King's Blood

by Jill Williamson

  A shout on the balcony drew his attention. Trevn and the admiral ran inside, Trevn in the lead.

  “His home is to the southwest!” he exclaimed, passing Wilek by at a jog.

  “He seems quite certain,” the admiral said, following Trevn.

  “Sâr Trevn does?” Wilek asked.

  The admiral glanced over his shoulder. “No, the pale.”

  Wilek gave chase, leaving the pale and the navigator on the admiral’s balcony. They found Master Shinn at the whip, sitting on a stool, hat tipped down over his face, arms folded across his chest.

  “Why aren’t we moving?” Admiral Livina roared.

  Shinn jolted awake and to standing in one great leap. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “We’ve got no wind. I was waiting for a breeze to pick up.”

  “If there is no wind, row,” Wilek said. “Is that not the saying?”

  “Any fool can man the whip in a breeze,” the admiral said, “but it takes skill to move a great ship in light air. Even if Thalassa is sleeping and we’ve got nothing but three knots of her breath to harness, we can put that to good use. Move the crew to lee and loosen everything off so that the mainsail and jib hang like bedsheets in a laundry basket. Let’s get the passengers over on the leeward side, closer to the bow, and ease some halyard tension.”

  Master Shinn barked the orders to his crew. “Let’s go, men. Hoist every rag you can until we get some motion.”

  Before long they began drifting.

  “See now?” Livina said, clapping Master Shinn on the shoulder as he chuckled. “We’re moving forward at a blistering two knots! Now set a course southwest.”

  Indeed, the Seffynaw had begun to crawl along. Wilek wondered where Rogedoth was, if he had yet to discover the location of the land, and if so, whether he had wind enough to get there first.

  While there had been no wind at midday, by evening the gales were so strong that the admiral ordered all passengers below deck. Wilek had called a council meeting during the dinner hour, ecstatic to have news to share.

  “We are close to land,” he said. “The pale tells us that he is from an island chain southwest of here. We have changed course and are headed in that direction now. He believes he is but two weeks from home.”

  “That’s excellent!” Danek said.

  “Wonderful,” Rystan said.

  “I’m not so certain,” Inolah said.

  Wilek’s joy sputtered. “What do you mean?”

  “Miss Onika has consistently said we should travel to the northwest and that we were not to follow the pales.”

  Wilek’s stomach tightened at the mention of the prophetess. His sister was right. But surely Arman would not ask them to bypass land! He needed Miss Onika here to speak for herself. “Novan, send for Miss Onika at once.”

  Novan ran off to fetch the prophetess, and the discussion continued. No one seemed to care that Arman might be displeased. Oli, Danek, and Rystan began talking about what they would do first. Doubt kept Wilek silent. Surely Arman would not tease them so cruelly. They had little time left, were nearly out of food and water. Miss Onika must be mistaken. Or perhaps Inolah had misunderstood. The pale man had to be a sign of which direction to sail. Why else would they have found him?

  Onika had barely stepped into the room when Wilek questioned her. “You disagree with the direction we’ve taken?”

  Her head turned slightly toward Wilek’s voice as Rustian led her along the end of the table after Novan. Only after the shield had helped her find her chair did she answer. “The fleet is no longer moving to the northwest. You have changed course.”

  “Because we found a man who can lead us to his homeland.”

  “It is the wrong land.”

  “Wrong? Who cares?” Oli said.

  “We are nearly starved. Dying!” Danek added.

  Wilek tried to be kind, though he felt as frustrated by her comments as the others. “Even if this is the wrong land, even if we cannot stay there forever, can we not at least replenish our supplies?”

  “Arman does not wish for the fleet to reach these islands.”

  Hot anger filled Wilek’s veins. “That is not a good enough answer! It is too much to tempt us when we are so broken. I cannot endure it. We will continue forth as the pale has directed us. That is all.”

  He strode toward the exit, adrenaline pulsing in his head.

