King's Blood

by Jill Williamson

  Trevn spoke to Saria, who confirmed all that Wilek had said. She and her people had been taken underground to a mine, where they had been forced to gather beetles.

  “I don’t know what they want with them,” she said. “There are pale natives here as well, and they have given me the impression that the giants eat these beetles.”

  A bizarre practice. Trevn recalled the carapaces Toqto wore yet assured Saria that the giants he’d met were friendly and spoke some Kinsman. “I hope to discover where they mine these beetles and come to set you all free.”

  “I pray Arman grants you success,” Saria said.

  After that, Trevn played with his mind-speaking ability, alternating between trying to voice the boy Grayson, talking with Mielle, and monitoring the giants’ emotions. He had no success in reaching Grayson, and the only emotions he could sense from the giants were hunger, contentedness, and an eagerness to please. Trevn saw nothing sinister in such feelings, so he went back to talking with Mielle.

  “I am disappointed that our reunion will be delayed yet again,” she said, “but I am proud of you for doing the right thing. Princess Saria is surely terrified, and I am sure Grayson will be thrilled to get back to Master Jhorn and Miss Onika.”

  Trevn tried to imagine how frightening it must have been for a young boy to have gotten lost for so long. “Wilek says he is quite resourceful. Sir Kalenek told several stories about—”

  “Trevn? This is your mother. Answer me at once. I have important news.”

  Trevn grimaced. Important news to his mother could mean she’d had a new gown commissioned. He had no desire to be lectured over his marriage to Mielle. However, it had been several months since they’d spoken, and a sense of guilt twisted his heart. He should at least attempt a conversation, shouldn’t he? With a heavy sigh he bid farewell to Mielle and let his mother in.

  “Hello, Mother.”

  “My son! Oh, how you try my patience. I thought you had made yourself dead to me. Sorrow had swept out the joy from my heart, but your answer brings a dawn of hope. Did you hear that Ulrik has wed the Queen of Tenma?”

  Ah, so she wanted to gossip. Trevn could indulge her for a time. “I did. I admit it surprised me. Doesn’t she hate him?”

  “She is a great deceiver, who used your nephew cruelly. She married him for the power he offered her. And then on my ageday, mind—which you neglected to remember to my own bitter heartache—on that very day the empress’s magic ran out. I tell you, she wilted before my very eyes, aged some thirty years in the space of ten seconds. I have never been so horrified in all my days.”

  This story Trevn had not heard. “Sands alive. What did Ulrik do?”

  “How quickly the boy’s love faded, let me tell you. But as this happened at my ageday celebration in front of the entire population and Ulrik had just announced that she carries his heir, what is he to do but await the birth of his child?”

  “Will he arrest her?”

  “He wants to kill her, but he has no valid reason but his own pride. I hope you will heed the misfortune of your nephew and find Princess Saria.”

  “I have already spoken with Saria, Mother. I do hope to find and help her escape her captors.”

  “What a blessing to hear, my son. She will be good for you and all Armania. She was bred to be a queen.”

  Trevn would not have this conversation again. “Armania already has a queen, and I a wife. Farewell, Mother.” And he ended their connection.

  “Trevn! I’m not finished speaking with you about Princess Saria. You are legally betrothed now. Give up this foolish crusade to keep your common bride, and do your duty. Think of the tales the minstrels will write after you rescue Saria from giants and then make her your wife. Trevn? Do you hear me?”

  Trevn sighed and stared at his boots as he walked the ruts in the dirt road. Would his mother never learn that bullying him didn’t work?

  “A stiff-necked man will be destroyed, Trevn, and I cannot help the dead. Do you hear me? If you do not marry Saria, you will forever regret it.”

  She continued to rail, but Trevn found that by reopening a conversation with Mielle, he could muffle his mother entirely.

  They finally stopped and made camp just off the road. The giants ate dried meat and squares of flatbread. Trevn’s soldiers roasted the game they’d killed, and Maleen created a salad of the greens. The fowl tasted good but could have used salt and spices. The greens were horribly bitter, though Trevn ate them to be polite.

  After the late dinner Trevn draped his cape over a thick carpet of moss and lay down, staring past the distant treetops at the stars. He checked in with Wilek and told him about his conversations with Saria and his mother.

