King's Blood

by Jill Williamson

  “Did Ulrik and Ferro come with you?” Wilek asked.

  “They did not. Ulrik sent two ambassadors. He has anchored the ship and is waiting to hear a pronouncement on the suitability of the island.”

  “That is wise, I suppose,” Wilek said. “It will keep Rurekau, at least, contained.”

  “His reasons are nothing more than folly. He worries the High Queen might escape his grasp. And Ferro. Ulrik insists on keeping the boy at his side constantly. He is training him as his Heir—until he marries and has a son. Then perhaps Ferro will be banished too.”

  “What do you mean banished?”

  “I’m afraid I have lost both my boys to Ulrik’s ambition. Too many times I interfered with his plans. Letting Kal and the pale prophetess go free used up the last of his forgiveness. But I do not wish to talk of my problems just now. What of our brothers? I have never once laid eyes on Trevn and so look forward to meeting him.”

  “You will do so tomorrow,” Wilek said. “He will be at the council meeting.”

  “Excellent! And Janek, who had the audacity to marry my Vallah? Since I have heard nothing to the contrary, I take it we must still claim that soulless tyrant as our own?”

  “Indeed we must,” he said and told her of the trial. “I am still puzzling out his involvement in this mantic treachery. Father forbade him come to the island until after the meeting. I feel they are both nursing their pride. No doubt a little more time will return their egos in full force.”

  Everyone stood when the king arrived, and Inolah went to greet their father. Many had remained on board the Seffynaw. Besides King Echad, Wilek and Inolah were the only others seated at the high table tonight.

  The mood in the meeting tent was somber, as most had heard the initial report on the size of the island. Wilek was thankful for Inolah’s presence, as it had greatly lifted his spirits.

  The sound of the herald’s horn jolted them from their conversation. Not expecting Janek or Trevn, Wilek looked up in surprise. Prince Loran of Sarikar stood in the doorway with his daughter, Saria, who was Trevn’s age; his son, Thorvald, who Wilek thought to be eleven but looked closer to eight or nine; and his brother Prince Rosbert. Ywan, King Jorger’s middle-aged onesent, was also present, along with four Sarikarian guardsmen.

  “His Royal Highness, Loran Pitney, King of Sarikar, the God’s king,” the herald announced.

  “Since when is Loran king of Sarikar?” Inolah whispered.

  “King Jorger went missing during the Woes,” Wilek said. “It could be they declared him dead.” Lady Zeroah would be devastated to hear of yet another loss to her family.

  Loran came to stand below Father’s seat at the head table. He bowed politely. Since Father could not, Wilek stood and returned the bow.

  “Where is Jorger?” Father barked.

  “Dead, I’m afraid,” Loran said. “I was crowned aboard the Kaloday just two days ago.”

  “Who said Jorger was dead?” Father asked.

  “I received a messenger bird from my uncle Mergest—known to you as Barthel Rogedoth. He claimed my father died at the hand of Magonians.”

  The tent erupted into noise.

  Wilek sank to his chair, staggered by the news. King Jorger murdered, and Rogedoth the betrayer, alive? Wilek had been searching for Rogedoth’s houseboat these past two weeks to no avail. He had been hoping the man had perished in Everton during the Woes.

  “Is Rogedoth allied with Magonia?” Wilek asked.

  “I know not,” Loran said. “But my uncle also informed me that he has wed Lady Eudora Agoros and claimed rule of Sarikar, which he says is rightfully his.”

  “Married to Eudora!” This outburst from Oli Agoros, who sat with Hinckdan Faluk at a table on the floor. The duke had feared his sister might be allied with their enemies, but to marry a man more than three times her senior?

  “His actions put Sâr Janek in position to be declared Heir of both Sarikar and Armania,” Loran said, “should you and your father meet an early death, which my uncle’s missive suggested you would.”

  “He threatens the life of me and my son?” Father yelled.

  “He hints at a plot.” Loran motioned to Ywan, who passed a scroll up to Father.

  “A plot he no doubt devised,” Wilek said, moving to read the scroll over Father’s shoulder. It said nothing more than Loran had claimed, but he recognized Rogedoth’s narrow handwriting and seethed inside. They must bring this man to justice!

