King's Blood

by Jill Williamson

  “For Sâr Janek, the journey on earth has ended and another begun, but for us, there is loss, sorrow, and pain. Iamos, deliver us from grief and despair. Give us the strength to accept what is past, peace to appreciate what is present, and good fortune as we look toward what is to come.”

  Wilek studied the faces of those in attendance. None appeared to have good fortune by standards of the past. Today good fortune meant having one’s health, food, and water. What separated these men and women from the so-called commoners on the main deck? Birth? Blood? It seemed a fine line.

  “Nivanreh, god of travel,” Father Mathal went on, “we stand at the doorway between earth and Shamayim and pray for Sâr Janek’s journey. Cethra, keep him safe as he sails. Be his eyes and protect him from any evil that comes his way. Mikreh, provide good fortune. Thalassa, give him calm waters. Iamos, heal his wounds. Avenis, restore his beauty. We ask all this for our sâr so that when he stands before Athos’s bench, he will be judged fairly.”

  No mention of the evils Janek had done in his life. How would those be measured?

  “Sâr Janek Hadar, the Second Arm, the Amiable, we thank the gods for your life, for being part of our lives, and we ask that they would bless your journey to Shamayim now that our time together has ended. May Yobatha grant you peace and joy in the hereafter. We will not forget you. Go well.”

  Two King’s Guards worked the crank at the boat fall, and Wilek watched over the rail as his brother’s death boat lowered to the water. The sea was calm today, after causing so much trouble and perhaps taking several ships into her depths. Wilek wondered where Janek was. If he could see them now. If he had met Arman, and if so, been pardoned or chained in the Lowerworld.

  Wilek had never been close to Janek, but watching his death boat drift away, one thing became very clear. Death came to all. It could not be escaped. Wilek had lived most of his life in fear of his father—of death. Yet he had faced Barthos and lived; he had survived the Five Woes and seventy-three days at sea since Bakurah Island. He would no longer be afraid. He would live each day fully so that when his turn came to be shipped away, he would have no regrets.

  A cry from the rigging caught his attention. A sailor pointed into the distance, where something bobbed on the water. Wilek left his place at the rail, found Captain Bussie, and urged him to investigate. A half hour later he stood again at the railing, looking down on the wreckage of an Armanian ship.

  This day would not end. Wilek sat at his desk, eager for the first sleep bells to ring so he could visit Zeroah. He’d barely found a free moment, whether it was investigating the wreckage or presiding over a search of Oli Agoros’s cabin and watching the duke dump his evenroot contents into the sea.

  Now Admiral Livina had come to deliver his account of the missing ships. There were twenty-two listed. Wilek sat at his desk, a square of parchment anchored on the wood before him. His eyes followed the strokes of the admiral’s slanting penmanship, dazed by how the simple shape of a letter could convey such meaning. Affrany, Colla, Dogstar, Eremon, Fairwing, Gallayah, Intrepid, Luvin, Nightflyer . . . He read the names slowly, letting it sink in, asking Arman to protect the souls on each vessel. Halfway down he realized that the admiral had alphabetized the list. Such efficiency in a tragic situation felt wrong somehow. He continued reading the ship names until one caught his breath.

  “Rafayah,” Wilek said aloud.

  Armania’s vice flagship. The ship that Miss Mielle, Trevn, Miss Shemme, and Kal had been on. The ship Miss Mielle had remained on to prepare Miss Shemme’s body for shipping.

  Miss Mielle was lost.

  How could this be? The Rafayah had sailed right behind the Seffynaw since the day they’d left Everton. How could it have gotten off course?

  Arman, why?

  Anger welled inside him. Anger at Arman. The Book of Arman said that He Who Made The World was good to those who followed him. “Well?” Wilek said aloud, then spouted off several verses Zeroah had encouraged him to commit to memory:

  “Arman delivers his people through the power of his Hand.”

  “Arman is faithful and will keep his people from evil.”

  “A man who keeps Arman’s decrees shall live.”

  “The beloved of Arman shall dwell in safety.”

  “Arman will guard the lives of his faithful servants.”

