King's Blood

by Jill Williamson

  A smile stretched across Bolad’s hardened face, revealing several rotten teeth. “Very well, god-man. You and your friend will go free. But first you must share story tonight at feast where you are honored guest.”

  After leaving Bolad mi Aru’s chamber, Ulagan took Grayson and Danno to the bowels of the fortress and into a steamy stone chamber. The air smelled sour, and at first Grayson couldn’t see. Slowly he made out that the steam was rising from a reamway that ran past the far end of the chamber. The sight of an underground river in this new land filled him with memories of home. Several pale men were cleaning the floor. Another sat cross-legged next to a stack of animal-skin longboats.

  Ulagan left them to bathe. In spite of a few mosquitoes, the bath was the most comfort Grayson had experienced in months. Somehow the water managed to warm his very bones, which had been frozen for weeks. He might have stayed in that reamway for the rest of his days had the voices not seemed so much louder in that place and had Ulagan not come back to fetch them. The giant brought clean clothing: scratchy hemp shirts, some leather breeches, and two pair of soft fur boots, which shockingly fit.

  “Things little brother outgrew,” Ulagan told them. “You are hungry, oom?”

  “Oom,” Grayson said.

  The giants feasted in an open chamber on the ground floor of the fortress. A fire pit in the center cast golden light over the room, making the pale faces glow. Bolad had a second nest throne situated on the wall opposite the entrance. Though currently empty, it was the first thing Grayson saw upon entering the room with Ulagan. Larger groups of giants sat on swaths of fur or leather with a collection of stubby candles between them. There were no tables. Pale slaves carried around paper-like bowls filled with greasy meat, some kind of flatbread, and what first looked like rounds of wet charcoal.

  Ulagan approached one such slave. He took a piece of flatbread and used it to pick up a chunk of meat. “Eat bread and meat.” He gestured toward the tray. “I avoid tsok.”

  Danno and Grayson exchanged glances of disgust, then examined the pile of beetles. They were black and slimy—covered in some kind of sauce. They each grabbed some bread and meat. Ulagan began a conversation with another giant, so Grayson spoke to the slave. The man looked to be in his twenties, but the rings around his eyes made him seem much older. “You’re human.”

  “I am Conaw, taken from my village in a raid. Who are you to be treated with such courtesy?”

  “I am Grayson. And this is Danno. I can, uh . . . I can do magic.”

  Conaw’s eyes widened and he lowered his voice. “If that is true, you must free us. For too long the Puru have had no champion.”

  Free the slaves? Could that be Grayson’s purpose here? “I will think on it,” he said.

  Conaw smiled and bowed his head. “Enjoy your dinner, Son of Gray.”

  “Oh, I’m not . . .” But Conaw was already walking away.

  A cheer rose up, drowning out all other voices. Bolad mi Aru entered the room with two giants, followed by Randmuir and his men, whose hands were bound behind their backs. Four more giant guards ended the line.

  Ragaz the shadir flitted over to Grayson, circled his waist, and soared back to Fonu, who stood behind Randmuir. The creature whispered in his master’s ear. Fonu’s gaze settled on Grayson, and the look in the man’s dark eyes made him shiver.

  Bolad’s men had the pirates sit in a row along the wall adjacent from Bolad’s nest, where the headman had already taken his seat. Grayson and Danno remained with Ulagan, standing against the wall opposite the pirates.

  The headman helped himself to some bread and meat and a handful of beetles from a slave’s tray, then uttered a strange trilling cry, “Ah-loo ah-loo ah-loo ah-loo ah-loooooo . . .”

  The room fell silent, all eyes fixed on the headman.

  “The forces of winter have brought to us a god-man and his tribe of dirtmen. Come, god-man, and tell us the tale of your people, your god, and your magic.” Bolad motioned Grayson forward.

  All eyes fixed upon Grayson. He glanced at Randmuir and the other pirates, noting their mixed expressions of curiosity, frustration, or annoyance. Grayson must be careful. More than anything, he wanted to return to the Armanian king, where he would find Jhorn, Onika, and Sir Kalenek. He recalled what Onika liked to say when she caught him in a lie. “Truth brings freedom.”

