King's Blood

by Jill Williamson

  As that hadn’t been a command, he did not jump to obey. “Birds must eat too.”

  It’s looking at me, Rurek said.

  “Looking, looking,” Shanek crooned.

  The great shadir walked to the bed. Reached for the bird. It hopped back a few steps.

  “How can it see you?” Charlon asked.

  “See who?” Sir Kalenek asked.

  Charlon shushed the knighten.

  I know not, Rurek said, but I sense power in it.

  How could a bird have magic? “Because it ate the ahvenrood?”

  Rurek met her gaze. His dark eyes held her question between them. Give it an order. Use the old language. I will try to harness the power.

  Charlon didn’t move for fear she might scare the bird away. “Rurek âthâh. Tsamad ani. Ten shel—”

  I am already here, woman! Rurek yelled. Cast the spell. The spell!

  Flustered, Charlon blurted out the first thought that came to mind. “Bara bird tselem ba Onika.”

  She felt Sir Kalenek’s gaze burn into her. She winced inside, wishing she had not cast that particular spell.

  Nothing happened.

  Rurek hummed. I have an idea. He disintegrated into shimmering yellow light. Poured himself into the bird. It screeched and flapped its wings as if pained. Did not fly away.

  The temperature dropped. The bird’s red eyes brightened. Gold, like the sun. It squawked. A layer of white frost coated its feathers. Then it grew. Swelled. Silky feathers melted into watery black mud. Mud that stretched into the shape of a leg. A hand. The substance shifted. Slowly solidified into the shape of a woman. A woman lying curled on the bed. Sculpted from a glob of black clay.

  The woman took color. Skin pale. Hair like wheat. Eyes glassy. She sat up on the bed and blinked.

  “It works!” Charlon cried out, triumphant.

  Shanek squealed in delight and clapped his hands. “Pretty lady.”

  “Ahhh . . .” Sir Kalenek stared. Charlon’s compulsion forbade him to speak Onika’s name.

  The manifestation of Onika opened her mouth and emitted a long squawk.

  Shanek began to cry. He pushed to his feet and ran to Kal, who picked him up.

  “What is the matter with you?” Kal snapped at Charlon, and he carried Shanek out of the tent.

  “tsar,” Charlon said.

  The creature squawked, as if someone had severed its foot. The form of Onika collapsed into a pool of black mud on the bed. Something rose from the goo. A rat’s face, then a trembling black wing.

  A blur of yellow light and Rurek appeared beside her. Do you know what this means?

  “There is magic in this land,” Charlon said. “Different. But magic just the same.”

  We can use it, he said. We’ll tell Mreegan that magic can only be done when a shadir takes Dominion over one of the birds. If we can convince her to try it and Magon is with her, Magon might wish to enter one of the creatures . . .

  Charlon understood. “And I can kill it while she is inside.”

  Perfecting the plan took hours of practice. When they were ready, Charlon told Sir Kalenek to build a cage. Capture two rat birds. Gowzals, she had named them. The ancient name for bird. Charlon took the likeness of Roya, and when Mreegan had gone to the altar to worship, Charlon entered the red tent. Tampered with Mreegan’s ahvenrood. Mixed in new powder to dilute it.

  When the time came to lure Mreegan into the trap, Charlon sent Sir Kalenek and Shanek away from her own tent. Fed each bird a tuber. Rurek entered one of the gowzals. Then Charlon compelled the birds to speak.

  Roya was the first to complain of the noise. Kateen next. Then Astaa. Charlon mustered as much rudeness as possible, knowing the maidens would lose their tempers. Ask Mreegan to intervene. They finally left to do just that. By the time Mreegan arrived, the noise had given Charlon a headache.

  The Chieftess barged into the tent. “What are you doing?”

  “I have made a discovery,” Charlon said. “These birds are the key to doing magic in this land.”

  “A bird?”

  “They are similar to malleants,” Charlon said. “When a bird is fed ahvenrood, a shadir can claim Dominion over it. Then the mantic can speak a spell to power the magic.”

  “Show me.”

  Charlon tried not to smile. She removed the gowzal from the cage. The one Rurek had entered. “I have sent a shadir into this one already,” she said, then cast her spell. “Bara gowzal tselem ba Shanek.”