  “The God struck you,” Onika said, her voice mesmerizing, “but you felt no pain. He crushed you, but you refused correction. If you continue on this path, a fang cat will attack, drice will ravage you, a serpent will tear to pieces any ship that ventures near forbidden lands to punish the rebellious and set the nations to right.”

  The words gripped Wilek’s heart, pained him. “I have given my order. See that it is done.” He continued through the doorway, overwhelmed by the power of that voice and the way her words cut through his resolve more deeply than a sword on the battlefield. Out in the corridor he stopped and leaned a hand against the bulkhead, choked in an emotional breath.

  “Are you well, Your Highness?” Novan asked from behind him.

  Wilek didn’t answer. He continued on to his cabin, shut himself inside alone, and began to rail at Arman.

  “I have done all you asked! But this is too much. I cannot turn this fleet from land! How dare you even suggest such a thing? So many have died, and they look to me. To turn back is folly. They will think me as mad as my father.”

  Wilek fell to his knees, unhindered in this place, where no man or woman could see his distress, his anguish.

  “Why did I not die with Chadek that day at The Gray? Why did you not feed me to Barthos then? I could be at peace now, rather than in this horrible place. Why this choice, Arman? Why now? Would you have my people hate me? How then could I lead them to you? You have bound me. Again and again you target me. Can I have no peace in this life? Is death to be my only resting place?”

  Someone touched him. Wilek jumped and lifted his head. Zeroah had entered and knelt beside him. She took his hands in hers and squeezed.

  “He will cover you with his feathers, armored and protected in the shelter of his wings.”

  Wilek shook his head. “He does not cover me.”

  “You have faced death time and again and won. The Gray, the Magonians, the cheyvah, the Pontiff, the mutiny with Master Harton . . . But you must remember that your life—all our lives—belong to him. As our creator, he decides when we enter into his presence. Until then we live here, and we must not give up.”

  Wilek blinked, not wanting to lose this time. “I’m not giving up, I’m just . . . I’m tired. I want this to be over. I want us to be safe.”

  “You can never ensure that. Arman will lead us step by step. The future belongs to him, and it is his task to define it. We must relax and let him lead the way. All he asks is our trust.”

  It made sense. Could Wilek control the wind or rain? A good crop? These things were beyond his control. So why rage about them? “Trust is obedience,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Why is it so desperately hard?”

  “Because we are used to being in charge of our lives. But if we learn to rest and trust, if we can be still, the God will fight for us.”

  Such a notion seemed foreign to Wilek. No one in authority had ever fought for him. He’d had to hire people to do that. Even then, Kal, Harton . . . they failed him. Zeroah’s faith was so bold. So certain. He wished he could be as strong.

  “I will tell Captain Bussie to put us back on a northwestern heading.” He took a deep breath, reluctant to move. “Will you help me?” he asked Zeroah. “Remind me to trust Arman when I go off on my own?”

  She smiled and squeezed his hands. “Always.”

  Charlon

  Shanek wailed. Wouldn’t stop. The rocking of the ship was too wild. Not at all comforting.

  Charlon glared into the child’s bed. “Calm down,” she told him.

  But the child continued to cry, face crimson, tongue curled in
fury, arms waving, legs kicking.

  “I do not like the storm either,” she said.

  The door opened. Sir Kalenek entered. Thank Magon!

  “What are you doing to this boy?” He picked up Shanek. The child instantly calmed. Looked at Charlon.

  See? Shanek seemed to say. The knighten knows what I need.

  Charlon sighed, irritated. “He hates me. Hates his own mother.”

  “He wants to be held,” Sir Kalenek said. “Why won’t you hold him?”

  “I do,” she said. “Sometimes.”

  “You will never improve if you do not practice.”

  Chieftess Mreegan wants to see you on the quarterdeck immediately. The voice belonged to Hali, one of Mreegan’s common shadir. But Charlon could not see it.

  She had stopped taking ahvenrood. Could no longer see into the Veil. But the shadir could still speak to her. This surprised her. Would she eventually lose the ability to hear them? How long would it take?

  “The Chieftess needs me,” she said, leaving Sir Kalenek and Shanek alone.

