King's Blood

by Jill Williamson

  Now that most people had learned to shield their minds against mind-speaking, things had quieted down a great deal within the castle walls. Everyone was guarding against being spied upon. Wilek had taken Kempe, the illegitimate maid, away from Miss Onika and put her on the task of shadowing Kamran’s thoughts, but the man never dropped his shields long enough for the woman to hear a single one.

  According to Hinckdan Faluk, Rogedoth had learned to shield from an outside source. Wilek believed Kamran responsible, though he had no proof. Because of this, Wilek decided to keep Trevn’s other voicing discoveries private to keep Kamran from spreading more information to Rogedoth. So far Lady Pia hadn’t noticed any unlawful behavior from Kamran, but she had promised to keep Wilek informed of his every move.

  Spring had blossomed in full. Wells had been dug, making drinking water easily accessible. Occasional herds of deer had been spotted with fawns among them. Life was vibrant and plentiful in this new land. Among the remnant as well. The thirty-some horses that had survived between the remaining ships had been bred. Pregnant women abounded too. Having lost nearly half the population of Armania in the exodus across the sea, Wilek considered it a blessing. The first generation of Armanians was about to be born in this new land, his own heir among them. It was an exciting time in the history of his people.

  Yet their troubles were not over. Both Emperor Ulrik and King Loran had reported that small groups of giants had raided smaller settlements, stealing tools, weapons, and, in some cases, entire families. While no one in Armania had yet come face-to-face with giants, they had been seen, watching the construction of Armanguard from a distance.

  Then there was Rogedoth, the self-titled King Barthel. According to Hinckdan’s reports, he had not only waylaid the four Armanian ships that had escaped Captain Stockton’s ice field, he had enslaved their crews and passengers and was hard at work building an army that would someday march upon Sarikar and Armania. The man intended to claim rule of the entire remnant from the Five Realms—felt it was not only his birthright, but that he had earned the position with years of service to Armania. Wilek had always hoped that if he would ever rule, he would rule a realm of peace. That, it seemed, was not to be.

  The door opened and Trevn came inside. He dropped onto a longchair and helped himself to a tart from a tray Dendrick had brought in earlier, then looked at Wilek and smiled.

  “You look . . . pompous,” Trevn said over a full mouth.

  “I made several modifications to tone down the overall gaudiness,” Wilek said. “Are you telling me it didn’t work?”

  “Not in the least.”

  Wilek sighed. “It doesn’t matter. I’m only wearing it once.” He shrugged out of the coronation robe and handed it to the tailor, who bowed and quitted the room.

  “I like the new insignia.”

  Wilek’s new royal blue tabard had five sunbird heads embroidered in gold thread to represent Nesher, Arman’s spirit form. “I hope it will unify our realm and show my allegiance to Arman.”

  “It’s a good idea,” Trevn said. “Is Lady Zeroah feeling any better?”

  “Not really,” Wilek said. “The midwives assure me it is only a reaction to the child within her.”

  “Little Chadek making her ill, is he?”

  “So they say. You got my message about adding Kempe to your expedition?” Wilek asked, sitting at his desk.

  “She’s an old woman, Wil. I’m not sure she’ll be able to keep up with us.”

  “She doesn’t have to. Leave her on the ship. With her ability to mind-speak, she will be an extra means of communication should you need her.”

  Trevn sighed. “If you insist.”

  “I do. And, Trevn, be careful. I remain concerned about these giants. We still don’t understand why some attack and some don’t.”

  “There are scoundrels in any people group. I’ll be careful.”

  “And if you get a chance to trade with them—”

  “Don’t trade weapons, I know.”

  “And don’t forget that Rand is out there somewhere.”

  “Yes, yes. I remember.”

  Wilek regarded his brother and sighed deeply. “I feel like I’m sending you to your death.”

  “I’ll be on the Seffynaw. It’s like a fortress.”

  “So long as you remain on board.”

  “I can’t do that and map the coast.”

  “Just . . . promise me you’ll be careful.”

  Trevn reached for the tray of tarts and grabbed a second. “Wil, it’s me. I’m always careful.”

