arman gives me when it is needed. And I am only seeking to know you better, Sir Kalenek. To talk as friends. Who was your first love, then, if not Miss Liviana?”

  He sighed.

  He shouldn’t talk to Onika of such things, but with no one else around and that pretty face not looking away from his scars in horror, he supposed he could humor her some. Besides, he didn’t have to name names. “She and I were children together in the castle. I trained in the practice yard with her brother—and her on occasion. She was older than me, and the mischief we found with each other was honestly her idea before it was mine.”

  “How much older?”

  “A year and a half in age, but several in experience.” He grinned at the memory. “I was not her first admirer. She had cultivated a reputation for her young self that was well on the way to being scandalous had her father not stepped in when he did and ordered her properly married.”

  “She was married off, but not to you,” Onika said.

  “I hated her father for it.” And he’d hated the king even more so when, in the wake of Inolah’s marriage, he had forced Kal to train as an assassin. The man had taken away all the light in Kal’s life and cast him into darkness.

  “How long after that sorrowful end did you meet
your Liviana?” Onika asked.

  “Eight years until I met her. We married a year later. And a year after that, I was sent to the war.”

  Onika reached out, feeling the air until her hand found his elbow. She ran her fingers up his arm and stopped on his shoulder, leaned close, and squeezed. “Thank you for sharing, Sir Kalenek. I suspect there are many more powerful stories in your past.”

  “That is likely true of everyone,” Kal said, inhaling her sweet smell and hating himself for such an indulgence. He should not allow her to touch him. It would only make keeping his distance from her that much harder.

  “Kalenek,” a woman said from behind him.

  Kal leaped from his chair and spun around, drawing his sword. Darlow—Mielle and Amala’s nurse—stood there, arms folded, expression bent in fury. Kal’s heart sank, despite its pounding. This had to be about Amala. He pushed his blade back into its sheath. “What has she done now?”

  “She has not only modified another gown to have a lower neckline after I forbade her to do so, she accepted an invitation from a young man to explore the ship and has slipped away with him, unchaperoned. I cannot abide this! She will be ruined, and I refuse to take the blame.”

  “We all fall sometimes,” Onika said. “Miss Amala will learn, in time, that every fall is an opportunity to stand.”

  Kal closed his eyes. Why couldn’t Livy’s sisters have been anything like her? Both Mielle and Amala were wild and determined to ignore his sound counsel. He opened his eyes and shouldered past Darlow, annoyed that Amala’s disobedience had cost him time alone with Onika. “I will find her, Darlow. But first I must secure a guard for Miss Onika.” He looked over the railing to the quarterdeck and spotted Novan Heln and two other guards talking with the pilot. “Heln!” he yelled, and the young man looked up. “Come and guard Miss Onika.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Satisfied, Kal turned back to the women. “I am sorry to abandon you, Miss Onika. Master Heln is coming to take my place.”

  “How delightful! I look forward to speaking with him.”

  Kal bristled, remembering how well Onika and Novan had gotten along on their trip through Magonia. He headed for the stairs.

  “We will talk again soon, Sir Kalenek,” Onika called after him.

  He twisted to look back. Onika was standing and had put on her straw hat. Her honor maidens joined her now, and Rustian, who wound his way between her feet and wrapped himself against her leg.

  “I look forward to it, Miss Onika.”

  She smiled then, showing her teeth. The sun glinted in her eyes and he thought her the most beautiful creature to ever exist.

  The thought sent him down the stairs in a hurry. Livy had been the most beautiful creature to ever exist. His wife. His precious wife who had died. And besides, none of this mattered. Onika was the True Prophet. She could not be courted like an average woman. Two such as them did not belong together, and Kal would not pretend the possibility existed when he knew better.

  He bumped into someone. A man standing by the rail. “Excuse me.” He stepped around the man and realized he had walked the entire quarterdeck without even realizing it. Time to find Amala, and quickly.

  He combed the main deck, then up to the forecastle. He found them by the anchor. His face burned at the sight of his younger ward. The gods had blessed the girl with a woman’s body at far too young an age. Her gown was too tight and low-cut for a young woman, let alone a girl of thirteen. Kal recognized the young soldier she was with as some minor noble’s son. Gedry, Gefrey? Something like that. He served as a backman to the shield of one of the young princesses.

  “Amala, there you are,” Kal said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  She smiled at him, but he caught the flash of annoyance in her eyes. She grabbed Gebly’s arm and leaned against him. “Ulmer, have you met Sir Kalenek Veroth, my warden?”

  Sands, she was calling the boy by his first name already?

  The backman had the decency to straighten his posture and bow his head in respect. “Not officially, no. Good midday to you, sir. It’s an honor.”

  “Your name?” Kal said.

  “Ulmer Gelsly, sir. Miss Amala talks about you constantly.”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  “Kal, don’t be rude. He’s like that sometimes,” she told Gelsly. “It’s because of his scars. People stare so much it’s made him a perpetual grouch.”

  Rage gripped Kal in such a familiar fury he had to fight to keep himself from flashing back to the war. Gelsly had the decency to look away from his face.

