King's Blood

by Jill Williamson

  “How is Miss Kellah?” he managed to ask.

  “Her labor has begun. The midwife says it won’t be long.” Mielle released him from her hug. “What happened to your face?”

  Kal wouldn’t confess his crimes to Mielle in front of Sâr Trevn. “I had an altercation,” he said.

  Mielle’s jaw dropped. “Trevn!”

  “Not me!” Trevn said. “But I did tell him about us.”

  Mielle turned pinched brows upon Kal and took hold of Trevn’s hand. “Do not be angry, Kal. I swear to you that we love each other just as much as you loved my sister.”

  Kal doubted that very much. “I have orders from Sâr Wilek to check on Miss Kellah. He has given the guardianship of her and her child to me.”

  “Guardianship?” Mielle asked. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I must speak with her immediately.” Before she died in labor.

  Mielle scowled at him as she slipped inside.

  Perhaps Shemme wouldn’t die. Perhaps Wilek had been mistaken and both she and her child would come through the labor healthy and strong. That would certainly make things easier all around.

  “Something has happened,” Trevn said, eyes narrowed at Kal. “My brother would not give you up so willingly to such a menial task. Not when he so recently assigned you to his most important prophetess.”

  The boy was a quicker study than even Novan. “You are too clever for your own good, Your Highness,” Kal said. “Take care how freely you muse aloud, as it someday might provoke a villain to silence your wit.”

  “I’ve tried to warn him of that many times,” Sir Cadoc said.

  “Well, your life now belongs to another, Your Highness. If you will not take care for yourself, think of Mielle, would you?”

  “I see your point,” Trevn said. “But why would Wilek give you an infant child when it has a mother to care for it?”

  “I do not believe it will have a mother for long.”

  The door flap opened, and Mielle waved them inside the tent. Sir Cadoc stayed behind. Sheets draped on lines partitioned one woman from the next. Mielle led them into a compartment along the left side. The space was twice as large as the narrow cot that Shemme was lying on. A Magonian woman sat on a stool beside the cot, holding Shemme’s hand.

  “She is nearly ready for the birthing stool,” the woman said.

  “This is Sir Kalenek Veroth, my guardian,” Mielle said, settling on the edge of the cot. “Kal, this is Miss Kellah’s midwife, Sonber.”

  Sonber. The name froze Kal. He searched for its meaning and quickly remembered. Sonber was Agmado Harton’s true surname. Could this be his mantic sister? The one called Charlon?

  The midwife regarded Kal, her eyes gray and suspicious. She was no bigger than Amala, had a small nose, downturned lips, and hair as curly and wild as a thornbush. She wore nothing but a blue-and-white kasah tied over one arm as a dress that left shoulders, arms, legs, and feet bare.

  If this was the witch who had abducted Wilek and taken Sârah Zeroah’s likeness for so long, what could Kal do? He pretended not to make any connection. “Who assigned a midwife?”

  “When Kellah went into labor, I didn’t know what to do,” Mielle said. “I came looking for help and found Sonber. I just knew it was Arman’s provision.”

  Kal nodded but doubted that very much.

  “I have given custody of the baby to Sonber,” Shemme said, panting, “in the event this child takes my life when it comes.”

  “Don’t talk like that!” Mielle said. “You are going to be just fine.”

  The Magonian witch had already convinced Shemme to give over her child? Not if Kal could help it. “We will deal with that situation if it comes, Miss Kellah,” Kal said.

  “Which we pray it won’t,” Mielle added.

  “I must remind you,” Kal added, “that you do not have sole rights to this child. I have come to represent its father’s interests.”

  “He wants nothing to do with me!” Shemme yelled.

  “Perhaps not. But his family would not abandon the babe as you might have thought. I have been sent to act as the child’s High Shield.”

  “What does a baby need with a High Shield?” Trevn asked.

  Kal shot him a glare, hoping he’d take the hint.

  “I can protect the child,” Sonber said.

  “No doubt you can, Miss Sonber,” Kal said, “but I have my assignment and will not fail it. I have leave to act as the voice of the child’s father in all matters concerning it and its mother’s welfare.”

  “I can speak for myself a while longer,” Shemme said.