  “I bet my mother had a hand in this,” Oli said. “My sister would never have married otherwise.”

  “But why would Lady Eudora go along with it?” Hinckdan asked. “She swore to me she did not wish to be queen.”

  “They might not have given her a choice,” Inolah said. “No one gave my daughter a choice when she was married to Sâr Janek.”

  “They are both of them traitors!” Father said.

  “More to me than you,” Loran said. “It is my throne he has claimed as his own.”

  “And my second wife who helped him do it,” Father said. “She will be executed for this. Sacrificed to Thalassa.”

  “We have to catch them first,” Wilek said. “And we have no idea where their ship is. How did his messenger bird know to find you?”

  “My uncle stole a Sarikarian warship called the Amarnath,” Loran said. “Our birds are trained to find other ships. Plus I am near certain he is using mantics.”

  Father bellowed a cry of rage. “Double the guard around me and my Heir. And send five ships to scour the fleet. They must not return until they’ve found the Amarnath and Vespara.”

  “Even if we found the ships,” Wilek said, “I would be hesitant to approach knowing they have one or more mantics on board.”

  “Does not your son have a mantic on board, Empress?” Father asked Inolah.

  “The High Queen of Tenma, yes,” Inolah said. “She is not in his service, though, but a passenger. He does not trust her, and for good reason.”

  “No mantic can be trusted,” Father said.

  Wilek knew better. It wasn’t so much the mantic that was untrustworthy, but the shadir.

  Wilek slept poorly that night. All hope of a future on Bakurah Island had been shattered. And now this news of Rogedoth the betrayer still plotting against House Hadar. Did he plan to take Armania for himself or his grandson Janek?

  To fight such enemies, Wilek needed help. Trusted allies. He had Hinckdan, at least, who had managed to infiltrate Janek’s retinue—though as a newcomer, Janek likely didn’t include him in everything. If only Wilek had someone even closer to Janek. A woman, perhaps.

  Lady Pia.

  He clapped his hands in the darkness of his tent, giddy to have remembered his grandmother’s final gift before the Five Woes had claimed her life in the fall of Everton.

  “Janek’s concubine Pia,” she had said. “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.”

  Wilek climbed out of bed, lit a candle, and quickly penned the single word on a slip of parchment. He rang for Dendrick, apologized for the hour and the odd request, then went back to bed, feeling hopeful for the first time all day.

  The next morning, before the Wisean Council convened, Wilek pulled Hinckdan aside. “What have Janek and his friends been up to? Are they plotting against my father or me?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Hinckdan answered. “Janek longs to rule, but he is lost without Pontiff Rogedoth and Rosârah Laviel to give him direction, and he is not cunning enough on his own to match you politically. He is bored senseless and still suffering the lack of evenroot, which makes him ill and moody. So he toys with his retinue, asking us to entertain him in all number of ridiculous ways.” Hinckdan held up his hands, the palms of which were stained reddish brown. “His latest demand was that Fonu and I paint his portrait. And when he hated it—which, why wouldn’t he? We’re not artists—he made us recite the whole of The Consort of Ki
ng Barthek and pelted us with slices of melon each time we faltered a line. Do tell me I can quit him finally?” He looked at Wilek with such a beseeching expression, it was almost difficult to say what he must.

  “I need you to remain with him a while longer,” Wilek said. “This news of Rogedoth’s marriage might change Janek’s motivations. I want to know his opinion on the matter. His real opinion.”

  The spark in Hinckdan’s eyes faded. “Very well.”

  “I know that it is not an easy task, Hinckdan, but you are doing Armania a great service.”

  Hinckdan released a heavy sigh. “As a royal cousin, what else would I do but serve?”

  Trevn

  Trevn admired Bakurah Island as four of Wilek’s King’s Guards rowed him to shore in a dinghy just after sunrise. The many shades of green not only surprised him, they beckoned. Grass as high as a man’s waist and a thick forest of slender trees swayed in the salty sea breeze. The trees looked too wispy to climb, but that wouldn’t stop Trevn from trying. Some sort of bird cawed in the distance, another tittered a song. And the flowers . . . Red and white ruffles, bulbous purple trumpets, tiny golden discs, and pink bells. Trevn doubted Janek had yet bothered to look at the land, for if he had seen the lush vegetation, he would have been on the first boat over.

