King's Blood

by Jill Williamson

  “A reasonable answer,” Rogedoth said. “Some of you are gluttons with my root.”

  “But, Father, no one has seen the young lord take root except Lady Mattenelle,” Laviel said, “and concubines always lie for the man who tumbles them.”

  Her words made Hinck’s cheeks hot. “I have not seen any of your mantics take evenroot except for Lady Mattenelle, Your Highness,” Hinck said. “I am not in the habit of watching others eat or drink.”

  “I might accept that response if not for the reports from my shadir,” Rogedoth said. “They’ve been watching you for months, Lord Dacre. Not one of them has bonded with you for healing after I have used you as a malleant. So if you are taking root, who is healing you?”

  “Hwuum,” Hinck said, using the name of Nellie’s blue-and-yellow shadir that looked like wisps of curly hair. Though he didn’t see it in the room. Oddly enough, he didn’t see any shadir in the room.

  “Hwuum swears he has never once healed you,” Rogedoth said. “All of Dendron’s shadir say the same.”

  Nellie sniffed and wiped tears from her cheek. Hinck knew then that he had walked into an ambush. This was the trial before his execution, yet it seemed he’d already been found guilty. His mind spun for any logical answer. “That’s strange, for I thought he had.” What else could he say? “I admit, it is difficult to remember what happens when I’m in a haze. If not Hwuum, it must have been Noadab.” Hinck purposely used the name of Oli’s shadir, hoping the creature had not returned to Rogedoth’s service once Oli had run out of evenroot.

  Rogedoth narrowed his eyes. “When did Noadab come to you?”

  “When you fought in the eye of the storm,” Hinck said.

  “More lies, Your Highness,” Lady Zenobia said. “Noadab had bonded with Oli Agoros when he fought against us in our final attempt to take the Seffynaw.”

  “What does that matter?” Hinck asked. “Shadir are fickle creatures, as are we malleants when the poison begins to take our breath. We will beg mercy from whichever shadir is closest, whether they be the shadir of our enemy or Dendron the Great.” Hinck kept his expression fierce, hoping—begging and pleading, really—that the gods would have mercy on his traitorous, lying soul a wee bit longer.

  Rogedoth sighed and turned to Timmons, who stood behind him to the left of the throne. “A simple test will prove all.” He reached out his hand, and Timmons handed his king a dark bottle.

  Oh, gods.

  Rogedoth pulled the cork and walked slowly toward Hinck, passed him on the right, circled behind. Hinck felt the weight of everyone’s stares upon him. This faithful remnant of the Lahavôtesh believed him a traitor, and they were right. Now they sought to prove it.

  Oh, gods, why?

  Rogedoth finished his loop and stopped before Hinck, then held out the bottle. “Drink.”

  Hinck did not hesitate—any hesitation would look like fear, and he must not appear afraid to do something that a loyal adherent would be eager to do. The moist condensation on the outside of the bottle surprised him. He took a small sip of the icy drink, knowing he had twice survived that much evenroot. He would likely be able to again.

  Rogedoth’s smile widened until it bared his unnaturally white teeth. “Drink it all. The whole bottle.”

  Hinck balked. The silence in the room made everything worse, until Nellie choked back a sob. Sands, could she be any more obvious?

  “I’ve never taken so much at once,” Hinck said.

  “You have been accused of treason,” Rogedoth said. “Of stealing from me, lying to me, and sharing my secrets with the enemy. This is your chance to prove yourself. Or die.”

  Nellie fainted. Harton just managed to catch her as she went down, then held her as she came to, panicked.

  “Must I compel you to drink, Lord Dacre?” Rogedoth asked.

  The brief thought to run flitted through his mind, but any attempt to leave would prompt one of these mantics—Rosârah Laviel, likely—to attack. Hinck recalled how Sir Jayron had died and made his decision.

  “If you insist, Your Highness.” And Hinck drank.

  Dismay churned inside him as he chugged the icy juice. This would surely kill him. Painfully. Yet he had no choice but to obey.

  The sweet, gritty liquid coated his mouth and throat in frost. He could feel it slowly making its way through his veins, down his arms, past his stomach and into his legs. Everything burned and throbbed with the cold, as if the substance were eating his flesh from the inside out.