  Kal gritted his teeth until he had found enough control to keep his voice even. “Forgive us, Master Gelsly, but we are needed elsewhere at present.” Kal extended his arm to Amala. “Shall we?”

  “I want to stay here with Ulmer.”

  “You will go when you are told, young lady, or suffer consequences you will not enjoy.”

  Amala took hold of Kal’s arm, squeezing until her fingernails bit through his sleeve and into his skin. “Good midday, Ulmer.”

  The boy inclined his head. “Good midday, Miss Amala, Sir Kalenek.”

  Kal dragged her away. They’d barely made it down to the main deck before she started in.

  “I have never been so humiliated!”

  “Then you should wear a dress that covers your charms rather than flaunts them.”

  She gasped. “Now you insult me? Do you really hate me so much?”

  “Just enough to save your reputation.”

  “My reputation was not in danger.”

  “Your reputation—” People were looking at them. He aimed toward the doors inside and lowered his voice. “Keep this up and your reputation will be ruined. You are thirteen. You are not supposed to be dressed like a woman for another year and a half. Nor are you supposed to go on unchaperoned outings with young men, ever. Not even grown, responsible young ladies do that.”

  “Mielle does. She goes wherever she likes with the sâr. And he will marry her and make her a princess and what will I be?”

  He pulled her inside and the darkness blinded him. He stopped, on high alert as he waited for his eyes to adjust.

  Amala jerked away from him, folded her arms. “I hate you,” she muttered.

  If she kept this up, it wouldn’t be long before the feeling became mutual. He took hold of her arm again and pulled her with him down the lengthway.

  “You don’t understand how I feel and you don’t care,” she said, her voice quiet.

  He breathed in deeply through his nose. “I have always cared about you.”

  “Mielle has the sâr. You have the prophetess. I want someone to love me too.”

  Kal stopped walking and stared at the girl, shocked. “I do not have a romantic attachment to Miss Onika.”

  A roll of the eyes. “I’m not as stupid as you think I am. I see how you stare at her. Everyone knows you love her.”

  Kal growled, anger climbing within him. He wanted to deny it, to shake Amala and tell her to stop such rumors now, but he simply gripped the girl’s arm, his hand trembling as his pride crumbled, leaving him exposed and far too vulnerable.

  Amala’s countenance softened. “Kal, I saw people dying in the streets in Everton. Drowning in the sea. Killing each other. And now we ride on boats to some mysterious island that likely doesn’t even exist. I know we are all going to die. So I intend to enjoy what time I have left. I intend to be happy. And I won’t let you make me a prisoner.”

  His memory flashed to Livy, dead in their bed. He had ordered her to stay home when she’d wanted to go to Everton and wait out the rest of her pregnancy with friends. He’d thought it too dangerous for her to travel during a war. He had made his wife a prisoner, and it had killed her and their child. “Very well, Amala,” he said, defeated. “But we do this my way.”

  Trevn

  Trevn sat with Admiral Hanray Vendal on the man’s balcony, watching the ships follow in the Seffynaw’s wake. Over the past few days the admiral
had lectured on many important subjects: inter-ship communications, diplomacy between realms, negotiation tactics, and potential hazards at sea. The organization of the fleet would be Trevn’s final lesson from the admiral for a while, as today—at Trevn’s request—he would be put on a watch to work as a sailor.

  “Convoys fall into two categories,” the admiral said. “Those created for military missions and those that routinely escort merchant vessels. Our convoy consists of three columns with two squadrons of warships on each side, running a zigzag course.”

  “Similar to a flank guard?” Trevn asked.

  “Exactly like that. Though I set the course, the Berith galley warship sails ahead of the Seffynaw.”

  “Like a scout?”

  “More like an advance guard. She’s there to protect us from surprise and to give aid should we be attacked. I also have three armed merchant ships following in back of the fleet as bait for any who might attack from the rear. And before you ask, yes, they act as a rearguard.”

  “Because of the pirates?”

  “That’s part of it,” the admiral said. “But it’s always best to prepare for the worst. Pontiff Rogedoth might be a real threat to our fleet, as might the Magonians who commandeered the Vespara. And even with all our precautions, a small ship could easily slip between the flank warships and overpower some of the smaller vessels. We push for the island and, if need be, will chart our next course from there.”

  “Vendal? You in here?” a man’s voice called.

  “Ah, here is Captain Livina,” the admiral said, standing. “I was nearly finished anyway. If you have no further questions, Your Highness, let’s get you set on a watch. If you’re certain that’s what you want?”

  “I am.” Trevn rose and followed the admiral inside.

  Captain Aldair Livina had bent over the admiral’s table, examining the charts that had been anchored there with pins. The thin man of average height with a graying, mossy beard glanced up, bowed quickly to Trevn, and resumed his investigation of the chart. “You think this a faster route than the one I gave you, Hanray?”

  The admiral stopped beside the captain. He was taller and thicker than Livina, which made the older man look almost frail. “From what I know of northern currents, yes,” the admiral said. “If you remembered your coordinates correctly, I believe we can reach the island in ten days, even at our slower speed.”