  So Grayson told about growing up in Magonia with Jhorn and Onika. He told about Onika’s prophecies of the Five Woes and the Rescuer who would lead them to safety and how Sir Kalenek had done just that, taking them on a journey across the Painted Dune Sea. He told about the destruction of Lâhaten, the sinkhole after the flood, and traveling underground to the Port of Jeruka. Then of sailing on the Baretam all the way to Armania, getting lost when he’d tried to board the Seffynaw, and how thieves had stolen the dinghy. He shared how the Five Realms had died before his eyes and sank into the sea like a castle made of sand when the tide comes in. How he had ended up with the Magonian witches. How he’d used his magic to hide. And when he came to this part of the story, he pushed into the Veil, drawing a gasp from the crowd. He exited the Veil beside Bolad’s nest, which brought forth a second gasp, this time with applause and cheers. He went on to share how the great Rescuer Sir Kalenek had saved him again. How Grayson had rowed through the dark sea and sung to the serpent. How he had come aboard the pirate ship and joined their crew.

  He rather enjoyed the way the audience hung on his every word, and he realized then that his story was truly remarkable.

  He ended with how Ulagan and his group had brought them here, and the giants cheered.

  Bolad cut through the din with a request. “Show more magic!”

  Grayson relented and made a show of popping around the room, swiping paper bowls of food and delivering them to others, snuffing out candles, and tugging on fur rugs or leather mats. It was far too long before he finally got to sit and eat his fill. He was well into his third piece of meat when he heard a voice in his head that was different from the others.

  “I know what you are.” The voice belonged to Master Fonu, who was seated across the room.

  Grayson met the man’s gaze, fighting back the urge to shiver.

  “A root child is the proper term,” Fonu said in Grayson’s mind. “Master Jhorn shouldn’t have taken you from your mother.”

  The air tickled Grayson’s eyes. Jhorn hadn’t taken him from anyone. Grayson’s mother had died in childbirth.

  Fonu chuckled, and the nearby candlelight reflected in his dark eyes. “Your thoughts betray you, boy. I wasn’t certain you were that specific root child, but that you know Master Jhorn is all the answer I need. Your grandfather and aunt will be happy to know you are alive and well. Ragaz, tell them.”

  The red shadir vanished. Grayson’s mouth went dry as he realized he’d fallen for Fonu’s trap. But how could the man hear his thoughts? Mantics couldn’t do that.

  “It is a new magic,” Fonu said. “Help me and I will teach you to use it.”

  Grayson shook his head, trying not to think about anything.

  “No? Then I will kill your friend.”

  Beside Grayson, Danno started to cough. The boy grasped his throat and wheezed.

  Magic! Fonu still must have access to evenroot. Fear burned in Grayson’s stomach. “Don’t hurt him.”

  “Agree to translate for me, and I’ll stop,” Fonu said.

  Translate? That’s all he wanted? “I agree.”

  Danno stopped coughing. Grayson fetched him a cup of water, and the boy guzzled it down.

  Gasps across the room pulled Grayson’s attention to Fonu, who stood with his hands unbound and lifted like some kind of jester about to perform. A wave of one hand and a food tray rose from a slave’s grasp and floated in the air.

  “Behold, I am Fonu, great sorcerer of Haroan the wolf god.”

  Reluctantly, Grayson translated.

  Fonu waved his other hand and Bolad mi Aru floated into the air, nest and all. Around the room, giant
s responded with shouts, gasps, and whispers.

  “Down!” the headman yelled. “Put me down.”

  “Free my companions and give us your best rooms,” Fonu said. “We will be staying awhile.”

  Grayson translated this, to which the headman replied, “Oom, free the dirtmen.”

  Fonu returned the nest to its position at the front of the room. Some of the giants clapped. The guards set about untying the pirates. Ulagan leaned close to Grayson, his brows knit tightly.

  “He blasphemes the wolf. Is he a servant of your Arman?”

  “No,” Grayson said. “He is not.”