  She made her way to the quarterdeck. Held on to the walls. The ocean had grown fierce. She exited into icy rain. Strong wind whipped her kasah about. She shuffled toward the helm. Found Mreegan standing beside Captain Krola. The Chieftess was dry. Had likely cast a spell. To keep the elements away.

  “Is something wrong?” Charlon yelled over the pounding rain.

  “Magon has cautioned us against following the ships,” Mreegan said. “They’re headed toward the land—at least where the shadir have said the land is—but Magon says we should wait out the storm. I’ve never seen the goddess more uncertain, but I trust her judgment.”

  Charlon wiped the water off her face. “Then why call me?”

  “Because the Armanians are headed into the storm. If something should happen to them, Shanek will inherit their realm. I want you to send one of your slights to spy on the Seffynaw, see what Prince Wilek is doing.”

  “You could have done this yourself. In the time it took to summon me.”

  “Do you refuse my command?” Mreegan asked.

  Charlon glanced at Krola. She did not want him listening. “Of course not, Chieftess. I will do this at once.” She turned to walk away. Wondering. How would she find an answer? To satisfy the Chieftess? Without speaking to a shadir?

  “Call the shadir from here,” Mreegan yelled. “I wish you to stay close so that I might have your answer right away.”

  Charlon froze, turned back. Mreegan suspected. It was the only explanation. The Chieftess knew Charlon had stopped taking ahvenrood.

  “The storm has made me queasy,” she yelled, again wiping the rain from her face. “I have been fasting to clear my stomach. I will need to take more ahvenrood.”

  Mreegan removed her hip flask and held it out. “Take some of mine.”

  Fear welled within. To take root juice was to risk her child. Yet Mreegan’s wrath was a greater risk. Charlon took the flask. Drank. Handed it back.

  Fool! her heart said. What have you done?

  Charlon maintained eye contact with the Chieftess. Staring her down. Having been dry for so long, the effects rushed upon her. The juice pooled in her belly like ice. Nerves burned with cold. Coupled with the rain, Charlon shivered. The Veil flickered into view, bright and colorful.

  “Nwari,” she called, her eyes still locked with Mreegan’s.

  The wispy orange slight appeared beside her. Yes, lady?

  “The Chieftess wishes to know what Prince Wilek is doing aboard the Seffynaw. Go now and bring back a report.”

  Yes, lady. Nwari vanished.

  “Anything else, Chieftess?” Charlon asked.

  “Report to me when you hear back from Nwari.”

  “Certainly.”

  Charlon left. Quickly. Went to Torol’s cabin. There she purged to the nearest slight. It was too late. She felt her belly. It had grown since she’d ingested the root. Not much. A tiny paunch. But the baby had clearly been affected.

  What could she do to protect the child now? All seemed hopeless.

  Gozan

  Gozan flew away from the lush archipelago. His swarm had shown him their discovery, and he felt certain that between all the islands, there would be room enough for what remained of the fleet. Though he had the ability to return to the Gillsmore instantly, he took his time coming back, curious at the distance the ships would have to cross to reach the islands. Some of his shadir followed, cackling over the prospect of reuniting the humans with a harvest of evenroot. So content was Gozan in light of the discovery of land that he ignored their clamor.

  Dark, ominous clouds filled the horizon. Gozan didn’t like the look of them and transported himself underneath. He could barely see from the storm’s eye. Twists of water spun down from the clouds around a massive whirlpool. Interesting. It had been centuries since Gozan had seen one of those. He went a bit farther, stopping only when he had reached calmer weather. There he found the fleet on the edge of disaster.

  His first thoughts were delight at the waves of fear exuding from the humans. He’d always enjoyed watching them suffer in severe weather while he, safe in the Veil, felt none of it. But his own interests quickly pushed aside his joy. If the ships lost direction in the storm, how much longer until they found land? And if they sank . . . who would Gozan bond with?