  “Ulrik informed Inolah of Jazlyn’s deception a few days ago,” Wilek said. “Telling you slipped my mind.”

  “He was a fool to wed a mantic in the first place,” Trevn said.

  “Yes, and while I pity Ulrik, I cannot worry about him at present. Not with my brother traipsing through strange forests with giants. I am glad you were able to speak with Saria. Any luck contacting Grayson?”

  “None. I tried on and off all afternoon.”

  “Well, keep trying. The closer you get, perhaps. It’s worked before. Didn’t you—”

  “Wil?” Trevn sat up, searching for a connection to his brother. He could find none.

  How odd.

  “Wilek?”

  Only the crickets answered.

  Panicked, Trevn reached for Rystan, worried something had happened to his brother. Rystan did not answer.

  He tried Oli, Miss Onika, Inolah, his sisters, and even Lady Zeroah, who never answered.

  “Mielle, can you hear me?”

  She did not reply, which planted a seed of fear within his heart.

  “Kempe?”

  “Cadoc?”

  “Hinck?”

  Again and again Trevn tried to speak with Mielle and Wilek. Then finally, in total desperation, “Mother?”

  No reply, even from her.

  Arman, he prayed. Did I do something wrong that you would remove your gift?

  Arman did not answer.

  No one did.

  “My pardon, Your Highness,” Cadoc said from his left. “Rosâr Wilek is speaking to my thoughts. He is concerned that you do not answer. What shall I tell him?”

  Trevn sat up and stared at Cadoc in the darkness. Wilek still had his gift? “Tell him I cannot hear him. I cannot hear anyone.”

  A moment of silence passed, then, “He asks if you have been drinking.”

  “You both know me better than that.”

  Cadoc paused a moment, then said, “He would like to know if you ate anything strange.”

  Now there was an idea. “Let me think.” Trevn ran over his meals in his mind. He’d eaten some dried reekat meat Toqto had given him. The soldiers had hunted the rat birds. And Maleen had picked those bitter greens. All three were new to Trevn. Perhaps one had somehow stifled the voices. “Tell Wilek I tried three new foods today. I will investigate the matter fully. Ask him to check in with you tomorrow morning to see what I have discovered.”

  Charlon

  Charlon had no strength. No ahvenrood. Magon had abandoned her. Everyone had. So she waited. Plotted her revenge. Let her body heal. But no amount of time could mend her wounded heart. So Charlon shut away the pain.

  Months ago Mreegan had declared war. Murdered Torol and Charlon’s unborn child. The wait had been long and difficult, but Mreegan had given Shanek back. The child was too much of a burden for the spoiled and lazy Chieftess. Though she remained firm in her order. Her order that he take ahvenrood each day. The boy looked ten years old now. Sir Kalenek worried about Shanek’s mental development. The knighten had somehow managed to end the boy’s torment. From the voices he had been hearing. Sir Kalenek gave credit to a trick he had learned during the war. Some kind of meditation. This brought immense relief. When the boy had stopped screaming and muttering to himself.

  The Chieftess h
ad finally permitted Charlon to taste small rations of ahvenrood again. Put her in charge of planting a new crop. This gave Charlon a greater purpose and hope.

  Hope that she might find the strength to take on Mreegan and win.

  Ahvenrood did not grow overnight. Without magic it took months to ripen. So Charlon used the small amounts of root Mreegan permitted. To hurry along one of the crops. She dared not risk them all to experiments.

  Now, a cool spring morning, on her knees in the field. Pulling up flowering ahvenrood plants. Removing scrawny tubers. Placing them in a basket. A basket Shanek held in his lap. From the opposite end of the field, Sir Kalenek worked twice as fast. Without magic. Charlon appreciated his speed. She planned to uproot this entire row. To test it. So far none of the new root she’d quickened in growth had been magical. Worried that she had harvested prematurely before, this time she had waited. Until the plants had flowered. Still, the roots were disappointingly small.

