King's Blood

by Jill Williamson

  Wilek scowled at his little brother. “There must be some way I can block your thoughts if I don’t want to hear them.”

  Trevn shrugged. “Concentration, perhaps?”

  “I don’t have time for this. Prepare your team. And find someone else who can mind-speak and practice with them.”

  “Can I try Hinck?”

  “Excellent idea,” Wilek said. “I would like to know where he is. If he made it to Rogedoth’s ship.”

  “If he’s alive?” Trevn added.

  “That too. Investigate this mind-speaking quietly, please. I want to know who has this ability, and I want them to keep it private for now. It might frighten people.”

  “Did you talk to your wife?” Trevn asked.

  “I have yet to see her today,” Wilek said. “I will ask her tonight. Right now we have a settlement to build.”

  By the end of the first full day, the new settlement consisted of nothing more than several dozen military tents. Wilek wanted to build a watchtower fortress, but Trevn pointed out that Armanian builders were mostly masons, so they would need to apprentice with some of King Loran’s carpenters if they were to build anything worthwhile out of wood.

  Just after dinner Wilek met with the Wisean Council, King Loran and his advisors, and another two dozen staff from both realms. For now, Rosâr Echad remained bedridden on the Seffynaw, in no condition to be moved in this cold until they had a safe place to put him.

  Initial reports from all the explorers confirmed that the land was vast. They had encountered no natives on their brief tour but had found signs of life in several abandoned settlements, some with brush shelters, others with pit houses. Master Keppel believed the natives to be nomads who likely followed a herd of animals.

  This worried King Loran that the winter would be hard if large game was scarce, but Rayim was optimistic over rabbit tracks he’d seen. He felt that smaller animals were usually more prevalent than big game. This started a long discussion over food. Trevn volunteered to take Maleen, the pale, exploring to see if the young man knew anything of this land.

  The topic shifted to housing. Wilek didn’t want to see tens of thousands of commoners homeless and wandering the frozen land. The brush shelters and pit houses could be used, temporarily, at least. The ships could continue to be lived in as well, though each needed to be beached for repairs and for cleaning the hulls.

  King Loran volunteered his carpenters to train the Armanian masons to log trees, mill the wood into lumber, and assemble simple wooden structures. It was also decided that they would build a fortress that both Armanian and Sarikarian royalty would share for the time being. Once warmer temperatures came, King Loran wanted to explore farther west.

  The discussion ended on the topic of how to let people off the ships. Each captain would be responsible for communicating with his passengers and crew to determine who would continue to live on board and who would move ashore. Once all the captains’ reports came in, Wilek and King Loran would have some idea of how many people would need shelter and could be put to work building or hunting.

  When Wilek lay in bed that night in his tent with Zeroah beside him, he told her about hearing Arman’s voice and the mind-speaking gift the God had given to him and Trevn.

  “He said the gift was for his people, for those with the blood of kings. I wondered if you might have it too.”

  “How would I know?” she asked.

  “Send me a thought.”

  “You sound crazy.”

  “I’m not crazy, my dear.”

  She gasped and touched her temples. “I heard your voice in my mind.”

  “Strange, isn’t it?”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Arman said it would save us from the evil we brought to this land.”

  “What evil?” Zeroah asked

  Wilek took a deep breath. “I wish I knew.”

  “What do we call this place?” she asked. “The New Five Realms?”

  “Tenma is practically extinct. The Five Realms are no more.” A word came to Wilek then. It was the ancient word for land and seemed somehow appropriate. “Others may choose whatever name they please, but I will call this new land Er’Rets.”

  Hinck

  Rogedoth had demanded Hinck, Lady Lilou, and several others serve as malleants while the mantics wielded magic to survive the storm. Hinck had tried to fake a drink from the evenroot bottle that Timmons had forced on him, but a tiny swallow had seeped in and made him sick enough to fall into a delusion. When he’d finally awakened, he found himself in bed in his cabin. He’d refused the shadir that came to him, which had made Lady Mattenelle so nervous she’d cast a spell to heal him herself.

  “You must be more careful,” she’d said. “If the king finds out you refuse the milk of Gâzar and the healing of shadir, he will be very upset.”