  The dinghy reached the shore, and Wilek’s guards escorted Trevn—carrying a map tube loaded with plenty of paper and charcoal—across the hard-packed sand and through a maze of paths in the tall grass. They approached the meeting tent where over two dozen guards stood posted outside. In fact, now that Trevn saw them, he noticed even more guards milling about.

  “What does the king fear with his overuse of guardsmen?” Trevn asked the nearest guard.

  “A threat was made against him and Sâr Wilek, so the rosâr doubled security.”

  More like quadrupled. “What kind of threat?”

  “Don’t know for certain, but word is it came from one of Sâr Janek’s supporters, though the Second Arm claims to have no knowledge of any such plot.”

  Janek would claim that. Trevn knew not what to make of his wayward brother. Never once had Janek seemed interested in duty or ruling until Wilek had gone missing a few months back. Then Janek had sprung forward and shown a different side of himself.

  Trevn would never underestimate his brother’s ambition again.

  He arrived in the meeting tent and found Oli, Duke of Canden, who filled him in on all he had missed yesterday. That Cousin Eudora had married Pontiff Rogedoth of her own volition, Trevn found absurd. The girl had never made an ambitious decision in her life, and marriage to a betrayer like Barthel Rogedoth was extremely enterprising.

  It did not surprise him that the former Pontiff had declared himself king of Sarikar, though it seemed a strange time to declare war, which was exactly what he’d done with his missive to King Loran. He’d also foolishly united Sarikar and Armania against a common enemy.

  The inadequacies of Bakurah Island and its unique reef barrier came as Oli’s second piece of news, and while Trevn understood the magnitude of this situation on the fleet, it fascinated him. He hoped to sneak away to explore between his mother’s trial and the council meeting.

  The meeting tent had been set up like the great hall back in Castle Everton. A long table had been elevated at the far end. Ten audience tables sat in two rows of five. Between the rows, directly opposite Father’s rollchair, a single chair sat empty. Trevn’s mother would sit there shortly and be questioned. He hadn’t spoken to her in almost two weeks. It shamed him that he hadn’t thought of her at all except to wonder over her guilt. How sad that he didn’t even miss his own mother. What did it mean?

  Trevn took his chair on Father’s left. The king was speaking to Lebbe Alpress, captain of the King’s Guard. Four of the five members of the Wisean Council had already arrived.

  “Trevn.” Wilek appeared behind his chair. “You look much better.”

  “A man can wear many things,” Trevn said. “It does not change who he is inside.”

  “Perhaps not,” Wilek said. “But where we royals are concerned, perception is everything. If we look like we don’t care, our people will believe it.”

  “You and I have different opinions on what it looks like to care about our people,” Trevn said. “Janek dresses like a king and cares only for himself. I dress like a sailor and learn how our people live and work. My actions prove I care more than any silk doublet could ever say.”

  Wilek sighed. “This is not the time to debate such a subject. We will question your mother first, then proceed with the rest of our meeting, which is to discuss next steps in regard to this island. We will eat a short repast, then reconvene with the representatives from the other realms to attempt a joint decision.”

  Trevn nodded and Wilek returned to his seat.

  “What is that smell?” Father asked.

  “Ropes and tar,” Danek said from two seats down on Trevn’s left. Hinckdan’s father looked like an older version of his son, right down to the huge dimpled smile. “I daresay we will not escape the stench until we leave these ships behind for good.”

  Trevn no longer noticed the smell, but he was likely the culprit. He glanced at his hands in his lap and the rough calluses the ropes had left on his palms. No doubt the stench had already buried itself in his skin.

  A woman sank onto a cushioned seat on Trevn’s left. She was great with child and dressed like a queen. Her hair was two shades of bronze and black, done up in small coils that reached her elbows.