  “You’re always curious,” Wilek said. And that worried him more than any tribe of mysterious giants.

  Wilek stood in an anteroom off the front of the great hall, which had been built on the second floor and doubled as the throne room at Castle Armanguard. He wore his blue tabard bearing his new insignia over his blacks. He also wore his white velvet coronation robe and one of his father’s brown velvet capes, edged in black fur.

  A servant entered the room and informed Dendrick that the time had come. Wilek exited the anteroom. Novan and Rystan moved along behind him, helping to transition his cape. He stopped in the open doorway of the great hall. Somewhere inside, a lone piper played the king’s song. From Wilek’s position, he could see straight down the short walkway to the throne. The stone walls of the hall had been covered in blue silk. Golden drapes ran along the molding, met in the center back wall, and cascaded behind the bronze throne. The four legs that ran up the corners of the chair in pillars to support a pointed canopy roof had always appeared more like a shrine to Wilek, so he had requested some alterations. Gone were the bronze busts of his father’s five gods. They had been melted down and recast into four roundels for each of the corner posts to symbolize Justness, Virtue, Wisdom, and Prosperity. And on the pinnacle of the canopy, a bronzed Nesher head signified Wilek’s allegiance to Arman. He had also added a shelf underneath the seat to hold Arman’s holy book.

  There were no tables in the great hall today. People stood on both sides of the aisle, crammed shoulder to shoulder, all looking toward Wilek at the entrance. He could sense their collective mood as excited and hopeful, which bolstered his courage. The piper ended the song, and the herald played Wilek’s tune on his trumpet—one short note and four long ones.

  “His Royal Highness, Wilek-Sâr Hadar, the First Arm, the Dutiful, the Godslayer, Heir to Armania.”

  A cheer rose up from the crowd as Wilek started down the aisle. The freshly sanded wooden planks felt rough under his bare feet. Wilek crossed the room quickly. No dais had yet been built, so the throne sat at floor level. He stopped just before reaching the footstone. The ancient relic had been fitted into the floorboards a few paces in front of the throne. It held the very footprints of Sarik, Arman’s son and the first king of Armania. For centuries tradition decreed that when a new king took his vows, he must stand in the steps of King Sarik himself and all who had come after him.

  The priest, Father Burl Mathal, wore white robes and stood to the left of the throne. Novan and Rystan joined Trevn, Rayim, and Dendrick at the front, and the five men each lifted a pole from the canopy until the cloth of gold and blue silk stretched above Wilek’s head.

  Mathal broke the silence with a question. “Who comes to lay claim to this throne and realm?”

  “I am Wilek-Sâr Hadar, son of Echad Hadar.”

  “Stand, then, in the footsteps of your forebears, then come kneel before the throne.”

  Wilek stepped onto the footstone. A quick shift of his feet and they fit mostly into the impression Sarik had left centuries ago, though Wilek’s feet were a few hairs longer. He took a long breath, then stepped out on the other side and sank to his knees before the throne.

  “I hold in my hands the Book of Arman that you carried across the sea,” Mathal said. “You have expressed your desire to rule by Arman’s will over your own. Is this true?”

  “It is,” Wilek said, and his heart swelled with hope that he might put an e
nd to the evil practices of his father and lead his people into a new era of peace and safety.

  “Then I bestow upon you the wisdom and mouthpiece of the God, the most valuable thing this world has to offer.”

  Wilek accepted the book from the priest and slid it onto the shelf under his throne. “Upon Arman’s word I vow to rule this land. Arman’s word is the only foundation that is unshakable.”

  He felt a shift in the mood of the crowd. Very few of these people had been alive for King Echad’s coronation, so most didn’t know what to expect here today. Still, the words of his vow had confused some. How would the people react when they all finally understood he had converted to the Armanite faith?

  “Stand and face your people,” Mathal said.

  Wilek did so, and the hem of his cape twisted around his feet. He caught sight of Zeroah, sitting in his father’s old rollchair, and beside her his sisters and Miss Onika, whose pale eyes gleamed in the low light.

