King's Blood

by Jill Williamson

  “You will go,” said the woman in the chair. “And you will remain silent. I care not whether you eat.”

  The young woman sighed heavily. “What else would a prisoner do?”

  “Oh, Eudora, really. I wish you would stop martyring yourself. Your life is not so bad.”

  “My life would end if you would let me take it.”

  “Killing oneself is not an acceptable death for royalty. I will hear no more talk of it. I would mute you, but Father doesn’t want you to look like a prisoner to the pirates.”

  “He will have to compel me, then, for I will not lie or feign happiness or loyalty for anyone, least of all him. It is his fault Janek is dead.”

  The older woman shot to her feet, lifted her arm, and squeezed her hand into a fist. The princess gasped, grabbed her throat.

  “We have been over this, Eudora. Sâr Wilek is responsible for my son’s death. Is that clear?”

  The princess nodded.

  “Do not blame my father again.” She lowered her arm.

  The princess panted in several deep breaths.

  “You will go to dinner and play your role,” the older woman said. “The king must appear happily married and in control of his retinue. He must appear powerful enough to take the throne of the new Five Realms once land is found. And, Eudora, dearest, he must have an heir.”

  “Then he will fail,” the princess Eudora whispered, rubbing her neck. “I have told you I do not want to have a child, especially not some beastly evenroot creature that will kill me when it claws its way into the world.”

  Grayson frowned. A root child had no claws. It simply grew too big for the mother to handle. At least that’s what Jhorn had always said.

  “Finished, Your Highness.” The servant on her knees rose and tucked her needle into the apron she wore.

  The older woman walked toward the door. “Come, Eudora, let us go and see how you will displease your husband the king today.”

  Grayson followed the women back to the dining room. There a herald announced them as Queen Eudora of the Five Realms and Rosârah Laviel of Armania. Randmuir and his men stood, bowed, and the women took seats on either side of the empty throne at the table’s head. Rosârah Laviel picked up her wine goblet. Queen Eudora merely stared off into nothing.

  “Fancy me having dinner with you, Rosârah, after all this time,” Randmuir said. “How is that son of yours, anyway?”

  Rosârah Laviel flinched, eyes glittering as if Randmuir had taken something precious and destroyed it. She did not answer, but sipped her wine.

  “That well, huh?” Randmuir said. “Then I’m glad to hear it.”

  Grayson, who was standing near the door and the end of the table, heard Meelo whisper to his father, “Ask them how much longer.”

  “You were told to remain silent,” Randmuir said.

  The rosârah drained her goblet of wine, and a servant rushed forward to fill it. The door opened and the herald announced, “His Royal Highness, King Barthel Rogedoth of the Five Realms, the Powerful, the Sorcerer.”

  Everyone stood as a man dressed all in red entered, accompanied by a swarm of shadir.

  Seeing so many shadir at once surprised Grayson, and even though the Veil hid him from human eyes, he slid back against the wall beside a guard, trying to look as though he belonged. The shadir paid him no attention, and likely wouldn’t, so long as he didn’t make eye contact with any of them.

  Then he saw the great. It stood no taller than the king as it glided along beside him. It had skin of brown mud and clothing of moss and leaves. Its fingers were thin sticks, eyes gray stones, and its hair . . . it looked like a gentle waterfall that cascaded down its back, disappearing into mist before it reached the floor.

  Grayson could not look away. He had seen this creature before but could not remember when. The great turned his way, and Grayson averted his eyes, staring through the shadir’s waist and focusing on a tray of honey tarts.

  Onika had warned of a future where shadir tried to rule kings. She had always said that Grayson might somehow prevent such a thing from taking place. He couldn’t imagine how. He had no desire to bring attention to himself. Besides, Onika had warned him not to reveal himself until he met those twice his size. While he still didn’t understand what that meant, no one here could be described that way.

  The king took his seat at the head of the table, and everyone else sat down. Servants swarmed the room, carrying platters of steaming fish and bowls of some kind of pudding.

  Grayson’s mouth watered.

  “I hope my wife and daughter have been hospitable,” the king said.