  Had her magic interfered? Would she have to wait until fall to reap the naturally grown field? Or could the rat birds be the problem? Too often she sent Shanek to chase away the strange creatures. They liked to nibble at the ahvenrood greens. Eventually pulled the entire plant to gnaw at the roots. She had tried. Tried to place a protective spell over the crop. She no longer had the power. The slights Mreegan had permitted to serve her were not capable of such a complex spell. Charlon missed Magon’s power.

  Shanek screamed, nearly stopping her heart. Surely it wasn’t the voices again. “Practice your quiet, Shan,” she said. Spun around on her knees in the dirt. Faced the boy. She found him looking up at a warrior surrounded by an army of shadir.

  “What happened?” Sir Kalenek’s muted voice came from the end of the row. He started toward them. Walking. That he did not see the warrior told Charlon what it was.

  The great shadir appeared as a demigod. Tall, barrel-chested, robust. Black tunic, breeches, boots, cape. Lined in pale gold silk. Gold thread embroidered a fang cat on his chest. Bronze longsword at his waist. Face and head were clean-shaven. Covered in black henna tracings resembling lace. Handsome, perfectly balanced face. Eyes, dark and probing. Mouth, thin and grim. He looked Rurekan.

  “He king?” Shanek asked, gazing up at the great.

  “No, Shan. He is a shadir.” Charlon stood, not liking the way the great towered above. “What do you want?” she asked.

  The time has come for you to rule as Chieftess, he said, his voice low and rich, pleasant. Magon will never allow this, but I can help you.

  “Magon promised me,” Charlon said.

  She lied.

  Charlon’s throat tightened to hear such words. She had wondered. Wondered if Magon had changed her mind about making her Chieftess. The goddess had refused all Charlon’s attempts to reconcile. And Mreegan had made her an outcast.

  Sir Kalenek arrived then. Ruffled Shanek’s hair. “You all right, Shan?”

  “A shadir king is here. He show Shanek how be king?”

  “Not a king,” Charlon said. “A great and his swarm. Take Shanek for a walk, Sir Kalenek.”

  The knighten quickly scooped up the boy and carried him off.

  “No!” Shanek cried. “Me stay. Shanek stay with king.”

  The shadir chuckled. Giving root to a child? I did not realize Magonians were so generous.

  “Why would you help me?”

  My human ran out of ahvenrood and has no access to more. She was unwilling to have a relationship apart from it.

  Why would a human turn away a great? “Who was your human?”

  Jazlyn, Queen of Tenma and Empress of Rurekau.

  Charlon shivered at the mention of that name. “We heard she lost her beauty.”

  Some spells are permanent; others are temporary. Her beauty, alas, was maintained by me. It humiliated her to lose it, but I was able to maintain it long past the wedding, which secured her a future as Empress of Rurekau.

  “Is it true she is with child?”

  Yes, it is.

  “She will die in childbirth,” Charlon said, remembering Shanek’s birth mother.

  Possibly, he said. Jazlyn is old for childbearing, but I would not be surprised if she lives. She is the most tenacious woman I have ever known—throughout all time.

  Such a comment prickled. “You have not yet known me,” Charlon said.

  The great shadir chuckled. I would like to.

  “Why?”

  You are wasted here, he said. A great does not bond lightly. I need someone gifted, someone open and willing. I am a warrior general, and as you see, I come with my own army of shadir who would serve us faithfully. You will not become Chieftess by accident or chance, Charlon Sonber. You must fight for the position. You must reach out and take it. You must kill Chieftess Mreegan and her great shadir.

  Charlon drew back in surprise. “That is possible? To kill a shadir?”

  Oh yes. When a shadir manifests itself in the human realm, it can die like a human.

  “I have never seen Magon appear in the human realm,” Charlon said.

  She has never transported you? A shadir cannot carry a human through the Veil.

  Charlon recalled her escape from the Armanian ship Seffynaw when Magon had carried her over the ocean. “She carried me once.”

  Magon is no fool, he said. That is why we must trick her. I have been watching, waiting, planning. If you are willing to learn, I am willing to teach. Though you must take care that Magon does not hear my name, or she will grow suspicious.

  “Must we kill Magon? Can’t we just kill Mreegan?”

  If you killed only Mreegan, Magon would choose a new human, and it would not be you. No, we must kill Magon first. Once Mreegan has lost her shadir, she will die from old age, and you can easily take her place. Will you join me?