  Trevn gathered in his mind the only name he felt appropriate. “Empress Inolah?”

  She turned, posture straight, eyes deep brown. “Correct. And you are . . . ?”

  “Sâr Trevn.”

  She lit up in a smile. “Little brother, I am pleased to finally meet you.” Her eyes shifted as she studied his face. “How much you remind me of my Ulrik. He is but one year your senior.”

  “And now an emperor.” The unlucky man. “I look forward to meeting him.”

  Father called the council to order, and all fell silent. Trevn turned away from his elder sister to regard the king, and in the process saw that his mother had been brought in. She had more than filled the lone chair, hands bound before her. Her eyes were fixed on his. He held her stare and raised one eyebrow to challenge her to redeem herself, then focused his attention on Wilek, glad he did not have to lead these proceedings himself.

  “Rosârah Thallah,” Wilek began. “You come before this council on charges of duplicity. What say you?”

  “A reliable witness tells the truth,” Mother said. “And I swear to do so upon the life of my only son, Sâr Trevn Hadar.”

  Trevn could see her turn toward him, but he kept his gaze on Wilek.

  Father nodded to Wilek. “I accept her oath as valid. Continue, my Heir.”

  Wilek cleared his throat and looked to a sheet of parchment on the table before him. “Explain to this council how you came to be involved with the cult Lahavôtesh.”

  Mother wrung her huge hands. “I overheard Rosârah Laviel speaking of Havôt to her ladies. I asked her about it, and she said it was not for me. This only made me more eager to be a part of it. It was common knowledge that Rosârah Laviel was the rosâr’s favorite wife, and I wanted to experience anything she found worthwhile.

  “Shortly thereafter I was approached by several different women. I do not know who they were. They always were cloaked in black and came to me at night. They told me that I was being watched, measured. And finally that I was found worthy.”

  Exactly what Hinck had experienced before he had been brought into the Lahavôtesh. Wilek asked Trevn’s mother for names. She gave only Rosârah Laviel, Sâr Janek, and Beal, who had been Trevn’s onesent until he had tried to kill Trevn and take the Book of Arman.

  “Was Beal a member before or after you?” Trevn asked, steeling himself when all heads turned in one motion to look at him.

  “Before,” Mother said. “Rosârah Laviel encouraged m
e to hire him as your onesent upon your arrival in Everton. She said he was good at his job and well respected. I wanted her to like me, so I took her advice.”

  Considering this led Trevn to another question. “Did Beal kill Father Tomek?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Mother said, hanging her head.

  “On your order?”

  Her head snapped up. “No! Beal is Moon Fang’s hand. Was, anyway.”

  “Who is Moon Fang?” Wilek asked.

  “The high priest of the Lahavôtesh faith. He ordered Beal to kill Father Tomek for being an Armanite,” she said.

  “Then you sent your personal guards after me?” Trevn asked.

  “Not after you. After the book. It’s all that wretched book’s fault! That’s all he wanted.”

  “Moon Fang?” Wilek clarified.

  “Yes. He said it must be destroyed at all costs. I never understood he meant to risk even the life of my only son.”

  All that time, Trevn’s mother and Beal had been the ones tracking him for the book. And the book had been hidden in the secret room in Mother’s apartment. He would laugh, if it wasn’t so sad.

  “Why did Moon Fang want the book destroyed?” Wilek asked.

  “He said it was heresy.”

  “Is Moon Fang Pontiff Rogedoth?”

  Her eyes went wide. “I don’t know. Perhaps. That would make sense.”

  Wilek went on to ask several questions about Lady Lebetta, his concubine who had been murdered. Mother said Moon Fang had ordered her death when she refused to kill Wilek.

  “So Beal killed her?” Wilek asked.

  She shook her head. “One called Red Ream. I don’t know his real identity, but he is a friend of Sâr Janek’s.”

  Wilek rubbed the bridge of his nose and asked why she had suggested to Rosârah Laviel that Janek wed Princess Vallah of Rurekau.

  She wiped tears off her cheeks. “Because he was going to rule! Everyone knew it. Laviel was most favored. The king was ill. And you . . .” She nodded to Wilek.