  “They spoke not a word,” Randmuir said.

  The king glared at Rosârah Laviel and then returned his attention to his guests. “Have you at least enjoyed the wine while you waited?”

  “I always enjoy wine,” Randmuir said, “but let’s not waste time with polite drivel. You want us to take the Baretam and bring you the emperor and his brother. Then you’ll fix my son’s face. Do I have that right?”

  “Once I have the emperor and his brother alive and unharmed, yes, I will do this,” the king said. “Keep in mind, Master Randmuir, creating a permanent change to someone’s appearance takes a great deal of evenroot and strength. That I’ve agreed to do this at all is a rare favor I bestow upon you.”

  “Have you learned anything from our prisoner?” Randmuir asked. “He say anything about his homeland?”

  “He says plenty,” the king said, “but I understand none of it. Not even with the aid of my shadir.”

  But couldn’t shadir speak every language? Grayson fought the urge to look at the great, wondering why the king would lie. Unless the shadir had lied to the king.

  “Have you tried drawing? A sketch of a boat and land might speak better than foreign words.”

  “We are not incompetent, Master Randmuir,” the king said. “We’ve drawn, even taken charts down to him. He simply stares like he cannot make sense of anything. Perhaps his vision is impaired or he cannot read. Or maybe he’s not the captain, and they tricked us into putting the real captain out to die with his crew.”

  “Couldn’t blame them for pulling a trick like that.” Randmuir stood. “Take me to him. I’d like to give it a go.”

  “Surely that can wait until after dinner,” the king said.

  “Look, Rogedoth, or whatever name you’re going by these days, you and me, we have a business arrangement. We’re not friends and never will be. I answer to no king, and I’ve got plenty to eat on my own boat. So don’t bother buttering me up with your fancy meal. I want three things in life. My son’s face put back to normal, land where the Omatta can live, and Sâr Wilek’s head on a pike. That’s it. Your prisoner can get me one of those things, so don’t take it personally if I’d rather spend my time with him.”

  “Very well,” the king said. “Timmons, escort these pirates to the hold, where they can speak with the prisoner. Will you be returning to dinner once you fail, Master Randmuir?”

  “I’ll let your man know,” Randmuir said, striding from the room.

  Grayson followed the pirates to the hold, where they stopped before a tiny door. As Timmons set about opening it, Randmuir muttered to Meelo.

  “Don’t know why that pompous windbag thinks he should rule the Five Realms.”

  “Because he is the only one left with a supply of evenroot,” Meelo said.

  “He’s not,” Randmuir said. “The Magonians have root too. Rogedoth is as bad as those crows, using dark magic to control everyone. My mother would have hated that I’m helping him, but the alternative is far worse.”

  Timmons opened the door, and they crowded around the entrance and looked inside. The cell was half the size of a horse’s stall and had a low ceiling. A man sat in the corner, knees pulled up to his chest. His eyes and hair were brown, but his skin was pale like Onika’s.

  “Will you look at that,” Meelo said. “Never saw skin like that before.”

  The sight thril
led Grayson. Another prophet?

  “What’s your name?” Randmuir asked him.

  The man flinched and ducked his head.

  “Nice job, Father,” Meelo said. “You scared him.”

  “It’s your face he’s scared of,” Randmuir said, crouching before the pale-skinned man. He reached out, and the man scrambled across the hay-lined stall to the other corner, raised his fists, and started to talk. Randmuir and his men stared, clueless, but Grayson understood him perfectly.

  “Don’t come any closer,” he’d said. “You attacked my ship, killed my crew, and locked me in this animal pen. What do you want from me?”

  “Well, he’s not mute,” Randmuir said. “But by that tone and the angry look on his face, I don’t think he was wishing us a happy day.”

  “What did they do to him, I wonder?” Meelo asked.

  “Who knows?” Randmuir said. “My mother could cast a spell to understand any language. Rogedoth is lying to us about not being able to communicate.”

  “Unless the man is pretending not to understand him,” Meelo said.

