King's Blood

by Jill Williamson

“But the child. What of Shanek DanSâr?”

  “That child is a stray, who cannot inherit the throne. And rumor has spread that our father had Shemme killed. No one knows about the child but me, you, Mielle, Kal, Jhorn, and Zeroah.”

  “And all of Magonia in a very short time,” Trevn said.

  Wilek rubbed his hands over his face. “Leave Magonia to Kal.” A pause. “Now, tell me what you’ve done, Trevn. I have seen the mark you’ve been hiding on your hand. Assure me it is not what I fear.”

  Trevn fingered the red impression on his palm. “I didn’t know what it was at first. The midwife wanted to give us a blessing. In taking care of Miss Shemme, she and Mielle had become close. I saw no reason to refuse. I didn’t find out until today that the midwife was Charlon Sonber.”

  “Did you learn nothing from my pain? And why would a near stranger have reason to give you a blessing? Did that not seem suspicious?”

  Trevn’s cheeks tingled as a horrifying realization settled into his mind. From the moment he had stepped foot on the Rafayah, Charlon had been there. Was that why he had been so adamant and eager to marry Mielle?

  “Trevn? Answer me.”

  He lifted his head and met his brother’s reprimanding gaze. “I think Charlon put a compulsion on me,” he confessed, and the words brought heavy grief. “The moment I saw Miss Mielle, I knew I had to marry her without delay.”

  “Marry her!”

  Trevn cringed. “Thinking back, that doesn’t sound very much like me.”

  “Doesn’t it? Eloping to marry someone without your father’s blessing or approval? Sounds to me like something a Renegade would do.”

  “Well, yes, but that’s not why I did it. I only knew that I must. There was no logic to it. Cadoc, Captain Stockton, even Miss Mielle tried to talk me out of it. But I would not be dissuaded. And when the midwife offered to say a blessing at our wedding, I figured it was a prayer from a friend. Why would the mantic have compelled me to marry Mielle?”

  “Oli says that shadir love mischief. Perhaps Charlon’s shadir wanted to play a trick.”

  “But we are happy.”

  “You and Miss Mielle are. The rest of us are not. You made a promise to me, Trevn, to put the realm before your own happiness. Do not think me callous. I understand how it feels to be compelled and soul-bound. It is terribly invasive. But who you marry was never for you to decide alone. We can try to hide this for now—”

  “I do not wish to hide it!”

  “Hear me out. Our brother is dead. Our father nearly so. If Father recovers, with you now the Second Arm, know that he will demand an annulment.”

  Trevn lifted his chin. “I love Mielle and will not cast her aside no matter what you or Father say. Whether or not a mantic tricked us, we were married by a Rurekan priest on the Rafayah’s main deck in front of more than one hundred witnesses. Don’t you care what I want?”

  “Who spoke to Father on your behalf and garnered his permission for you to court Miss Mielle? I did. Yet you go behind my back and do this.”

  It did seem selfish when put like that. “Against my will! But what’s done is done, and I will not abandon her.”

  The boat listed steeply to port. Wilek’s inkwell and goblet slid off the desk and crashed to the floor. Trevn crouched and picked them up, grabbing hold of the desk to steady himself.

  “The storm is getting worse,” he said, knowing Mielle wouldn’t be able to return tonight. He recoiled at the idea of being apart from her for so long.

  A knock at the door preceded Dendrick. “Admiral Livina wishes to move the commoners below deck, Your Highness.”

  That bad? Trevn ran from the cabin, ignoring Wilek’s call that he return. He sprinted onto the main deck, splashing through a hand’s depth of water. Sheets of rain poured down like river holes in spring. Trevn caught sight of Rzasa and Nietz pulling on a cable and ran to help.

  “I don’t need any fair-weather sailors on my watch, thanks,” Nietz said.

  Trevn had abandoned his watch without a word. “This you call fair weather?” he asked.

  Nietz didn’t reply, nor did he insist Trevn leave. The crew worked hard and fast, jumping to the orders of the mates. The scupper holes could not drain the deck fast enough. Once they had taken in all the canvas, they set to work on the pumps for what felt like hours until the captain called all hands to the helm.