  He slapped the desktop, furious. Hadn’t he obeyed Arman’s prophetess and encouraged his people to flee their homeland, to leave everything behind and trust Arman to lead them to land? He recalled the words Miss Onika had prophesied to Kal.

  “The remnant will set sail and begin anew. In northern lands they will give glory to Arman. In the lands beyond the sea they will praise his name.”

  The remnant had sailed north. So where was the land? “What did I do wrong?” Wilek asked. “Why would you punish me?”

  Arman’s ways are beyond understanding.

  Zeroah’s favorite verse came softly. Wilek could not recall the reference, but he pondered the words for a very long time.

  In the end the words did placate him some. He could not wallow in despair over the lost ships nor could he rail in anger. His father was bedridden aboard the Kaloday. Janek was dead. And Wilek would meet with the Wisean Council in a few hours to combat a potential mutiny. He must remain strong. What was left of the fleet looked to him. He must lead well, with confidence and strength.

  He would have to tell Miss Amala and Zeroah.

  Worse, he would have to tell Trevn. Poor Trevn, his hand maimed, lying in a drugged stupor in his cabin. Wilek wondered if, in his sleep, his brother had felt his soul-bound bride’s absence, and if he would wake, thinking it the worst of dreams, only to discover it to be all too real.

  Amala

  Amala stood with Sârah Hrettah on the main deck, just outside the makeshift ring. They had been watching a swordplay competition between several nobles and guards. The event had been Rosârah Brelenah’s idea, intended to lift spirits after so many last rites shippings that morning.

  It hadn’t.

  Who could forget the sight of thirty-two wrapped bodies crammed onto reamskiffs like sausages in a pan? And Sâr Janek—beautiful, agreeable, loveable Sâr Janek—killed by Amala’s own guardian! Her eyes teared up just thinking of the injustice and how everyone blamed her.

  Life had never been so hopeless, so grim. She desperately wanted to find someone who understood. Someone who didn’t care about rules or rank or what anyone thought, the way Sâr Trevn loved her sister. He had married her in secret! So said Sârah Hrettah.

  But now Mielle was gone too.

  One potential option soothed Amala’s despair. Agmado Harton. A week ago Ulmer had introduced them at a practice match on the main deck. Master Harton had won today’s swordplay competition easily. He was handsome, spoke kindly to her, and the fact that he had been demoted for disobeying Sâr Wilek proved his independent spirit.

  She watched him from across the ring as he spoke with several guards. “Walk with me, Hrettah?” Amala suggested. “I’ve been standing still too long.”

  Hrettah readily agreed, and Amala set off toward where Master Harton stood, intent on congratulating him for winning the match.

  “I had no idea how talented Master Harton is with a sword,” she said to the sârah.

  “He’d have to be to have been Wilek’s High Shield,” Hrettah said. “I heard the maids say Lady Lilou is in love with him.”

  “I heard that too!” Amala said. “She was arrested, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, my brother arrested several on suspicion of treason.”

  Good. Amala did not think she could compete with a woman as glorious as Lilou Caridod. She frowned, feeling altogether drab and hopeless in her black gown. “I hate wearing black.”

  “Wearing black to mourn is meant to be an outward display of one’s inner feelings,” Hrettah said. “I don’t much like it either. It reminds me constantly that my mother is gone. But it also reminds others that I am grieving, and people
have been very kind. Be thankful we are Armanite and only need wear it for five months. Sarikarians wear black for a full year when they mourn.”

  But Amala was not mourning. She was angry. Angry at Kal for killing Sâr Janek, angry at Sâr Wilek for ordering Kal’s arrest, angry at Kal for running away like a coward, angry at everyone on board the ship for blaming her for Sâr Janek’s death. Angry at Mielle, first for marrying Sâr Trevn without inviting her to witness, then for getting lost on the Rafayah! What color should one wear to display anger? Red? Amala would do it, if she owned a red gown. She could just imagine the gossip that would fly about the ship at that breech of etiquette.

  “But there is no proof that the Rafayah sank,” Amala said. “I am sure it has simply lost its way.”

  “I hope you are right,” Hrettah said.