  “And I must protest,” Sonber said. “In Magonia a father has no say in the upbringing of a child. That is for a woman to decide, and I insist that—”

  Shemme’s bloodcurdling scream ended all discussion on the matter.

  “Out!” Sonber yelled. “We must move Miss Kellah to the birthing stool. Miss Mielle, fetch us water.”

  Mielle jumped to obey the midwife’s orders and rushed Kal and Trevn out of the tent.

  When they reached Sir Cadoc, Kal grabbed Mielle’s arm and held tight until her eyes met his. “Take care with that midwife,” he said. “She is a mantic and not to be trusted. I fear she may be the same one who took Sârah Zeroah’s likeness.”

  Mielle went rigid, her expression one of shock. “How do you know?”

  “Agmado Harton’s real surname was Sonber. Charlon was his sister.”

  “What shall I do?”

  “Pay attention,” Kal said. “Stay with Miss Kellah at all times. We’ll send a maid for the water.”

  Mielle nodded and slipped back inside the tent. Two maids eagerly went for water when the sâr asked.

  “If that woman is dangerous, I don’t want Mielle anywhere near her,” Trevn said, his voice nearly a whisper.

  “We need someone we can trust in there, Your Highness,” Kal said.

  “What is so special about this child?” Trevn asked. “Why does the mantic want it?”

  “The Magonians seek to fulfil a prophecy.” That much should not surprise this former priest-in-training. “It was why Charlon abducted your brother and later wore Sârah Zeroah’s mask. Magonia seeks a child fathered by one of the princes of Armania. They care not which.”

  Trevn cleared his throat. “Because their prophecy states that Mother and Father will come together to produce their savior. The Deliverer.”

  “Your education does you credit, Your Highness,” Kal said.

  “So this child’s father is . . .” Trevn’s raised eyebrows awaited an answer. When Kal did not comply, the sâr made his guess. “Kamran’s, perhaps, though likely Janek’s.”

  Guilt overwhelmed Kal at the mention of the name that had caused his exile.

  “How could the mantic know who fathered the child?” Trevn asked.

  Kal shrugged. “Miss Kellah might have said. Or the mantic’s shadir might know.”

  “A shadir!” Trevn cried. “Cadoc, we must arrest this woman immediately.”

  In Kal’s turmoil, the thought had not occurred to him. “Certainly, Highness. You and Sir Cadoc fetch the guard, but promise me that you will return to the Seffynaw to inform your brother that I am with the child and will do all I can to protect it.”

  “I will go in the same boat with my captive,” Trevn said, then set off with Sir Cadoc, leaving Kal alone outside the birthing tent. It wasn’t long before one of the young maids came to fetch him.

  “Is all well?”

  “The babe is a healthy boy,” she replied, her voice cracking, “but the mother . . . she did not survive.”

  Sorrow pinched Kal’s heart. Lore come to life was difficult when there was little tradition to inform expectations. He steeled himself as he returned to Shemme’s compartment. The air smelled horribly of blood, reminding Kal of the day he’d found Livy dead. He saw the body, lying on the bed, soaked in red. Not Livy, he reminded himself. Still, he backed out into the passageway, afraid to move closer until hi
s heart calmed enough to look on the scene with indifference.

  Someone was crying. A woman. She sniffled, spoke. “He’s remembering the war. Kal?”

  Her face appeared before his, streaked in tears. Mielle. His girl. She had grown so fast. He would miss her.

  “Are you well, Kal?” she asked, her hand on his arm.

  “I am.” Though it was a lie.

  “Miss Kellah died.” Mielle’s face crumpled, and she began to cry. Kal embraced her, held her tightly. “She lived long enough to hold the boy and kiss his swarthy head. She named him Shanek DanSâr, after herself and his father.”

  Kal winced at the name. He needed to get the babe off this ship before word of a child with Hadar blood began to circulate.

  The mantic stood against one wall, a bundle in her arms, watching him warily. Mielle blocked his view of the dead mother, so Kal released his ward and walked inside, keeping his gaze on the child. “May I see the babe?”

  “You won’t harm him?” Sonber asked.

  “No, I just . . . sometimes blood makes me remember things I’d rather forget. I did not mean to frighten you.”