  “We’ve got a hard squall ahead,” Bussie said. “We’ve done all we can to prepare, so take heart, men, and have a bite and a nip while we can. I’m afraid it’ll get worse before it gets better.”

  The cook from the sailors’ galley had brought up a pot of fish stew and mugs. Each man took a cup. The hot stew seeped down Trevn’s throat, warming him. When he emptied his cup, Nietz filled it with spirits, which warmed his belly more than the stew had and burned his throat and eyes as well. He’d never tasted anything quite so strong.

  By the time they finished their meal and returned to the main deck, it had been totally cleared of commoners.

  “Sands,” Rzasa said. “Looks mighty strange empty like this.”

  It gave Trevn an ominous feeling, but he reminded himself that the people were safe below deck. “That was kind of the captain to feed us,” he said.

  Rzasa chuckled. “Captains often give their crew a nice meal before a bad storm in case we all drown.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “Why?” Rzasa asked. “If we’re going to survive, we’ll need the energy an extra meal provides. And if we’re going down anyway, we might as well go down with a full belly and a smile.”

  They took another turn at the pumps, then kept out of the way to watch the storm and help where needed. The rain didn’t let up. Screaming winds tore at the ship, ripping away anything that had not been tied down. All of the water barrels had tipped over, and Trevn and Rzasa set about lashing them to the rigging to keep them upright. Everywhere Trevn looked, a wall of sea spray obscured his view as the wind and water batted the Seffynaw like a cat toying with an injured moth.

  It got so bad that Trevn gave up trying to stand and merely clung to the ratlines as the violent waves rocked him to and fro. He could not see the Rafayah. He could not see any of the rest of the fleet.

  “Mielle!” Trevn yelled into the storm, barely hearing himself as the wind swallowed his words.

  Someone tugged on his arm. Rzasa.

  “Nietz says we’re needed in the forward hold!” he hollered. “Cargo is loose!”

  Trevn nodded, and he and Rzasa waded toward the companionway. They passed the commoners lining the stairs and descended into the depths of the ship. Beneath the deck the sounds changed. The cacophony of wind, rain, and splashing sea traded itself for the creaks, knocks, and rattles of a ship under stress.

  The farther down they went, the louder the ship’s groaning became. They reached a group of sailors at the compartment in the fore hold. Nietz stood in the entrance, holding a lantern aloft. In the dim light Trevn saw a knot of furniture. Thrones, beds, longchairs, tables, and sideboards had been lashed around an iron shrine to Barthos. Several smaller wicker or wood pieces had broken free and tumbled back and forth with the ship’s motion. Each time the Barthos shrine slid across the full length of the compartment, it reduced some small wooden chair or table to kindling and sent tremors through the bulkhead.

  “Can’t we just leave it?” Rzasa asked.

  “If it slides too fast, it might crack the hull,” Nietz said.

  So the crew did their best to lash the loose furniture back to the shrine, wedging pieces of broken lumber in as supports whenever they could. As soon as they secured one, a new tilt of the ship nearly broke apart their work.

  They needed to get the shrine out of the way. If only they could lift it.

  “Rzasa,” Trevn said, seized with an idea. “Fetch me several hammocks. If we can lift the shrine into its own bed, then it will rock instead of crashing against the bulkheads.”

  “Put the shrine to bed?” Rzasa asked. “Are yo
u crazy?”

  “It might work,” Nietz said. “Get the hammocks, Rzasa. At least three of them.”

  “Four,” Trevn said. “One to hold each corner.”

  Rzasa was back in no time with the hammocks, and the group set to work. The shrine was too heavy to lift to get the hammocks underneath, so they looped ropes to the lashings and through the beams on the deck head to hoist it. The shrine continued to slide about, repeatedly destroying their efforts and forcing them to start again. Recognizing the importance of speed, Trevn laid out the hammocks on the floor with the rope eyes facing outward. Hopefully the moment the men raised the shrine, Trevn and Rzasa could slide the hammocks under in one unit.

  “We’re ready,” Nietz yelled. “Once we get it up, you boys move the hammocks. You set?”

  Trevn nodded at Rzasa, who said, “We’re set.”

  “Heave!” Nietz yelled.

  The men grunted, and the shrine lifted up off the floor.

  “Go, go!” Nietz yelled.