  Charlon knew her answer. Magon had shunned her. Mreegan treated her like a slav. Bonding with this great warrior might be Charlon’s only chance. To become Chieftess. “I am willing,” she said.

  Sir Kalenek approached. In the distance behind him, Shanek sat playing in the dirt. “What is happening?” he asked.

  Charlon smiled at the great shadir. “The time has come for Mreegan to die.”

  Rurek, god of war.

  He knew pain.

  He knew victory.

  His words were a balm. His plans, genius.

  Charlon had once sworn never to submit to any male. Human or god.

  Now to make an exception. Only Rurek was strong enough. To stand against Mreegan. Only Rurek was wise enough. To defeat Magon.

  He promised to make her Chieftess. Soon.

  But first she must obey his every word. And so, starting that day, she had.

  No one knew Charlon had a new shadir. At Rurek’s insistence she kept him—and his entire swarm—a secret.

  Her last harvest of ahvenrood tubers again held no magic. Still too early? Rurek thought otherwise. Had lived many years in Tenma. There, he said, even the first root string held enough power for a day’s worth of spells.

  Was it a problem with the soil? Too much rain? Too cool? Had the magic she used to quicken the growth counteracted the new magic? Or something else, entirely?

  Rurek was not overly concerned. At his urging Charlon stole extra root from Mreegan’s stores. Only enough to help her remain in power. Once she had killed Magon and Mreegan. Rurek also suggested she process the non-magical ahvenrood. Mix it with Mreegan’s supply to weaken it.

  Rurek was not only wise. He was devious. His ideas gave Charlon hope.

  The next night Charlon, Sir Kalenek, and Shanek sat around the fire in her tent. Mashing failed root into pulp. A mountain of greens between Charlon and Shanek nearly hid the boy from view. In between herself and Sir Kalenek lay a wire screen. A screen covered in thick, starchy pulp.

  “I don’t trust this new shadir,” Sir Kalenek said.

  Charlon glanced at Rurek. He stood sentry at the entrance of her tent. Like a guard.

  “Do not put your trust in such creature
s,” Sir Kalenek continued. “Miss Onika warned about them. They are deceitful above all things.”

  Fool humans, Rurek muttered.

  “Fooolll!” Shanek echoed, then shoved a handful of mashed root into his mouth.

  Sir Kalenek couldn’t hear Rurek like Charlon and Shanek could. He narrowed his eyes at the boy. “Don’t eat that, Shan. It might make you sick.”

  Shanek spat out the root. It slid down his chin and plopped into his lap. Sir Kalenek removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the boy’s face clean.

  “Miss Onika tires me,” Charlon snapped. “She is all you talk about. Her beauty, her skin, her wisdom, her purity. No woman is so perfect. Especially a blind one.”

  “Her blindness makes her see people more deeply,” Sir Kalenek said. “She is goodness and light and joy and absolute perfection.”

  “Then I hate her,” Charlon said. “I forbid you to speak of her.”

  Sir Kalenek’s smooth face, which had once been a tapestry of scars, crumpled at her words. The compulsion Mreegan had set upon him forced obedience. Sorrow and fury poured from his eyes. “You can order my silence, but you cannot control my thoughts.”

  “Care to tempt me?” she asked. “I compelled my own thoughts. I assure you, I can do the same to you.”

  That silenced him. He took to beating his pot of root as if it had been the one to punish him.

  Regret surged through Charlon. Besides Shanek, and now Rurek, Sir Kalenek was her only friend. His kindness had saved her life more than once. She should not treat him cruelly. She owed him much. He had raised Shanek. Taught the boy when Charlon had been unwilling. But to rescind a command would make her look weak. She would not do it. Surely he would stop pining over the blind woman someday. Charlon had gotten over Torol.

  Nearly so, anyway.

  “Bird.” Shanek’s voice pulled her gaze up. One of the rat birds had gotten inside. It hopped up the pile of ahvenrood tubers. Bit into one.

  “Shoo!” Charlon waved her arm at the creature. It flew to her bed, carrying its snack with it. “Are you unable to kill these pests, Sir Kalenek?”