  A chill fell upon the tent. The gowzal screeched. And just like before, its feathers grew frosty. Then it changed. Bubbled and morphed into the form of little Shanek.

  “Fascinating,” Mreegan said, walking toward the fake boy. “Did it eat the new root? That you planted here?”

  “Yes,” Charlon said. “The birds have been eating the crops. I grew frustrated. Sent a shadir into one of the birds by mistake. The shadir felt magic in the creature. I tried a mask spell and it worked.”

  Magon appeared in the Veil beside Mreegan. The two looked identical. Is there any pain, slight? Magon asked the impostor.

  The boy’s mouth opened and he crowed. Blinked, then shook his head.

  “I haven’t yet discovered. The voice.” Charlon sighed, pretending to be a failure. A novice with no hope. “I still have much to learn. I had wanted to perfect this. Before showing you. I’m sure you will have many ideas. How to improve the process.”

  “No doubt,” Mreegan said.

  I will try this, Magon said.

  Charlon kept her expression plain. She opened the cage. Removed the second gowzal. “I fed it root already. Let me give it a bit more so it will hold still.” She picked a tiny tuber from the bucket beside the cage. Set it on the ground. Released the bird. The creature wasted no time. Snapped up the tuber in its beak.

  Magon floated toward it, shrinking as she did into a wisp of white smoke. Smoke that absorbed into the gowzal. Red eyes turned glassy gray.

  Charlon fought to contain her excitement. This was going to work!

  “What kind of spell should I cast?” Mreegan asked.

  “Illusions seem to work best,” Charlon said. “I’ve been casting masks.” She made a show of backing out of the way. Of giving Mreegan room to work. Stopped beside the wooden cage. The cage where she had hidden a shard club.

  “Bara bird tselem ba Torol,” Mreegan said.

  Charlon cringed. Mreegan had done the same to her that Charlon had accidentally done to Sir Kalenek. But Mreegan meant to hurt Charlon. Wanted Torol’s likeness to bring Charlon pain.

  Cruel woman, your end is near.

  The gowzal melted into black mud. Began to change. Formed the shape of a human male. A man curled on his side.

  Rurek, still in the form of Shanek, watched, eyes golden and bright.

  Charlon must act now. Before the gowzal made the transition. She would not otherwise be able to cut it down. Not if it looked like Torol.

  She drew the shard club out from hiding. Chopped over the muddy neck. Winced as obsidian shards sliced easily through moist clay. The featureless head jumped apart from the body. A body that sank into a muddy puddle.

  A blast forced Charlon off her feet. She crashed backward. Shook the tent. Landed on her side.

  Mreegan lowered her hand, glaring down, eyes fierce. Betrayed. “What have you done?”

  Charlon glanced past the Chieftess to the puddle. Beneath it a hole had opened up in the Veil. Wide at the top, it grew narrow the deeper it went. Like the inside of Rone’s lure. A creature struggled inside. Hands clutching the outer rim. Fighting to hold on as an unseen force pulled. It was the color of a newborn pig. Had spindly arms, black eyes and lips. Three stubby black horns protruded from its forehead like a crown. A gash in its waist bled black liquid into the deep.

  Could it be? “Magon?” Charlon whispered.

  Chieftess Mreegan gasped at the creature. “No! I don’t belieeeee . . .”

  She trailed off in a gargling croak. Hair turned white. Skin slowl
y shriveled. Eyes burrowed deep into sockets. Hands reached toward her face. Fingertips touched cheeks while disintegrating into bones. Flesh, hair, and bone crumbled. Dry dirt in a giant fist. The vortex swallowed everything. What had once been Mreegan flew past where the pig-like shadir held tightly.

  Rurek left the gowzal and materialized in his warrior form. Stepped toward the vortex. He smiled down on what once had been Magon. I told you I was stronger, he said.

  The creature snarled. Spoke in a language Charlon had never heard.

  Rurek chuckled, then uttered a single word in that same, guttural tongue. Nadach.

  Magon’s hands lost purchase. She fell.

  The hole closed up. Lifeless on the ground, the gowzal’s head and body looked small. No sign of Mreegan or Magon. Both were gone.

  Rurek’s gaze rested on Charlon. You did it. He sounded surprised, if not slightly mortified.