  “Why would he?” Randmuir asked. “He can’t enjoy being locked up.” He patted his chest. “Rand. I’m Rand.” He pointed at his son. “Meelo.” Then tapped his chest again. “Rand.” Back and forth he went. “Meelo. Rand. Meelo. Rand.” Then he pointed at the prisoner and raised his eyebrows in question.

  The man snarled.

  This went on for quite some time. Randmuir tried dozens of ways to talk and gesture to the prisoner. He withdrew a shard of charcoal from his pocket and drew pictures on the wall. This seemed to amuse the man, but when Randmuir handed him the charcoal, he dropped it in the privy bucket and laughed.

  Randmuir finally gave up and stormed back toward the stairs, his pirates following closely behind. Timmons closed and locked the door and set off after them.

  Grayson remained outside the cell until he could no longer hear the men. Then he walked through the wood door and made himself visible.

  The man jumped and yelled, “Away, you mage-gifted! Do not touch me with your magic.”

  “My magic cannot harm you,” Grayson said.

  “You walk through walls. That is great magic. Plus you speak Gallimayan yet have dark skin like the others. Go away!”

  “My magic is different than theirs,” Grayson said. “If the king knew about me, he would force me to help him. But I want to help you.”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “Then tell me what the king wants with me.”

  “He wants to know where your homeland is. The sea swallowed our land. We have no homes but these boats, and we are quickly running out of food and drinking water.”

  “They stole my ship, killed my crew, and want me to help them? Why should I?”

  Though Grayson hated to say it, he had to be honest. “You shouldn’t. You can’t trust these men. Their king is a fake. He is trying to steal the throne from the real king. The one called Randmuir is a pirate.”

  “Jah, we have pirates in Gallimau. Can you let me out?”

  “The door is locked, and I don’t have the key. I’ll try to find a way, but I have to return to my ship soon or I’ll be stuck here.”

  “You don’t want to be here?” the pale man asked.

  Not with so many shadir on board, especially that great. “This ship is dangerous. My name is Grayson. What’s yours?”

  “Bahlay Nesos, captain of the Weema-ell. I named her after my wife. Was teaching our son to sail her.” He cleared his throat, which looked to Grayson like he was trying not to cry. “Are there any other prisoners like me?”

  “Not aboard this ship. The pirates sometimes leave people in the water. It could be that your son was picked up by another ship.”

  “How many ships do your people have?” Bahlay asked.

  “Hundreds, but they’re not all my people. There are five nations in the fleet. Some of them are good people. What is your home like?”

  “Gallimau is a chain of islands, much smaller than the others. They run the full length of the Land of Shards, from the northernmost tip of Lantvegard around the southern tip of the Conch.”

  More islands.

  “Is there room in the Land of Shards for more people?”

  “There are many uninhabited islands, but they are not very large. The biggest islands might welcome workers for their fields, flocks, or forests, but none will welcome a king.”

  “Several kings,” Grayson said.

  Bahlay shook his head. “They would not be welcomed.”

  “It would be a war?” Grayson asked.

  “Perhaps. I do not know the numbers of your soldiers. The mage-gifted are trained to end wars swiftly. How many mage-gifted are among your people?”

  “We don’t have any mage-gifted,” Grayson said, wondering what might happen when so many ships landed in such a place and tried to claim land for themselves.

  He feared it would not be good at all.

  “Ready a boarding party,” Randmuir told his son.

  Three days had passed since Grayson’s visit to King Barthel’s ship, where he had spoken with Bahlay the Gallimayan from the Land of Shards. Ultimately he’d been unable to free the man.

  As Randmuir had promised King Barthel, he sailed the Malbraid up near Emperor Ulrik’s Baretam in the dead of night with plans to attack at dawn. Grayson wished he might warn the emperor that the pirate was coming, but he was still too afraid to pop between ships, worried he’d end up in the ocean and drown. He did not want to be part of the boarding party, but when Meelo grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and shoved him out into the open, and Satu handed him a tarnished bronze sword, he didn’t know how to argue.

  The sword felt heavy and long in his hand, despite all his practice. He found Danno in the crowd, and the two compared weapons and found them nearly identical.