  Hinck had seen what Rosârah Laviel did when she was angry. He had no desire to find out what her father might do.

  The Amarnath had continued on for three more weeks in search of an island chain that Rogedoth’s shadir was supposedly leading them to. But when they finally reached land one rainy morning, it turned out to be no more than three islands.

  The Amarnath dropped anchor, as did the twenty-some other ships Rogedoth had pirated in the past few months. An army of dinghies carrying Rogedoth and his mantics stormed the beach. Despite the pouring rain they attacked a village of pales, subdued the leaders, and enslaved them all. By the time Hinck came to shore with Lady Eudora and her retinue of maidens, the worst of the evils had ended.

  The island was covered in woodlands, though barren trees and bushes and yellow grass spoke of a winter season. The place reminded Hinck of the forest east of Faynor back in Sarikar, where the trees met the fog of The Gray. Though it had stopped raining by the time Hinck stepped ashore, the air itself seemed heavy with cool moisture. On the horizon forested hills rolled into the distance. The village itself consisted of several dozen stilted, reed-walled houses with steep, thickly pitched grass roofs. Mosquitoes were everywhere, and their bites itched madly.

  In all there were eight mantics: Lady Zenobia, Zithel Lau, Filkin Yohthehreth, Sârah Jemesha, Rosârah Laviel, Rogedoth himself, Harton Sonber, and Lady Mattenelle, who, at her request, Hinck now called Nellie. Each mantic commandeered a stilted house. Hinck was to live in Nellie’s, Eudora told him as they made their way from the beach to the largest house in the village—the one Rogedoth had claimed for himself.

  “Nellie gets a house but I don’t?” Hinck asked. “How does a concubine rank higher than an earl?”

  “Your status in this kingdom has nothing to do with your birth or rank,” Eudora said. “It’s about loyalty. Lady Mattenelle is to keep an eye on you, because your loyalty remains in question to the king.”

  Wonderful. “How can I prove my loyalty?” he asked.

  “Stay out of the way for now. And if you are called upon, obey and be polite.”

  Hinck was always polite. “So I’m to be a slave like the pales?”

  “We all must obey our king,” she said, sneering.

  But Rogedoth was not Hinck’s king. He met Eudora’s dark eyes, wondering how he would ever find his way back to the Armanians.

  They reached the biggest house and climbed a short ladder to enter. The place seemed to be built of sticks, though inside, the floor was sturdy. Thin rods lashed together created walls that let the moist, cool air flow through the room. The inside was one large, rectangular space with several glassless windows on every wall. Grass mats covered the floor and some of the windows. Ladders on each end of the room led up to separate lofts.

  Already Rogedoth had set up the thrones. He and his daughter were seated. Eudora left Hinck at the door and claimed her spot beside the king.

  “I sense a new magic here, my queen,” Rogedoth said. “I first believed it to be an enhancement of our mantic abilities, but now I think it is something different.”

  “What kind of magic?” Eudora asked.

/>   “A form of mind-speak,” he said. “I am able to do it, as are Sârah Jemesha and Rosârah Laviel. But none of the others. I think it shall prove most useful to my plans.”

  “It sounds awful,” Eudora said.

  Rogedoth frowned at his bride, then looked away, his shrewd gaze scanning the room. He spotted Hinck and seemed to snarl like a fang cat about to pounce. “I see you brought Lord Dacre.”

  “As you commanded,” Eudora said.

  “Come forward, Lord Dacre,” Rogedoth said.

  Hinck made his way to the front of the room. He glanced from Eudora to Rogedoth to Rosârah Laviel. He was still looking at Sâr Janek’s mother when he heard Rogedoth’s voice in his head.

  “Do you hear me, Lord Dacre? I think you a traitor.”

  Panic seized Hinck’s nerves. He kept his gaze steady, his thoughts blank, then slowly looked to Rogedoth, determined not to let the man know he could hear this new magic.

  “I would have you swear fealty to me, Lord Dacre, and serve House Rogedoth as I see fit,” he said, then added silently, “Or you can die.”