  “We did it.” Charlon turned to leave and found Roya, Astaa, and Vald standing in the doorway, eyes gleaming in horror.

  “Come, Rurek,” Charlon said as she marched past them and out of the tent. “Send one of your swarm. Fetch Sir Kalenek and Shanek to the red tent.” She walked the path between the two rows of white tents. Head held high. A victor. In the distance the red tent gleamed in the morning sun.

  She had done it! The rule of Magonia. The title of Chieftess. Both were hers. Won fairly. Taken because she was superior to Mreegan and even Magon.

  She approached the red tent. Rone stood sentry outside, lure around his neck. He stepped in front of the entrance. “You may not enter, Mother. The Chieftess is not here.”

  “She is Chieftess now.” A woman’s voice. From behind. A glance over Charlon’s shoulder revealed Roya. Behind her Astaa, Nuel, Vald, and Kateen.

  “Mreegan is dead,” Charlon said, “as is Magon. I killed them.”

  Rone’s eyes swelled slightly, and he knelt at her feet.

  Charlon fought back a smile, wanting to look strong and regal.

  Shanek ran forward. Reached for her and jumped as if she might lift him. “Shadir said come. We mash root?”

  “No, my son,” Charlon said, taking hold of his hand. “The red tent is my home now. I am Chieftess of Magonia.”

  Are you certain you want your realm to be called Magonia? Rurek asked.

  Charlon had not considered that. No reason to honor Magon the betrayer. “You are wise to suggest a new name, Rurek. I owe much of my accession to you. There is, unfortunately, a realm that already bears your name.”

  How about Magos, Chieftess? Rurek suggested. For it was by magic that you claimed rule over this people.

  “Magos,” she said, liking the sound of it. “So be it. Send your swarm to call everyone here. It is time they bow before their new Chieftess.”

  Rurek mumbled something to a fat shadir, who flitted away.

  “Rone, pass the lure to Sir Kalenek,” Charlon said. “He will serve as my One.”

  Rone stood and looped the cord that held the lure over Sir Kalenek’s head.

  “Kneel before me, Sir Kalenek,” Charlon said.

  Because of the compulsion upon him, Charlon had no idea if the knighten would have knelt of his own volition. But kneel he did.

  Gullik and Eedee approached then, the young Zweena close behind.

  Charlon paused, waited for them reach her. “Sir Kalenek Veroth, do you accept your position to serve me and my son Shanek as One?”

  Though he did not look pleased, he answered, “I live to serve, Chieftess.”

  Yes, he did. And she would see to it that he would serve her well. They all would. She was Chieftess Charlon of Magos. There was no one higher in all the land.

  Grayson

  The snow had long since melted, and while Grayson had come to know the giants well, his time in Zuzaan had made him ever more suspicious of Master Fonu and his mysterious hold over Randmuir the pirate and now Bolad mi Aru as well. One night some ten days ago as they’d been eating in the hall, he’d overheard a conversation that changed everything.

  “Tomorrow you will gather your men and leave,” a man had said.

  “Tomorrow we must leave.”

  Grayson immediately had recognized the second voice as belonging to Randmuir. He’d located the man across the room, sitting in a dark corner with Fonu Edekk.

  “Tell the headman that we will sail south to the Armanians,” Fonu had said.

  “I will tell the headman we will sail south,” Randmuir had echoed.

  Dread had filled Grayson’s chest as he recognized the signs of a man under compulsion. How long had Fonu held such power over Randmuir? He tried to think back, to remember if there had been other times when the pirate had made strange decisions, but could think of none.

  “The giants will not wish to part with Grayson,” Master Fonu had said, “but he must come with us.”

  “Grayson must come with us,” Randmuir had echoed.

  Terrified, it had been all Grayson could do to keep silent and creep away. He’d told Danno everything, and the two of them asked the help of Ulagan the wolf in leaving the place.

  An hour later, Ulagan and the slave Conaw had met Grayson and Danno in the chambers the boys shared in the giant’s fortress. The giant and the pale human each carried bulging sacks. Conaw set his down by his feet.

  “Is safe?” Ulagan had asked.

  Grayson saw no shadir in the Veil, but Ragaz was never far. “Yes.”

  “You to go now,” Ulagan said. “Fone Ool to leave tomorrow. Want to take you.”