  “I hereby present unto the people of this new land, His Royal Highness, Wilek-Rosâr Hadar, the Head, the Dutiful, the Godslayer, King of Armania, and Servant of Arman. Arman save the king.”

  The crowd solemnly uttered a mixture of “Arman save the king” and “Gods save the king.”

  Father Mathal then poured oil over Wilek’s head and anointed him king, then turned to lift the crown from a pillar behind him. Wilek had seen it hundreds of times in his life, mostly atop his father’s head. It was made of gold and blue velvet and encrusted with hundreds of jewels.

  Mathal held the crown above Wilek’s head. “Arman, we offer up this crown. May it be a reamway that carries your abundant wisdom to your chosen servant’s mind.”

  As the inner cap settled on Wilek’s head, a chill ran over him at its weight—heavier than he’d imagined. It was meant to be a burden, he reminded himself. Ruling a nation was no simple task.

  Mathal then presented a wooden staff. This Wilek had also commissioned, wanting to replace the scepter of the five gods that had been used in Armania for over five hundred years. The staff had been carved from a tree that had grown on the Er’Retian shore where Wilek had first stepped foot. It was taller than he was and topped with an ivory carving of a two-headed Nesher sunbird, looking behind and ahead—an heirloom from his mother’s collection. Two golden rings had been banded under the ivory carving. The first was engraved with the name Echad Hadar, the second Wilek Hadar. Someday the staff would hold a ring for every king who ruled Armanguard.

  Mathal held the new scepter before Wilek. “Arman, we offer up this scepter. May it be an extension of your Justness from your chosen servant’s hand.” He passed the staff to Wilek. “Sit then, chosen king, and accept this throne as yours.”

  “Before I do so, Father, I wish to address you all. People of Armania, here we stand together after surviving a harrowing journey across the Northsea. And yet our trials are not over. A group of mighty foes seeks our ruin. This nation was founded upon worship of Arman, and it is to Arman alone that I pledge loyalty. His prophet warned of the destruction of the Five Realms and led us here, and the God’s magic will protect us from the evil we brought to this place. I hope you will all join me in worshiping Arman. Only then can we stand against what would surely be an onslaught of tyranny.”

  Wilek sat down, surprised to find the ancient cushion soft. A cheer rose up. Father Mathal knelt before the throne.

  “I, Burl Mathal, priest of Arman, swear to serve faithfully and honestly, my Sovereign King of the Realm and his god Arman.”

  The canopy was put away, and Trevn, Rayim, Dendrick, Novan, and Rystan each knelt in turn before Wilek, swearing their own oaths of fealty. Beyond, the audience surged forward and formed a line to do the same. Not everyone who knelt and swore allegiance harbored emotions that matched their words. When Wilek sensed hatred or animosity, he mind-spoke the names of each to Dendrick and asked the man to write them down for further study. The worst of the loathing came from Sir Kamran DanSâr, his half brother. Wilek had yet to discover any way to break through the man’s shields and hear his thoughts.

  Wilek remained seated until everyone present had taken their chance to kneel—even Zeroah, who had determinedly risen from her chair to complete the task. Afterward Wilek, his guards, and a vast majority of people from the coronation paraded through the bailey to the cheers of those who hadn’t been invited inside.

  When Wilek returned to the great hall, it had been transformed for a banquet. He ate heartily, seated between his wife and brother, content and hopeful for the future.

  Not halfway through the feast, he received a knock from King Loran.

  “What news?” Wilek asked.

  “Yet another group of giants has attacked a Sarikarian settlement, this time taking more than three dozen of my people captive, including my daughter, Saria.”

  “That’s terrible!”

  “As we speak I am preparing a squadron to get her back, but there is more. Two witnesses reported seeing runes tattooed on the backs of the giants’ necks.”

  The horror of such a thing stunned Wilek. “Could the giants have partnered with the Magonians?”

  “I care less about that than I do about rescuing my daughter. How can I get her back when there is magic at play?”

  Wilek sat back in his throne and took a deep breath. He looked around at the joy of his subjects, his beautiful wife. He could not let anyone destroy what they had worked so hard to build. If mantics had taken control of the giants, what could stop them? First they would conquer New Sarikar; then Armanguard would be next.