  Hinck bowed his head, trying to look honored and not completely terrified, though his hands were trembling. The words of such a vow meant nothing to Hinck, but to swear fealty meant that he would be Rogedoth’s man. He would have to take evenroot and worship the King of Magic and obey whatever insane command the man gave him.

  Or die, apparently.

  “I . . . am honored to swear loyalty to my king, Your Highness,” he said, thinking of Rosâr Echad and Sâr Wilek as he dropped to his knees.

  Hinck had gone from being a pawn of princes to being the slave of a tyrant who wanted to kill him.

  “Very good,” Rogedoth said, though Hinck could hear the mistrust in the man’s voice. “You, Lord Dacre, will join me as we begin our preparations. Already evenroot is being sowed in the ground, and soon we will have power enough to claim all the kingdoms as our own. Sarikar will fall. Armania will fall. And we shall rule.”

  Hinck forced himself to keep from trembling, from picturing the terrible future the man claimed. He knew only two things: First, he would do all he could to stop Rogedoth’s plans.

  Second, freedom was a long way off.

  Charlon

  The Vespara sailed behind the Rurekan fleet. Following a coast of ice and snow. No sign of the tropical islands Magon had spoken of. The Armanians had passed those by. And Magon had willed the Vespara to follow.

  But when the Armanians found the icy land and stopped to stay, the Chieftess said Magon wanted the Vespara to sail on farther. So they trailed the Rurekans along the western coast. Keeping their distance. Two days of sailing and the Rurekans anchored at the mouth of a vast river.

  Charlon had never seen anything like it. Water wide enough for five ships to sail abreast. It ran above ground and emptied into the sea. Charlon stood along the rail with Mreegan and Captain Krola, watching through grow lenses as the Rurekan ships launched dinghies to go ashore.

  “That waterway leads to our new home,” Mreegan said.

  “Shall we make landfall, then?” the captain asked.

  “We will wait,” Mreegan said, “and see what the Rurekans do.”

  And so the Vespara waited. Three days passed by as the Rurekans explored.

  Charlon suffered.

  Abstaining from ahvenrood brought pain. Intense headaches and shaking. Weakness in her bones. Heat like a fever, though Sir Kalenek told her she had none. She longed for a taste of root. For the cold. For the magic to fill her veins with power. To be strong again.

  She fought the desire. Pretended to be healthy and strong. To protect the baby. The baby Torol had given her. The baby she would keep when the Chieftess took Shanek away to rule Armania.

  On the fourth morning the Rurekans returned to their ships and sailed past the river. Up the coast to the west.

  “It is as Magon decreed,” Mreegan said. “We will follow the river inland to our new homeland.”

  “What about the Vespara?” Krola asked.

  “Magonians are land dwellers,” Mreegan said. “The ship is unimportant.”

  Charlon did not like putting her trust in the Chieftess. She missed not being able to speak with Magon. Could no longer see the goddess since she’d stopped taking ahvenrood. Charlon ached for the goddess’s attention. For the confidence that came from knowing her. For the fulfillment of the promise that she would one day make Charlon Chieftess.

  “We must not stray too far from the Armanians,” Charlon said to Mreegan. “For Shanek’s sake.”

  “No,” Mreegan said. “We need distance, for now. And time. Shanek is growing quickly, but it might take several years for him to reach manhood.”

  “Surely not.” Charlon glanced at the boy. He now looked five or six years of age. He was climbing the lower part of the rigging like a ladder. Sir Kalenek stood by, one hand grazing the boy’s back.

  “No me do it.” Shanek pushed Kal’s hand away. “Shanek do it myself.”

  Charlon winced. “His speech may take longer to mature.”

  “I am glad you can see that much,” Mreegan said. “His mind is not developing as quickly as his body.”

  Sir Kalenek had warned the Chieftess that Shanek was growing too quickly. “Give him less ahvenrood,” Charlon said.

  “Sir Kalenek would have him remain a boy for too long,” Mreegan said. “We must rush his body to manhood, then train his mind. Magon assures me this is best.”

  “Her wisdom is all surpassing,” Charlon admitted.

  “While we wait, we will plant and harvest ahvenrood,” Mreegan said. “Then, when Shanek is ready, we will have the power we need to assist in his takeover of the father realms.”