  “I’m not sure Master Fonu could take Grayson anywhere,” Danno said. “He moves too fast.”

  Grayson wasn’t so sure about that. “The Magonian Chieftess was quick enough to catch me with one of her spells. I bet Fonu could do the same. We must leave, but what about the slaves?”

  Grayson had learned much about the Ahj-Yeke in his time here, including the horrible slavery that happened underground, all for the magic the Ahj-Yeke believed came from eating the black beetles. Ulagan, being Uul-Yeke, held different beliefs on the matter. He disdained slavery yet felt helpless to stop it.

  “Giants oppress the Puru too long,” Ulagan said in his native tongue. “Now not time to free them. Your magic can bring you again where you to speak to slaves and plan escape.”

  “What about Danno and Conaw?” Grayson asked. He could pop away at any time, but the others could not.

  “River tunnel,” Ulagan said. “You to take bohaj to ocean. To find Puru people. We to make supplies to nourish you.” He tapped the leather sack.

  “What about you?” Grayson asked.

  “Someone to stay. To help the slaves when time comes to run.”

  So Ulagan had led Grayson, Danno, and Conaw down to the steamy reamway where they had once bathed. He moved one of the bohaj, which were animal-skin longboats, into the water. He looped a twine cord over a stone spike to hold it and loaded the two packs. The boat bobbed in the rippling current, tugging at the cord, eager to sail away. Ulagan held it steady as the three humans climbed inside.

  The boat had seemed overly large to Grayson, built as it was for giants. He settled cross-legged onto the ribbed interior and could barely see above the gunwale. He wrinkled his nose at a stale, sour scent. “What’s that smell?”

  “Reekat fat,” Ulagan said. “To make bohaj waterproof.”

  He then retrieved a small ceramic bowl from a shelf and used one of the wall torches to light a small flame inside.

  “This to help see. To keep light out of wind.” He’d handed it to Grayson, who set it on the floor between him and Danno. “Current to carry you. To paddle and keep bohaj from rock. Three days to reach ocean. You to see reekat, stay away.”

  So they had set off. During that long, dark journey, Grayson had heard the voices, as always. Sometimes they were longer conversations, but most often they were random, unrelated statements.

  “We might ask the queen to help,” a woman said.

  “Eudora would never support us,” sai
d another woman. “The only side she takes is her own.”

  “Why are you like that?” a man yelled. “Why do you always accuse me of wrongdoing?”

  “I’ll have to climb down inside it,” a girl said. “Do you think I’ll get stuck?”

  “Rystan,” a man said. “Come to the throne room.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” a young man answered.

  “Fonu, have you found Grayson yet?” a gruff voice asked.

  Hearing his name—and Fonu’s—had changed the voices for Grayson. He’d begun listening intently to the things that were said, realizing that all along he’d been hearing bits of conversations from real people.

  Someone had sent Fonu after him.

  Grayson lost track of time in the reamway, but finally, days later, the boat had exited the underground river and drifted into the sea on a bright, sunny morning. Conaw rowed to a nearby cave and tied the boat with several others. The pale then led them north on foot along the shore. The threesome had eventually met up with Conaw’s people, the Puru.

  The tribal, human-sized pales reminded Grayson of Magonians in the way they wore scraps of animal skins and furs. They lived in pit houses, which were marked above ground only by a rectangular opening with a ladder sticking out adjacent from a round hole made for smoke from the campfire below. Underground, each circular room had been built of mudbricks. No furniture filled the space but furs or mats made of leather or grass.

  Conaw’s grandmother, Muna, was the matriarch of the tribe and had welcomed her grandson and his new friends warmly. The woman was short and very old. Her skin was tanned and wrinkly. She had blue eyes and silvery hair braided in a circle around her head.

  She called Grayson “Massi” and Danno “Komo,” for the gray and brown of their skin, and told them many stories about the people who lived in the great homeland. Grayson translated for Danno some of the time, but Muna talked so fast he could barely keep up.

  That night, as they sat around the fire, she talked about all the people who lived in this land. “Some tribes have moved over the years, and some have combined. Two peoples remain: Yeke and Puru. There are three Yeke tribes. The Ahj-Yeke are the forest-dwelling giants. They are the strongest of the Yeke tribes, which they credit to their consumption of the tsok.”