  The woman handed Kal the bundle. The weight surprised him. The light inside the birthing tent was very dim, but Kal could see the child’s skin was blotchy, like Grayson’s. A carpet of mossy black hair covered his head, and he weighed as much as a whole ham. Hara must have given Shemme a lot of root while she was pregnant. The child’s eyes fixed on his, clear like those of a mantic. Could this child someday be a threat to Armania? Might Kal have to take its life?

  “He looks big, doesn’t he?” Kal asked. “Compared to a normal infant?”

  “I noticed that too,” Mielle said, wiping her eyes. “Look at his hair. And he already has teeth.” She put her finger in the child’s mouth. “Two on the bottom and one coming in on the top. He is as big as a yearling. It’s no wonder Miss Kellah did not survive.”

  The words made Kal cold inside. He focused on the warmth of the child, but strangely it offered little.

  Shouts outside the compartment and the jangle of steel warned Kal that Sâr Trevn and Sir Cadoc had returned to arrest the mantic. The sâr stepped inside the compartment and pointed at the midwife. “Arrest that woman. She has committed crimes against the realm of Armania.”

  The mantic lunged at Kal, wrapped her arms around him and the babe, and yelled, “Magon, shalosh soor!”

  Flashing light pinwheeled, blinding Kal. He felt weightless. His feet no longer found purchase beneath him. He landed hard on an unstable surface, and his legs crumpled. He clutched the baby close to protect it. Cool air, water lapping, the roll of waves. He blinked at the steady brightness and found himself in a longboat that was tethered to the stern of the Rafayah.

  “Give me the child,” a woman said.

  Kal looked over his shoulder. The mantic was seated on the bench behind his. He turned to face her. “How did you do that?”

  “I did not have enough strength. To carry us to the Vespara. Give me the child and row.”

  “Put us back on the ship.”

  “You will row us to the Vespara. And when we arrive, you will give witness to my people that I birthed this child from my own body.”

  “I will do no such thing,” Kal said.

  “You will, or I will end the life of your precious Mielle.”

  Kal stared into the mantic’s pale eyes. “You bluff.”

  “Had I been holding the child when Sâr Trevn arrived, I would not have brought you along. But Magon sees value in your services to our realm. If you want to protect the child, you will do as I say. Now hand the babe to me and row.”

  Kal did not like this one bit, but he dared not risk Mielle to a mantic’s wrath, and putting as much distance as he could between them seemed the best option. He gave over the child, unlatched the tether that held the longboat to the tow ropes, then took up the oars and began to row in the direction the mantic indicated.

  Nothing to do now but bide his time, remain with the child, and, as Onika would say, hope for the best, though such optimism was against everything in Kal’s nature.

  Charlon

  Triumph!

  The Armanian High Shield rowed the wooden boat away from the Rafayah. Bound by his oath to obey Prince Wilek. And his fear that Charlon might harm Mielle.

  Magon led the way out of the fleet. It did not take long. Many ships had put up their sails for the coming storm. Dark clouds filled the sky. Angry waves shoved the little boat up and down, no matter how hard the knighten pulled the oars. It began to rain. The baby fussed. Charlon looked down upon the child’s face. Tried to cover it. But that only annoyed him further. Perhaps he was hungry. She hoped a milking animal still lived aboard the Vespara.

  Shanek DanSâr. Round cheeks, pale eyes, and skin so strange. His size had shocked her, for he looked more like a sturdy youngster than a squirming infant. She had seen both in the brothel in Rurekau from time to time, and far too many newborns during her work as a midwife these past weeks. Only now did Charlon understand her debt of gratitude. The blessings Magon had heaped upon her. Had she conceived a child by Prince Janek, her body would have died when the child entered the world. So ignorant. All this time Charlon had been striving to secure her own death. Had Mreegan known? Had she wanted Charlon dead?

  Magon had bestowed favor upon Charlon. She was the Mother! She would return to the Vespara a hero. The Magonian people would cheer and worship the goddess on her behalf. And Charlon would teach this child all things. He would become great because she would see to it.

  And someday Charlon would rule them all.