  Charlon studied the icy landscape. “It seems too cold to grow anything now.”

  “Magon assures me that spring will come soon.”

  Charlon wanted to believe it. Growing up in Rurekau, she had never known seasons beyond dry, cool, and stormmer, when the rains flooded the desert for a solid month. But Magonia, being farther south, had a more temperate climate. Even had snow in the forests bordering the Polar Desert. Evidence of so many plants and trees on this frozen land gave good reason to hope that root might grow eventually.

  Shanek screamed.

  Charlon’s heart leapt within. She sprinted toward Sir Kalenek, who was now on his knees, holding the boy in his arms.

  “What happened?” Charlon asked. “Did he fall?”

  Sir Kalenek shook his head and tapped his temple.

  Charlon studied Shanek’s small face, scrunched and streaked in tears, mouth muttering, “Be quiet, you. Right now. Be quiet, be quiet.”

  Her heart sank. Since they’d reached this new land, Shanek had begun to hear voices. She suspected a shadir might be toying with him. All his short life, the creatures had been his playmates. But they were also tricksters. Tricksters who might torment him just for amusement. Unfortunately, she could no longer see into the Veil. And she dared not ask for help. That would only cast suspicion.

  “Keep him away from people when he gets like this,” Charlon told Sir Kalenek. “Take him to his cabin.”

  Sir Kalenek scooped Shanek into one arm and carried him away. The boy curled his body around the knighten, eyes screwed shut, still mumbling, “You don’t talk to Shanek. You stop it.”

  Charlon watched them go as Krola ordered the anchor dropped into the sea. Roya and the other maidens oversaw the unloading of the ship.

  This did not happen quickly. Two days later, by the time the sun had reached its pinnacle, their tribe was trekking inland along the river through ankle-deep snow. Weak horses moved slowly, pulling heavily laden wagons. Looked as weary as Charlon felt. Tufts of yellow grass sprouted from the whiteness of the barren flatland. Dead. Mreegan continued to assert that spring would bring everything to life. They would plant ahvenrood. It would grow.

  Charlon wanted to believe. But everything looked dead. The only life she saw were black birds with red eyes. They flew
overhead in groups. Followed the tribe, circled. Roosted nearby and screeched. Always watching. Mreegan ordered the men to kill some for dinner, and arrows flew.

  Though Charlon’s head ached, her body shook, and her bare feet were numb, she liked the snow. It reminded her of shadir magic. But when they stopped for the night and set up their tents, she found her toes were red and raw. Torol heated water. Helped Charlon soak her feet. She needed healing but didn’t dare risk taking ahvenrood.

  The next day Torol wrapped Charlon’s feet in strips of leather. It helped. But pain still ached with every step. Feet went numb. In late midday Charlon staggered. Tripped and fell.

  “What is wrong with you?” Mreegan asked, standing over where Charlon had fallen.

  “My feet hurt,” she said.

  “Call on Magon to heal them.”

  Torol crouched at Charlon’s side and helped her sit.

  Mreegan stared at Charlon, eyes boring within. Her smile ended the confrontation. “You cannot. You stopped taking ahvenrood, didn’t you? To protect your child?” She glanced at Sir Kalenek, who held Shanek’s hand. “Not that child.” She turned her gaze on Torol. “Another.”

  She knows. “I want it to be normal,” Charlon said.

  Mreegan sneered down on her. “You dislike what Shanek is?”

  “The root burdens him. I want this child to be free of root. At least until it is born. Then I can teach it to wield the magic like the rest of us.”

  “Lies!” Mreegan yelled. “Magon tells me you want a family, like those who live in the father realms. After what you suffered in Rurekau, you would give a man control of your life?”

  Charlon sputtered. Met Torol’s gaze. Kind eyes. No words came forth to explain.

  “You are not fit to be Mother,” Mreegan said.

  “Can’t you see?” Charlon said. “The goddess has made me Mother twice now.”

  “You fool. Magon did not do this. There is nothing special about the child you carry.” Mreegan raised her hand. “I have wasted too much time on you.”

  Charlon braced herself for pain.