  He heard himself gasp and began to lose the feeling in his limbs. He dropped to his knees and found them numb, fell forward and caught himself on deadened hands. His teeth chattered as shivers combed his body. Nellie screamed his name over and over, but she did not come to him. He collapsed on the polished wood floor and fought to bring in one small breath at a time.

  Still no shadir filled the Veil.

  Rogedoth must have told them to stay away, no matter the pull of the evenroot available for purging. No matter that Hinck might give in and trade his soul to extend his life.

  Rogedoth wanted him dead.

  Hinck’s only defense was to tell Trevn what had happened. “Trevn, I am dying. Rogedoth made me drink a whole bottle of evenroot and ordered the shadir to stay away. He knows I am against him.”

  Trevn’s compassion blasted Hinck with such force he felt warm for a moment. “What can I do?”

  “There’s nothing to do. Tell Sâr Wilek—I mean, the king. Tell him I’m sorry. Tell my parents—”

  “I’ll voice for help.” And Trevn severed their connection.

  Typical. Even when he was dying Hinck couldn’t hold Trevn’s attention for more than a few breaths.

  A woman called out to him. Nellie, probably. Or perhaps it was Iamos, goddess of healing, standing at the Lowerworld gates. She would receive his dead body and rejuvenate it for eternity. Then he would stand before Athos’s Bench to be judged.

  “Answer me,” the woman said.

  “Iamos,” Hinck said. “I hear you.”

  “This is not Iamos. I am Onika, prophetess of Arman. And you must call on him if you wish to live without giving in to your enemy.”

  Hinck’s thoughts knotted. “Miss Onika?”

  “If you pledge your life to Arman, he will bring you into his presence. He will vouch for your life on earth. He might even heal you.”

  It could help to have a god vouch for him as he stood before Athos’s Bench. Hinck had not always made the best choices.

  “Call on Arman, Hinckdan,” Miss Onika said. “Only he can save you.”

  Arman.

  Hinck’s throat had swelled so much that he could barely pull in a hitch of air. He could see his body twitching, though it was too numb with cold to feel the movement. A sudden panic shot through him. He didn’t want to die. Not without seeing his parents and apologizing for leaving them. Not without trying to help Sarikar and Armania stand against Rogedoth. Not without seeing Lady Pia again.

  Arman? Hinck tried. Miss Onika says you can help me. Would you? He sucked in a desperate breath. Please? he added as an afterthought.

  “I AM HE, AND THERE IS NO GOD BESIDE ME. I GIVE AND TAKE LIFE. I WOUND AND HEAL. THERE IS NO OTHER WHO CAN DELIVER YOU FROM MY HAND.”

  At the sound of that voice, heat pulsed through Hinck as if someone had opened a door to the deserts of Dacre. Hinck knew then, without a doubt, that Miss Onika had been right. This was the God.

  Have mercy on me, Arman! he cried out. I have wasted my life on empty pleasures. My bloodguilt is so deep I am drowning. Forgive my feebleness. I am nothing. You are everything. I will praise you with my last breath.

  “BECAUSE YOU HAVE HUMBLED YOURSELF AND ASKED IN FAITH, I WILL RESTORE HEALTH TO YOU AND HEAL YOUR WOUNDS. I AM ARMAN.”

  Hinck reveled in the warmth and love of that supernatural voice. As it faded, he heard himself moan. His throat cleared and the chill left his body. He made a fist and wiggled his toes.

  His body had been healed.

 
; He opened his eyes and rolled onto his back, breathing easily now. Rogedoth stood over him, face slack, ridged brow pinched.

  “Have I appeased my accusers, Your Highness?” Hinck rasped.

  Rogedoth walked back to his throne. “You have appeased me, Hinckdan Faluk, and that is all that matters. Now all of you, get out. We march on Sarikar on my command.”

  Hinck sat up. The adherents rushed to the door, averting their gazes as they passed. All but Nellie, who fell to her knees beside him, sobbing, and grabbed him in a suffocating embrace.

  “Help me stand,” Hinck said, wanting to leave the throne house and never come back.

  Nellie obeyed and the two left together, Hinck’s legs still shaky.

  “How did you do it?” she asked when they were outside.