  Trevn and Rzasa each grabbed an end and slid the hammocks underneath the shrine.

  When the web of ropes was in position, Trevn let go and yelled, “Done!” But one of his rope eyes flipped around and landed under the shrine.

  “Lower it slowly,” Nietz yelled.

  “Wait!” Trevn fell to his stomach and reached for the eye, grabbing it.

  Too late. The shrine fell on his hand and arm, shooting a spasm of agony through the limb. He screamed.

  “Lift it up!” Rzasa yelled. “It’s on Sâr Trevn’s arm!”

  “Heave!” Nietz yelled. “Back up!”

  The shrine rose again. Trevn tried to move but could not. Bonds and Rzasa grabbed him. Dragged him back. Trevn ignored the throbbing pain and kept his eyes fixed on the tangle of hammocks.

  “Get the eye!” he yelled, pointing at it with his other hand.

  Rzasa lunged over Trevn’s head and snagged the eye, held tight. “I’ve got it.”

  “Set it down,” Nietz yelled.

  Once the shrine sat on the hammocks, the men swarmed, making quick work of lashing the eyes of all four hammocks together and hoisting the bundle up.

  A swell tipped the ship to starboard, sliding a pile of debris toward Trevn. Someone grabbed him and pulled him out into the lengthway just before the debris barreled past.

  Nietz squatted before him. “How’s that hand, Boots?”

  Trevn glanced down and let out a pent-up breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His fingers looked like sausages, his hand like a blown-up pig’s bladder. Just past his wrist the skin had ripped apart in a jagged line, leaving a gash where it had pulled away from itself and shifted, revealing tendons and pulsing veins along his wrist. He couldn’t feel his hand. Just a cold burning. And lightheadedness.

  “Sands, that’s a nasty evil,” Rzasa said.

  Trevn looked up to Rzasa. He felt a single trickle of sweat run down his temple to his jaw. Then his world went black.

  Grayson

  Kateen shoved a bowl of fish and stale bread through the slot at the bottom of the cell door. “You cannot hide the truth from us, boy.”

  When he didn’t answer, she stalked away, muttering about fools.

  I see you. I see you. I seeeeee you, a shadir crooned as it drifted just far enough through the wooden door to show its three bulging eyes. The thick door presented no hindrance to a creature of the Veil.

  Grayson pretended he could not hear or see the shadir. He was so hungry he scarfed down his meal, barely chewing before he swallowed. The shadir cackled and made slurping sounds. It soared in and out of Grayson’s cell, a stroke of blurred yellow that almost looked like light in the darkness.

  Come with me, boy, the shadir sang. Come into the Veil, where you can be free. Come, come, come with me.

  Grayson ignored it, though he cringed each time it passed through his body. Once he’d licked the fishy juices from the bowl and his fingers, and there was nothing left to do but sit and feel the lump of food in his belly, he began to realize several things.

  First, he was growing. It always happened slowly, like an ache in the back that needed a good stretch. They must have put evenroot in his food. He’d been so hungry he hadn’t even tasted it.

  Second, they meant to trick him. They’d sent the shadir to watch him. Grayson could push into the Veil and walk through the door, go hide. But the shadir would see. It would follow him. Call its companions to tell the Chieftess where he was, and she would use her magic to control him.

  So Grayson pretended to be normal. A normal boy locked in a cell would call for help, so Grayson yelled and shook the door, pounded his fists on it, then got down on the floor and reached one arm out the food slot, feeling his way up the door as if he might find the latch. All the while he could tell that his hand was nowhere near the lock.

  He didn’t like his bigger body. Getting down on the floor was harder than it used to be. His arm was thicker, and the narrow slot pinched and scraped his skin. After a while he sat against the wall, listening for rats and brushing his fingers along the downy hair that had grown on his jaw. He fought back tears. Crying was something a boy would do, and he had told the Chieftess he was a man. If he cried, the shadir would see and tell. So he slammed his feet against the opposite wall, sending all his frustrations into each kick.

  He shouldn’t be here. Onika had never said he would be captured. Did that mean Onika was wrong about some things? Or . . . had she kept this a secret? It hurt his feelings that Onika might have thought Grayson was too little to understand important things.

  He kicked harder.