  This knighten from Armania would help her. Revered and valuable to Prince Wilek. He would remain her prisoner. An asset to Magonia. A witness to the child’s heritage.

  As the clouds dumped their water, Sir Kalenek rowed.

  She focused on his long twists of black hair. The wounds and scars—old and new—on his face. The short beard he used to hide them. Charlon had always wondered who had cut him. The worst scar ran straight across his forehead. Turned and crossed over his eye, puckering his eyebrow strangely. It continued down his cheek and into his beard, making a hairless line. Other slashes marred his face. A thick white laceration trailed down the side of his neck and into his shirt. Pity welled. Evidence of so much physical pain likely meant heavier pain within. Did such scars cover the rest of his body too?

  “What happened?” she asked, nodding to his face. “The scars, I mean.”

  His dark eyes glanced at hers. Shifted over her shoulder as his rowing quickened. Charlon quailed within. She had been wrong to ask. Something so deep. Her question must have dragged him away to a hellish past.

  “In the war,” he suddenly answered, pulling the oars. Once. Twice. “I was captured in Magonia and tortured.”

  Ah. She may as well tell him the truth of her own heritage. Perhaps it would make things easier. “I am not Magonian,” she said. “I am from Rurekau.”

  “Because Harton was from Rurekau.” He looked at her now, wounded eyes curious. Victims understood things others could not.

  “My brother sold me to a brothel when I was thirteen,” she said.

  “I heard that,” Kal said.

  “It took years, but I finally escaped. Heard that women were treated better in Magonia. So I went there.”

  His only answer was to row and pant.

  “Magonians don’t treat men any better. Than Rurekans treat women,” she said, choosing each word carefully. Wanting him to hear the threat. “You’ll likely have a difficult time aboard our ship. I will do what I can. To safeguard you. That you are the child’s protector is in your favor. Perhaps no one will harm you.”

  “Perhaps I should kill you and the child and be done with you both,” he said.

  Would he? His aggressive tone made her want to cower. But he did not understand her powers. He would not risk Mielle.

  “If you talk that way aboard our ship, you will not live long.”

  He narrowed
his eyes, then glanced over his shoulder. “That ship, there?”

  She regarded the Vespara in the distance. “Yes.” She was almost home. She would see Torol.

  “That’s the Sarikarian vessel you stole from King Jorger,” Sir Kalenek said.

  “A gift,” Charlon said. “Before his heart gave out. You see it flies the Magonian flag now.”

  That silenced the man.

  By the time they reached the hull beneath the pulley lines, a crowd had gathered at the rail above.

  “Send down the lines!” Charlon yelled. “The Mother has returned with the Deliverer!”

  Even with the growing wind and the three decks between her and the people above, the cheer that went up reached her ears. She smiled, elated to hear the Tennish language again after so many months of speaking Kinsman. Her gaze caught Sir Kalenek’s stern one.

  “If you look on me with such distaste, you will quickly earn yourself enemies. I decide your fate upon this ship. I will be your translator. Without me, you will be alone.”

  “I am used to being alone,” he said.

  Their boat was hoisted aloft and they boarded the Vespara.

  A strong male voice cried out, “All hail the Mother!”

  Her people cheered. So many familiar faces! Charlon held her head high as they lauded her return. She tucked the child into one arm and raised the other. “Silence!”

  The people quieted. All eyes on her.

  “This man is Sir Kalenek Veroth of Armania,” she said. “He is my prisoner. No harm shall come to him. No compulsion set upon him. Unless ordered by me. Is that clear?”

  Agreements rose up from the crowd.

  “Where is the Chieftess?” Charlon asked.

  “In her cabin.” Torol’s voice.

  Charlon turned until she saw him step into the circle that had formed around her. The sight of his face filled her with longing.

  “Two, find someone to bring milk and a gut sack to the Chieftess’s cabin so the child can eat,” Charlon said to Nuel. He scurried off to obey. Then she regarded Torol again. “Lead us to Chieftess Mreegan.”

  Torol bowed low, then set off. Charlon followed, admiring the bronze skin of his back and the broad reach of his shoulder blades. He was Four now. Had been promoted after the Omatta had killed Morten. When Charlon became Chieftess, she would make him One.