  “I didn’t,” Hinck said, awed by the sight of the wide blue sky overhead, thankful to be alive. “Arman did.”

  Now he needed to warn Wilek and King Loran that Rogedoth was coming soon.

  Wilek

  It was early summer, and Wilek had finally found time to visit New Sarikar. He sat at the table in his guest chamber, head in his hands as he voiced with Trevn. His brother had found Grayson, son of Jhorn, and they were beginning to fashion plans to help the Armanians and Sarikarians escape from the giants. Giants that Rogedoth had somehow brought under his thumb.

  “I still don’t understand how Fonu Edekk ended up with Randmuir,” Wilek said.

  “Grayson doesn’t know,” Trevn said, “but I think Fonu must have swum to the Malbraid after jumping overboard and escaping arrest during the rebellion on our ship.”

  “It seems like the only way.”

  “Regardless, Fonu has put Rand under a compulsion and ordered him to find Grayson. Do you think Rogedoth knows that Grayson is his grandson?”

  “I suspect he does now. Is the boy upset that Jhorn wishes to tell him about his parentage himself?”

  “He’s curious, but it takes a lot to upset Grayson. He’s quite upbeat. Like me.”

  A knock on the door startled Wilek. He glanced up and saw Dendrick enter.

  “Focus on getting yourself and your men to safety, brother,” Wilek said. “Princess Saria as well. Then do what you can to protect Grayson. I want you both back here as soon as possible.”

  “And Mielle too.”

  “Yes, Mielle too.” Wilek severed the connection, exhausted by the mounting frustrations. “What is it?” he asked Dendrick.

  “At Lady Amala’s recommendation, Sârah Hrettah voiced a message of concern to the Duke of Tal on behalf of his sister, Lady Zeroah,” Dendrick said.

  Wilek smirked. “Are you certain you got that message correct, Dendrick?” he asked.

  “Quite, Your Highness. Young Rystan repeated it twice. He too is concerned for his sister.”

  “Rayim saw Zeroah only yesterday. He believes this illness is related to the pregnancy, and my mother and her midwives agree.” He said a quick prayer for his wife, knowing it must be difficult to carry a child and be so very ill. “Please tell Rystan to fear not and to pass on the message to Lady Amala that her concern for my bride’s welfare is appreciated.”

  “I will do so,” Dendrick said.

  Not ten minutes later Dendrick returned. “Your Highness, King Loran and his staff await you in the throne room.”

  “Excellent.” It was time to make plans to deal with their common enemy before it was too late.

  Wilek followed his onesent out the door, where Novan, Rystan, and two other guards were waiting to accompany him. The Sarikarian castle was quite ornate. The four-level keep comprised the kitchens, cellars, storerooms, and granaries—empty thus far—on the ground floor; the great hall and privy chambers on the second floor; royal apartments on the third level; and small chambers for staff and servants on the fourth.

  The skill of King Loran’s carpenters never ceased to impress. Yet Loran had always intended that this should be a temporary structure until he could find stone, since wood rotted and could easily be destroyed by fire. Wilek couldn’t imagine tearing down something so fine.

  The room was full and awaiting Wilek, as Dendrick had said. A table had been brought into the throne room and set lengthwise from where King Loran sat his throne. His brother Rosbert sat on his right, then Rosbert’s son, Kanzer. Across from them sat Prince Thorvald. Also present were several lords, a half dozen white-robed prophets, and three priests dressed in blue.

  Blue didn’t seem the right color for Sarikar. Armanite priests wore brown. Perhaps Loran was making some changes of his own.

  Everyone stood to greet Wilek, who took his place at the foot of the table. The room felt strange, cold and heavy, like the walls might fall in at any moment. Wilek brushed aside the strange observation.

  “Thank you, King Loran, for welcoming me to New Sarikar,” Wilek said.

  “It was the least I could do,” Loran said. “Knowing that your brother will rescue Saria from those giants . . . It is an answer to all our prayers.”

  “All credit goes to Grayson, son of Jhorn,” Wilek said. “He is the true hero.”

  “Then he shall be knightened for his service to House Pitney,” Loran said.

  “I imagine that will please him and his father,” Wilek said. “I must congratulate you on this magnificent structure. It is glorious.”