  In the distance bootsteps clumped along the walk. Someone was coming, though from the sounds, the person was still far off.

  Time to flee, flea, the shadir said, spinning around Grayson’s face, which made it very difficult to ignore. Into the Veil and out the door, quickly, before your executioner arrives.

  That couldn’t be. The Chieftess thought Grayson was valuable. She wouldn’t kill him.

  Something niggled in Grayson’s brain, like he’d lived this moment before or was forgetting something important. As the steps neared, he scrunched up his brows and dug deep, trying to puzzle out the mystery. It came to him like a flash of light. The men on this ship went barefoot. So who was coming?

  The bootsteps stopped outside. Grayson peered through the wall to get a good look at the boots, but even in the Veil the hold was too dark to see clearly.

  “Grayson?” a man said.

  Arman’s blessing! “Sir Kalenek?” Grayson scrambled to his feet and peered out the tiny window at the top of the door. “Did you come to—?”

  “Shh! You want out, you keep quiet, hear?” This Sir Kalenek whispered, staring so long and crossly that Grayson nodded. “Sands, you’ve grown fast. I heard talk that Chieftess Mreegan had found a grown root child who didn’t know when to shut up. I knew it had to be you.”

  Grayson looked for the shadir, found it hovering behind Sir Kalenek’s legs. The knighten had already said too much, but what could Grayson do? “Where did you get the key?”

  “Is that how you keep quiet?”

  Grayson looked down, shamed by Sir Kalenek’s reprimanding tone, but his heart pounded in his chest, knowing the shadir would tell everything. He needed to warn Sir Kalenek but didn’t know how.

  “That’s better,” Sir Kalenek said. “Stay that way. Not a word.” He lifted his hand to the lock and put a key into it.

  Behind Sir Kalenek, the shadir’s three eyes stared.

  Sir Kalenek pulled open the door, the hinges squealed, and he glared at Grayson as if the noise had been his fault. At a jerk of Sir Kalenek’s head, Grayson slipped out of the cell.

  Sir Kalenek closed the door and locked it again. He started off down the corridor, and Grayson saw another shadir riding on Sir Kalenek’s back. A blue one that looked like a jellyfish.

  Grayson followed, wanting desperately to tell Sir Kalenek about the shadir, to turn around and see if the yellow o
ne was following or if it had gone for help.

  He kept quiet and followed. In a short while they turned. Another ten steps and they turned again. This corridor stretched out far into the distance. Every ten to fifteen steps they passed by another walkway or a storage room that held crates or barrels.

  “So much wasted space,” Sir Kalenek said. “Compared to the number of people on the Seffynaw, this ship is nearly empty.”

  Grayson wisely stayed silent. This made him feel proud. Sir Kalenek would see that Grayson could obey an order. He was nearly as tall as the knighten now, though his shoulders were much narrower and he still had skinny arms. They reached a stairwell. Sir Kalenek drew his sword, and up they went. Right before each landing, they paused so that the knighten could check the way. On one turn Grayson caught sight of the yellow shadir following behind and relaxed. It hadn’t gone for help yet, but he doubted it would let them escape.

  They met no one in the stairwell. Even when they stepped out into the cold, rainy night, Grayson saw no one. They were at the very nose of the ship, opposite the helm. The sea surged beneath them. Raindrops fell heavy and wet. The wind whipped, and Grayson pulled his tunic tight around his throat. Lightning flashed overhead, making him jump.

  Sir Kalenek stopped at the rail, right under the hoist at the boat fall. They were going to escape! The two of them would row to the Seffynaw, and Grayson would see Onika and Jhorn again. He bit the tip of his tongue to keep from talking. Thunder rolled, a long while since the lightning flash. That much was good. Grayson bet the storm was almost over.

  “Get in,” Sir Kalenek said, extending a hand to help him over the rail.

  A streak of yellow caught Grayson’s gaze. The shadir had flown away! And he could no longer see the blue one.

  “Sir Kalenek, two shadir! They followed us from the hold and just now flew away. I think they went for help.”

  “Why didn’t you say something? Don’t know if I can lower this fast enough on my own.” Sir Kalenek grabbed Grayson and practically threw him over the rail, then started cranking the left pulley.

  Grayson’s heart fluttered inside. “You’re not coming?”