  Of course she was right. Sâr Wilek could fix things if he wanted to. He could send a smaller ship to find the Rafayah. He could pronounce Sâr Trevn and Mielle’s marriage legal. But he didn’t care. And if he didn’t care about his own brother . . . Amala did not like that as her warden he now held her future in his hands.

  By the time Amala and Hrettah neared Master Harton, he was speaking privately with Kamran DanSâr.

  “The cook must have given it to someone,” she heard Kamran say. “But none of the guards have been able to find it.”

  “I would give anything to find it,” Harton said.

  Amala took Hrettah’s arm and stepped up to the men. “Find what?” she asked.

  The men stared at each other as if they’d been caught telling secrets. Oh, how vexing that they refused to answer.

  “It’s a bottle of evenroot, isn’t it?” Hrettah asked. “I heard Rosârah Brelenah speaking to Wilek about it.”

  “The cook has given it to someone,” Master Harton said, “but she won’t say who.”

  “Cook Hara?” Amala asked.

  “She was arrested with the rebels,” Hrettah said.

  “This is nothing you ladies should worry yourselves with,” Kamran said.

  But Amala wasn’t worried. She believed she knew exactly what they were talking about! Enetta and Hara were old friends. A few weeks ago Amala had overheard the cook give Enetta something for safekeeping. Curious, she’d snooped into Enetta’s room and saw that it had been a little vial of white powder. Unimpressed, she’d thought nothing more about it until now. “You’re certain it was a bottle? Might it have been something smaller?”

  Kamran narrowed his eyes. “Why do you ask?”

  She didn’t want to say. Not if she could tell Master Harton later in private. He might be rewarded for finding the evenroot, and Amala did not want Kamran taking that away. “I thought evenroot was kept in vials.”

  “It’s kept in both,” Kamran said.

  “Congratulations on winning the match, Master Harton,” Amala said, quickly changing the subject, and Hrettah added her compliments as well.

  Many more came to offer Master Harton their praise on his heroic win. Kamran excused himself, but Amala and Hrettah remained on the deck until the crowd thinned. When finally Rosârah Brelenah said they must return to their cabin, Amala made sure to fall behind with the guards.

  “Master Harton,” she said. “Might I have a private word?”

  “I suppose so.”

  The other guards went on ahead, and Master Harton followed at Amala’s side.

  Amala chose her words carefully, wanting to prove that she was a woman worth knowing better. “What you said about Cook Hara. I think I might know where the missing evenroot is, though it is a vial, not a bottle. Could that be possible?”

  Harton’s eyes grew eager. “Yes, where is it?”

  She swallowed, hesitant to mention the full truth and be discovered as a snitch. “I don’t know if I should say.”

  He took hold of her arm and pulled her close. He smelled of stale sweat, leather, and metal. “Miss Amala, please. This is very important.”

  His touch thrilled her yet warred with the fear that she might get caught. “I think I can get it for you. Would that help? Then I wouldn’t have to say where I found it.”

  “That would be perfect. How soon can you get it?”

  If she pretended to be ill at dinnertime, she would have the cabin to herself and could search Enetta’s room. “Tonight. I think.”

  He squeezed her arm and his eyebrows sank. “Do your best, Miss Amala. And do not be afraid. I will be waiting right outside your door.”

  Hinck

  Hinck jolted out from his slumber. He sat up, sleepily blinking and wondering what had awakened him when something fell down from the peephole above. Lightweight, the object bounced off his shoulder and landed in the squashed hay that lined the cell’s floor. Hinck squinted, unable to see much at all, and felt the floor for the mystery item. His fingers found a scroll of parchment. He picked it up, stood, and looked out the peephole. The corridor was empty and dark but for the distant flicker and sway of a hanging lantern. Hinck unrolled the scroll and held it to the light, straining to read the messy handwriting.

  You now can see shadir.

  Tell no one.

  O

  What in all the Eversea did that mean? O must mean Oli. Hinck had seen shadir the one time he’d tasted evenroot, and he had no desire to see them again. Before he had time to try to puzzle out what the duke was up to, Fonu called to him from his cell across the corridor.

  “Hinck? You still there?”