  King Loran nodded his thanks. “My carpenters are unsurpassed in skill. Do call upon them whenever you have need.”

  “Thank you,” Wilek said. “I will waste no more of your time. I have come here for one purpose. Will you go to war with me against your uncle?”

  “We will join any war that comes,” Loran said, “yet I am uncertain it’s wise to strike first.”

  “We must,” Wilek said. “If we wait, he will continue to pick us off until we are small enough to defeat with magic. Already I fear we have waited too long.”

  “Sarikar can stand against his magic,” Loran said.

  “How? Have you mantics of your own?”

  “Of course not,” Loran said. “But do not take my word alone.” He gestured to the men seated on Wilek’s end of the table. “Here you see my prophets. What say you, men? Shall we go to war against Prince Mergest the betrayer, or shall we wait for him to attack us?”

  “Wait,” said one.

  “If you attack now, he will certainly destroy you before winter comes again.”

  “Bide your time and be victorious.”

  “The gods will give it into your hands if you are patient.”

  At the word gods, Wilek grew curious. “Do you no longer have a prophet of Arman here of whom we can inquire?”

  “There is one,” King Loran said. “Wolbair, brother of Queen Daria, my mother. But he is arrogant and completely biased. His advice to my father always made the nobles rise up in protest.”

  “I would like to hear his opinion,” Wilek said.

  King Loran said nothing for a long moment before motioning to his onesent. “Bring Wolbair here at once.”

  The men at the table began to grumble, and Wilek felt dismayed that this once pious nation had drifted away from Arman’s teachings just as he had begun to embrace them.

  “Which gods have told you to wait?” he asked the prophets.

  “With Emperor Ulrik, your nephew, on the throne of Rurekau, surely Rurek god of war is on your side,” said the priest on Wilek’s left. “A cunning warrior knows when to wait.”

  “Zitheos as well,” said another. “With the horns of Zitheos you will gore any Barthians who come to your door until all are destroyed. Defending from a fortress is safer than being vulnerable on the battlefield.”

  “Athos gives Justness to his adherents,” said a third. “King Loran has been loyal, and Athos will repay that loyalty with safety.”

  The prophets were still touting their false gods when Loran’s onesent returned with an old man. He was short, slight, had black skin and golden eyes. His hair and beard were long and white, and he wore a plain brown robe.

  “W
olbair,” King Loran said. “My prophets all agree that we should not attack my uncle at this time. Let your word match theirs and speak favorably about this action.”

  Wolbair looked around the table from face to face. He paused at Loran, then spoke, “Is there no god in New Sarikar that you would consult with the gods of Rôb? When did you forsake the One God?” His piercing eyes shifted to focus on Wilek. “King of Armania, do not let these prophets deceive you. Inaction will not deliver you from your enemies. Do not let them persuade you to trust in their false gods. Act now and Arman will deliver you.”

  “Do not listen to Wolbair,” Loran said. “Has Arman ever delivered us from the hand of our enemy? Never. Not when our enemy was Prince Mergest, not when he was your Pontiff Rogedoth, and not when he is now King Barthel. Arman has done our nation no favors. We would be wise to make offerings to more than one deity.”

  This coming from King Loran stunned Wilek. King Jorger had always been extremely pious in his beliefs, but Wilek had spent little time talking faith with Loran. He hadn’t realized the man’s beliefs were so far from his father’s.

  “What say you, prophet?” Wilek asked Wolbair.

  “Since I do not commune with the black spirits of Gâzar, I can tell you only what the God says,” came Wolbair’s answer. “I saw New Sarikar scattered on the plains like sheep without a shepherd. Arman said, ‘These people have no master. I will put deceiving spirits in the mouths of their prophets and decree for them disaster since they have turned away from me.’”

  “You dare curse us?” King Loran said, his expression fierce. “Guards! Take Wolbair back to his chambers.”

  Two guards rushed forward and seized the old prophet. As they dragged him out the doorway, he yelled, “If you remain safe by hiding in your fortress, Arman has not spoken through me!”

  Loran sighed. “I apologize, King Wilek. His intolerance is very off-putting.”

  The entire exchange had left Wilek in shock. “You believe him wrong?”