  Human screams captured his attention. He followed the sound and saw that a ship had been caught in the whirlpool’s current. He instantly put himself down on the main deck, eager to watch the disaster unfold. He found this ship surprisingly familiar. It was the Baretam, the ship the pirates had taken from Emperor Ulrik. Fortuitous, then, that Jazlyn had accompanied the emperor to his vice flagship Gillsmore.

  The ship sailed quickly around and around the maelstrom. It appeared the captain had given up, as a handful of sailors knelt at the port rail. Some prayed, some stared over the railing at their impending death, and all clutched the rail as if doing so might spare them. Gozan put himself in their midst and fed off their fear, immensely gratified.

  The ship tipped slowly, and the sailors slid toward the foredeck, screaming and clutching for handholds.

  You’re going to die, he said into one man’s ear and relished the way the man’s face contorted.

  The Baretam jerked nearly upright, its bow caught in the downdraft. The sailors shot along the main deck and piled up against the forward bulkhead.

  Gozan flew into the sky to get a better look. Stern in the air, the ship spun on its nose, whipping around the center of the maelstrom. The foremast dipped into the opposite side of the whirlpool and ripped clear off, causing its sails and rigging to bounce and tangle as the current dragged them along.

  More shadir arrived as the humans began to die. The presence of so many of his kind dampened Gozan’s thrill, and he left, drifting back toward the rest of the fleet.

  Several more ships were headed right for the maelstrom. If Gozan waited, he might witness a crash when another ship got caught in the vortex and ran into the Baretam.

  First he must ensure the safety of his future.

  He took a wide look at the fleet, surprised to see it had started to split into two groups. On one side Dendron and his mantic king were headed right for the storm and the islands beyond. A collection of pirated ships followed. Then came a gap where a second group of pirates lagged.

  On the other side the Armanians had steered away from the storm and resumed their northern course, leading the majority of the fleet away from land.

  In the very back, as usual, the Magonian ship lingered out of sight.

  Gozan found the Gillsmore far enough back in the fleet that he need not hurry to alert Jazlyn of the situation. He would rather know what these captains had in mind before advising her.

  First he went to the Amarnath, where Dendron sailed with the mantic king. A series of waterspouts twirled down from black clouds like a wall. The ship bucked on the turbulent sea like a horse looking to unseat its rider. Six mantics stood a
long the quarterdeck rail. A group of people sat on the deck behind them, tied to the rail with ropes. Malleants. Jealousy surged through Gozan. Dendron was rich indeed.

  The mantics drew strength from the malleants and cast their spells. A protective cylinder formed around the ship. Overhead, the sky opened up in a patch of clear blue. The storm and rain curled around the outside of the void the magic had created. Dozens of shadir flew about, feeding off the humans’ loyalty and the malleants’ fear.

  The Amarnath passed through one of the waterspouts. The funnel twisted against the outside of the protective barrier, pelting it with water. The intensity of the spray produced a well of fear from the malleants, and Gozan reveled in it.

  The whirlwind passed over to the other side of the ship, and everything seemed to calm, though rain still beat against the sides of the magical barrier around the ship, making rivulets run down what looked like glass.

  Gozan lingered while the ship passed through two more waterspouts, then went to the Vespara at the very back of the fleet. He found Magon hovering beside her human twin.

  “How have you advised your human?” Gozan asked her.

  “I told her to stay back from the storm. I cannot risk losing them to the sea.”

  “Dendron sails into the eye of it,” Gozan said.

  “He is a fool,” she spat. “But I should like to see that for myself.”

  And she vanished.

  Gozan passed through the Veil to the first of the pirate ships lagging behind. At the helm he found the pair who had led the raid to take the Baretam from Emperor Ulrik. A common shadir that had taken the form of a brown wolf stood between them, gleaming teeth bared as it watched their argument.

  “Why have we slowed down?” the lipless man yelled through the pounding rain.

  “King Barthel has sailed into the storm,” the captain said. “He’s madder than a Magonian crow if he thinks we can sail through that without the help of his mantics.”

  “We’re just going to wait?” the lipless man asked.

  “We’re going to change course,” the captain said.