  “I don’t know,” Wilek said. “But we cannot allow this to continue. Whatever you need, you have my support.”

  Trevn

  The day after Wilek’s coronation, Sâr Trevn’s expedition left Armanguard. It was the first day of the first month of what would have been the season of stormmer back home in Armania. In Er’Rets it was the height of spring. Tiny leaves had budded and bloomed on once-barren trees and bushes. Flowers blossomed. Grass sprouted, bright and thick. This new world was an uprising of color. For Trevn it was yet another reminder of how much time had passed since he’d last seen Mielle.

  Left to himself he would have marched across mountain and valley to find her, but so far he’d followed his brother’s leadings, and Wilek was cautious. Short explorations hadn’t been enough, and even now Wilek had pushed back against Trevn’s desire to travel west, where he knew Mielle was. Wilek feared his eventually meeting up with the Magonians or Rogedoth’s army, so Trevn had agreed to sail the Seffynaw up the eastern coast. He would either circle the continent and come upon her from the north or cut across the interior of the land at some point.

  Trevn did not sail as captain or crew member but as a sâr of Armania heading up an official expedition. He had wanted to take a smaller ship, but Wilek had insisted upon the Seffynaw, convinced that a bigger ship would give the small party an illusion of strength. The expedition consisted of Trevn and his staff; Kempe; Maleen; Captain Bussie and a smaller crew of sailors, including Nietz, Bonds, Shinn, and Rzasa; explorer Rost Keppel and his team of scholars and assistants; and a squadron of fifty soldiers—all outfitted in uniforms that had been modified to display the circle of five Nesher heads, Armania’s new insignia.

  Though Trevn was eager to find Mielle, Wilek had also entrusted him with the arduous task of mapping the coastline—a sly decision. Trevn’s love of maps might be the only thing able to distract his mind from his true objective. He instructed Captain Bussie to sail the Seffynaw slowly up the coast, stopping once a day so that the explorers might gather samples or make illustrations of plant and animal life. Trevn went along on these excursions, eager to look around, though he kept in constant communication with Mielle, telling her about everything he saw. Besides his own sketches of maps, trees, and animals, Trevn’s journal was filled with facts and stories about the pale nomads Mielle was getting to know.

  Three days into the journey Captain Bussie anchored the ship in a cove, and Trevn ord
ered a team to go ashore and explore. While the men prepared the boats for launch, Trevn saw Kempe on the main deck and decided to have a word. The elderly maid was no taller than his half sister Hrettah, was small boned, and had more wrinkles than a prune. Her teeth were white, and she was nearly always smiling, which made her eyes seem to glitter.

  “Sâr Trevn, good morning,” she said in her silvery voice. “The waves are raucous today. Tell your men to use a sea anchor to keep the dinghies from capsizing.”

  The woman mothered everyone, but she did so with such kindness and a smile that Trevn never minded. “You are wise, madam. Please keep me posted should anything go wrong on board.”

  “Certainly, Your Highness. Rest well in Captain Bussie’s competence. He will take good care of your ship.”

  Trevn left her and, by late midday, set out with the explorers. The men did indeed use sea anchors as they made their landfall. Trevn spent some time exploring the coast, but a forest of ridiculously tall trees beckoned him farther inland. He had never seen anything like them. The sun cut through the long trunks like spears of light, and he felt like an ant in a patch of dandelions. Trevn and Ottee had been attempting to climb the trees, with Cadoc keeping watch, when one of the soldiers brought the message that Master Keppel had made a discovery.

  They found the elderly explorer’s team at the top of a rocky incline, standing in the narrow end of a conical hole in the ground that appeared to be the entrance to a steep cave. Trevn wasted no time climbing down the large boulders at the cave’s mouth. When he reached the explorers at the bottom, he found them in the midst of a heated debate.

  “We will never learn where it goes unless we go in!” Master Keppel yelled, his face flushed. The head explorer’s round face and belly and stumpy arms and legs gave him the appearance of a quill pig, and he had a temper to match.