  “Where else would I be?” Hinck had spent four nights in this disgusting cell, which would have been unpleasant in calm seas, but the storm’s first massive wave had upended Hinck’s privy bucket, and each subsequent wave had tossed Hinck through the soiled hay, and eventually his own vomit as well. It seemed that Sâr Wilek had deserted him as the traitor he’d commanded him to be. Surely the sâr would not let him die just to keep up the ruse?

  “I heard a noise,” Fonu said. “Thought the guards had come for you. Ragaz says they’ve been patrolling the corridors all day.”

  Ragaz. One of Fonu’s shadir. Hinck shuddered at the thought of any human communicating with such beasts. “Does Sâr Wilek think we might suddenly find some way to escape?” Hinck asked, because he had examined his door fully and could see no way to gain freedom. It was a pocket door that, when opened, slid into the wall. There were no hinges to be tampered with. No latch or lock on the inside. And from what he could determine from staring out the peephole at Fonu’s cell, the mortise lock was low enough that he could not reach it.

  “Sâr Wilek thinks we’re all mantics,” Fonu said. “He knows about the cook’s missing root. He’d be a fool to expect we’d sit in our cells and rot.”

  “But we have done exactly that. For four nights. If we had the root, we would have escaped.”

  “Ragaz knows who has it. The mystery mantic has bonded with Lilou’s shadir.”

  Someone had the root? “How is that possible? I thought shadir were loyal.”

  “Not at all. A shadir can abandon its master at any time, though Ragaz says the man knows Lilou intimately. I expect she must know about the bond.”

  Hinck tried to work out what that meant. “Are we going to escape?”

  “Soon, I think. Ragaz went to talk to Zenobia. When I learn anything new, I’ll let you know. Oh, and, Hinck. It’s true about Janek. Haroan said they had his shipping today.”

  Haroan, Fonu’s common shadir that looked like a wolf. “Sands,” was all Hinck could think to say. Janek killed by Sir Kalenek. Hinck guessed the sâr had finally pushed the wrong man too far.

  This also meant that Lady Pia was free.

  It was a horrible, selfish thought, and Hinck pushed it aside as he knelt in the hay to destroy Oli’s note lest it implicate him. Once he’d dropped the remains into the privy bucket, he had nothing to do but sit in the darkness and ponder his fate.

  He must have dozed off because there was a sudden clamor of voices in the corridor. His cell door slid open and Fonu ducked his head inside.

>   “Get out here. We’re going to attack.”

  Hinck never imagined he’d be reluctant to leave his cell. He pushed to his feet, stepped out into the corridor, and gasped. His memory flashed back to the night he was initiated into the Lahavôtesh.

  The hazy forms of shadir drifted around the rebels from the prison cells, bathing the corridor in an eerie glow. A long green one curled like a snake around Lady Zenobia’s waist and neck, its tongue flicking into the woman’s ear. Lady Mattenelle was speaking with a blue-and-yellow cloud. A third shadir floated through Sir Garn’s arm and into Uncle Canbek’s back, its gray, catlike face exiting the man’s chest just as Fonu said, “Gods, Hinck, you reek.”

  Trembling, Hinck remembered the note and pretended not to see the creatures, though when the gray drifted near him, he stepped aside to avoid letting it touch him.

  The catlike shadir whipped around, coiled in the air, and fixed its beady eyes on Hinck.

  “We all reek,” Hinck told Fonu, well aware that the gray shadir was still watching him.

  “Follow me,” Lady Zenobia said. “Our rescuer awaits.”

  The traitors and their shadir went to the empty room in the hold where they had once met as the Lahavôtesh. Two people were waiting inside the compartment along with a pile of swords. Sârah Zeroah sat on the floor, hands and feet bound, a gag in her mouth. Beside her stood Agmado Harton.

  “You?” Fonu asked.

  “Mado!” Lilou ran into Harton’s arms.

  He caught her, pulled her into a kiss, then shoved her away, grimacing. “You’re disgusting.”

  “Well, I like that.” Lilou propped a hand on her hip and pouted. “Let’s see how you’d smell after spending four nights in the hold.”

  “We all smell terrible,” Lady Mattenelle said.

  “Enough!” Zenobia said. “Where is the evenroot?”