  In the increasing light of dawn, he saw the Baretam for the first time in months. The sight of the gilded trim and red paint brought back happy memories of having survived the Five Woes with Jhorn, Onika, and Sir Kalenek. A morning fog hid parts of the ship from view. Its sails had been furled for the night, and her naked shrouds looked like scaffolds rising out of The Gray. Lights shone brightly from the windows and lanterns on deck.

  By this time nearly the entire crew of the Malbraid had gathered on the main deck, dressed and armed for battle. Grayson stood at the back of the mob between Satu and Danno with the rest of Meelo’s watch. At least they weren’t leading the raid.

  “Once you board her, work your way toward the stern and the imperial cabin,” Meelo told his men. “Let the others worry about taking the ship. Our goal is to find the emperor and his brother. We want them alive.”

  The Malbraid came apace with the Baretam’s port side. At the front of the line, grapples were thrown. Hooks dragged across the deck of the emperor’s ship, caught on the railing. The Malbraid pulled in tight and jolted as she ground against the freeboard of the Baretam. Randmuir’s pirates swarmed over the sides. Someone lowered a gangplank, and more pirates flooded across.

  “Close quarters, men!” Randmuir yelled as he charged along the deck, sword raised. Shouts of surprise gave way to screams and yells as he and his men slashed and stabbed their blades at anything that moved.

  Grayson had almost reached the gangplank.

  “Here we go,” Meelo yelled. “Look alive!”

  Scrambling forward and yelling like madpersons, the mob swarmed from one ship to the other, a solid mass of bodies. As Grayson put both feet aboard the Baretam, a voice yelled in alarm from the quarterdeck. A bell began to clang. Up ahead the clash of bronze and cries of pain rose above the trampling bootsteps.

  “At arms!” came a cry from an Igote captain.

  As the two groups clashed, Grayson hoped Emperor Ulrik and his family had found some place to hide.

  Gozan

  Gozan heard commotion from above, but by the time he made it up to the main deck to investigate, the fighting was over. Dead Igote guards lay in bloody p
uddles on the deck beside the occasional man clad in black.

  Pirates.

  An authoritative voice barked orders at the raiders, who scrambled up the masts or began picking up dead Igote. Bodies splashed overboard. Sails were quickly set.

  All this would have been an intriguing turn of events if not for the number of shadir present. The Veil swarmed with color, though Gozan recognized not one creature. A slight slipped past him, and he snagged hold of it with his claws. It squealed like a pup whose tail had been trod upon.

  “Who is your master?” Gozan demanded.

  “Dendron,” he said.

  Gozan released him, tingling with dread. Dendron’s swarm? Here? This did not bode well. Especially if Dendron’s humans had evenroot.

  He flashed instantly to Jazlyn’s quarters. All was calm inside. They had no idea the ship had been attacked.

  The ship has been attacked by pirates, Great Lady, he told Jazlyn. We must hide.

  Jazlyn stood slowly, ear cocked toward the ceiling, but the sounds of battle had ended.

  The door burst open. Jazlyn’s maidens screamed. Yet it was not pirates who entered unbidden, but Emperor Ulrik with one of his personal guards.

  “Forgive me, lady. Pirates have taken the ship. I have a boat ready to launch from one of the master’s cabins in the lower deck. It’s not far from here, but we must hurry.”

  “You destroyed all that I hold sacred when you cast the evenroot into the sea. I’d rather take my chances with the pirates,” Jazlyn said.

  That is unwise, Great Lady, Gozan said at the same time as the emperor yelled, “They’re pirates!”

  Rosârah Thallah pushed past the emperor and into the room. “Whoever trusts in her own mind is a fool, Your Highness. I suggest you come with us and quickly.”

  Jazlyn raised her hand to the emperor. “A moment while I speak with my shadir.”

  Ulrik rolled his eyes, rocking from foot to foot, eager, it seemed, to be on his way.

  “With patience a ruler may be persuaded,” Thallah murmured to him.

  Jazlyn walked deeper into the cabin. “What say you, Gozan?” she asked.