  Wilek

  The royal family had barely launched the king’s death boat when Schwyl and the king’s advisors had descended upon Wilek with talk of a coronation.

  Wilek had more pressing things to worry about. Reports from scouts came in almost daily of giant sightings in the north, near the mountains and forests, but there had yet to be any interaction with these natives. They did not seem to come down onto the plains and hadn’t approached any of the settlements.

  It seemed strange to Wilek that no one currently inhabited this section of land. With all the pit houses and brush shelters, it was obvious that someone had once lived here—and that they weren’t giants—yet there was no indication that the land had ever been cultivated. Perhaps these nomadic people were strictly hunters who followed a herd, like those Miss Mielle had met in the north. If so, what would happen when the herd brought them south again and they found that several nations had made a home of their land?

  With the need to build hundreds of shelters for commoners, King Loran had commissioned the Bikoor Watchtower in Er’Rets Point much smaller than Wilek would have liked. It would be more of an outpost really, with a single tower that would provide an excellent view of the ocean and surrounding land. So far only one wing had been completed—enough to house the royal families Hadar and Pitney, temporarily anyway.

  Such small quarters were not big enough for two regimes. King Loran was anxious to move the kingdom of Sarikar north to a castle his carpenters were staking out in the forested foothills of the mountains. The king was in the north now, inspecting the progress.

  Wilek would need a stronghold as well—something more defendable than this outpost by the sea. The island Trevn described sounded like an ideal option, and if all went well, Wilek hoped to begin as soon as the ground thawed. It felt strange to build on this land without permission, but Arman continued to voice his approval through Onika, and with the land seemingly empty and Wilek’s people in need, he had no other choice.

  Dendrick opened the door and peeked inside. “Your Highness? Prince Rosbert has arrived to collect his son.”

  “Send him in,” Wilek said.

  The mind-speaking magic was another problem that continued to grow more complex by the day. Wilek was not eager to see Prince Rosbert and discuss his son’s indiscretions.

  So far as Trevn had been able to determine, the primary function of the mind-speak ability was communication. The magic enabled the gifted to speak to any mind—gifted or not. Wilek had been thrilled to discover he could speak with Kal, learn what the Magonians were up to, and what had become of Janek’s child.

  When word of the magic had leaked out to the general population, panic ensued. Athosian priests said the gift was evil and advocated that any who could use the voices be put to death, and it wasn’t only the Athosian priests who felt that way. The population was divided. Some sided with the Athosians, but others believed the voices were a gift to Arman’s chosen.

  In an attempt to assuage fear, Wilek had imposed the first law of voicing: Use it well. This had come directly from the words Arman had spoken when Wilek and Trevn first knelt on the soil of this land. The ability was not a plaything to toy with non-gifted as a prank or for nefarious means. It was not to be used to eavesdrop on others without reason, nor should anyone use a man’s thoughts against him.

  As Trevn practiced and refined the different ways to use the ability, Wilek instituted training, usage guidelines, and punishments for lawbreakers. Trevn had discovered a polite way to “knock,” as he called it, when one wanted to communicate. He had also, with Hinck’s help, learned to shield his mind from eavesdroppers, which was the newest ability the duo had discovered. All this was excellent training for the gifted, but Wilek’s concern was the commoners. Trevn had taught the royal guards and high-ranking staff to shield their minds at all times, since all were pathways of information that Rogedoth might seek to infiltrate, but training the entire population was not feasible. And now several young maids had come forward, claiming that Lord Kanzer—Prince Rosbert’s son and King Loran’s nephew—had been speaking lewdly to their minds and would not stop. Bound by his own laws, Wilek had arrested the boy, which had upset Rosbert, who had been in the north with Loran.

  Now he was here to retrieve his son.

  There was simply no way to monitor the use of this magic. At last count, between the three father realms, nearly thirty people had some form of the voicing gift. All were third-generation royalty or better with the exception of two: Miss Onika the prophetess and her elderly maid Kempe. Wilek could guess why Arman might bestow the magic on his prophetess, but the maid had puzzled him until a short line of questioning induced Kempe to admit that she was the illegitimate daughter of Prince Wodek, Wilek’s great-uncle on his father’s side, a man who had died over thirty years ago and had never had children, or so everyone had thought.

  Considering royal blood, Wilek and Trevn believed there to be another five people capable of the magic—those in Rogedoth’s camp: Barthel Rogedoth, Rosârah Laviel, Sârah Jemesha, Lady Eudora, and Hinckdan Faluk.

  A knock at the door preceded Dendrick, Prince Rosbert, and a Sarikarian guardsman. Novan brought up the rear. Wilek inclined his head to Prince Rosbert, who curtly responded in the same manner.

  “Where is my son?” Rosbert asked.

  “Confined to his room,” Wilek said. “Dendrick can take you to him.”

  The man narrowed his eyes at Wilek. “Kanzer is innocent. Did he not tell you as much?”

  “He did,” Wilek said, “but after hearing both stories, King Loran and I both chose to believe the maids.”

  “Ridiculous. Commoners lie, Your Highness.”

  “Liars are found in all classes of men,” Wilek said.

  Rosbert sputtered. “Those maids conspired against my boy. I will not forget this, Sâr Wilek.” And he pushed his way past the guards and back out into the corridor. “Take me to my son. Now.”

  Dendrick hurried out the door after him. “His room is this way, Prince Rosbert.”

  The footsteps faded and Novan closed the door. “That went well,” he said.

  Wilek sighed. “Inappropriate use of the voicing magic is a new type of wrongdoing, Novan. A young maid who fears her master could take precautions to keep out of his path, but what is to stop a magic that can enter any head at any time, without notice or invitation?”

  “Nothing,” Novan said, “except learning to shield the mind.”

  “And for the moment I cannot teach every man, woman, and child to do that.”

  “No, but you could offer lessons to anyone who wished to learn,” Novan said.

  Wilek imagined throngs of commoners flooding the keep, desperate to learn ways to guard against the frightening new voicing magic.

  “On the other hand, if you could train a spy to eavesdrop on any mind, it might be useful in stopping treason before it happens,” Novan added.

  He meant to listen in on the thoughts of Kamran DanSâr, Wilek’s half brother and the only traitor who had not been outed. The idea was a good one. Lady Pia had been keeping a close watch on the man, but she could not read his thoughts. Wilek had seen Kamran in Trevn’s training class on the voicing ability. If he hadn’t yet mastered the ability to shield, he had at least heard about it. “I will think on that.”

  He dismissed Novan to his place outside the door and sat down at his desk
to use the method called “knocking” that Trevn had devised. Concentrating on King Loran was more challenging now that he had traveled north, but it did not take long to find him. A thick fog seemed to separate their thoughts, part of the shields King Loran had erected around his mind. Wilek sent Loran his name, “Wilek Hadar.”

  The barrier between their minds dissolved, and King Loran spoke, “Has my brother arrived?”

  “Come and gone in less than five minutes’ time,” Wilek said.

  “I am sorry. Rosbert is set on defending his son.”

  “It is understandable, coming from a father. Yet Lord Kanzer refused to admit any wrongdoing. Until he does and issues a formal apology to all three maids, I will not accept him in court. I hope that you will demand the same. We should strive to keep the voicing rules equal for all nations.”

  A moment of silence passed, and Wilek wondered if he had offended King Loran.

  “I understand your intent,” Loran finally said. “And while I acknowledge that the boy crossed a line, I’m not so certain his behavior warrants such a harsh penalty.”

  “He purposely invaded the minds of three women to antagonize them.”

  “He is a boy. A royal. Had he tumbled one of the maids, it would have gone unmentioned. I agree that it was a misuse of his power, but enforcing too strict of laws will incite revolt in our people, and in this uncertain time we must keep them united.”

  Was Wilek overreacting? No. He was decided on this. “I have seen the opposite happen in Armania. My father extended too much freedom to his people, which only invited Arman’s wrath. We must have discipline. We must have morality.”

  “Somewhere in the middle, then, is what we must strive for,” Loran said, “though only time will show what that looks like.”