“He speaks nonsense,” Loran said. “I ask, ‘Should we remain here?’ I expect a simple yes or no. Not to be berated as if he is an angry woman seeking to wound with words.”
“Was not he the prophet who bid you sail northwest when we crossed the Northsea?” Wilek asked.
“He was one of many, yes. All agreed on that matter.”
“Did all worship Arman then?” Wilek asked.
“We all worship Arman now, King Wilek,” Loran said. “I am surprised that you would think otherwise.”
Wilek did not know what to think. It seemed to him that something had changed in Sarikar. Had Rogedoth somehow affected them? Wilek longed to remain on good terms with King Loran, but he could not take so lightly the scene he had witnessed here today.
Sarikar had turned their backs on Arman. Wilek would return home to Armanguard and inquire of Miss Onika. She would know what to do.
On Wilek’s journey home, he sat in his carriage, speaking with Hinckdan Faluk.
“Rogedoth plans to attack Sarikar with his army of native slavs.”
“When?” Wilek asked.
“‘On his command’ is all he will ever say, but as it will take five or six days to reach New Sarikar, I can give plenty of warning. His army consists of mostly archers—and not very good ones. I, as their marshal, should know. Still, you might focus on making armor and shields. Bows are inadequate to pierce such defenses at any significant range, and keep in mind, Rogedoth’s slavs have no armor at all, so your archers should be able to take them out easily.”
“That is helpful, Hinckdan. I shall let Captain Veralla know at once. Do keep me informed should you learn anything—”
Zeroah’s voice burst into his mind with force. “Wilek? The baby is coming. It is early, the midwife says. I am frightened.”
“Hinckdan, I will speak with you later. Good midday.” Wilek closed off the connection and grabbed the wrist of Dendrick, who was sitting beside him on the bench.
“Is something wrong, Your Highness?” Dendrick asked.
“Zeroah’s labor has begun. Ask the driver to hurry.”
“If you like, Your Highness, but rest assured that she does not need your assistance. Women have been having babies for centuries without the aid of men.”
“I would like to be there just the same.”
Dendrick gave the word, and the carriage surged ahead. Wilek kept his mind connected to Zeroah’s, which increasingly began to terrify him. For the first few hours she was able to talk clearly about where she was and what she was doing. The midwives had joined her in her bedchamber along with her honor maidens and several noblewomen who would act as witnesses to the child’s validity. Zeroah reported much chatter from the women about names for boys and girls and stories of each other’s childbearing ordeals.
Wilek tried desperately to look through Zeroah’s eyes the way Trevn had learned to do, but he found no success. Nor could he feel her pain or sense her emotions—more abilities Trevn had discovered. His brother had more time to waste practicing, while Wilek had been running the kingdom. Still, his failure shamed him.
Zeroah grew more agitated as the pain quickened. Wilek understood why midwives insisted men keep away. Had he been there, he would want to help, but there would be nothing he could do.
The labor escalated quickly, and each time the pain struck, Zeroah screamed. Wilek recalled how she always prayed for him when trouble came, and so he prayed. It was all he could think to do as she fought to bring their child into the world.
In the middle of his prayer, his wife went completely quiet.
“Zeroah?” he asked. “Are you well?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “It is over. They say it’s a boy. Our Chadek is here.”
“A boy!” Wilek whooped, nudging Dendrick beside him. On the opposite bench Novan and Rystan both offered congratulations.
“How does he look, my dear?” Wilek asked. “Describe our son to me.”
“I have not seen him yet,” Zeroah said. “The midwives are bundling him.”
“You are a father,” Novan said, grinning.
“You will be a fine one,” Dendrick said.
“Oh! Wilek, he is ill. Our baby is not well, they say.”
Zeroah’s words nearly stopped his heart.
Wilek shushed the men in the carriage. “Ill? How?” He strained to hear her answer, but she was no longer speaking to him.
“What is wrong?” Zeroah yelled. “Tell me at once. I demand to see my baby.”
“Zeroah?” Wilek asked.
“Do not say such things. My only comfort is to hold my son.”
Wilek reached for his mother instead. “What is happening, Mother? Tell me at once.”
“I don’t know, Wilek. The midwife says he is small. He is struggling to breathe.”
A chill clapped onto Wilek and would not leave.
“Wilek?” Zeroah again. “Your mother says he is very small.”
“My dear, tell me everything.”
But there was nothing more to tell. Zeroah’s demands for more information went unanswered by the midwives. The physician came and declared the same. He was small. Likely came too early. Time would tell.
Finally Wilek’s mother gave Zeroah the boy to hold, and Wilek heard his wife weep.
“Is it so bad?” he asked.
“I have never seen a baby so new. He looks beautiful to me.”
“We will pray for Arman to strengthen him.”
“I am afraid.”
“‘He will cover you with his feathers, armored and protected in the shelter of his wings,’” Wilek said. “‘He is your hiding place. In his arms he protects you from the attacks of the enemy.’”
Zeroah broke down, so Wilek repeated her favorite verses again and again until she said, “I love you, Wilek. When will you be home?”
“Tomorrow at dawn. We will ride through the night.”
The next morning Wilek sat on the edge of Zeroah’s bed, looking down on his son as he cradled him in one arm. Chadek had a flat little nose, thick black hair, and Zeroah’s golden eyes, which were watery as if the babe was on the verge of tears. Zeroah’s eyes were watery too, though when a tear seeped out it was thick, more like custard than water. Each gentle, wheezing breath from the babe took effort. Wilek reached for his son’s mind but heard no thoughts. How foolish. What could he possibly hear? He did sense an overwhelming weariness, but that might be coming from him or Zeroah. None of them had been sleeping well.
Wilek thought of his older brother and their father. Rosâr Echad had sacrificed Chadek I to Barthos—to a cheyvah beast. It had always haunted Wilek, but as he held Chadek II in his arms, he was ever so much more shocked at the depravity of such a choice. How could any man have his own son killed?
A great terror welled up in Wilek’s chest. What if his son someday felt the same way toward Wilek as he had felt toward his father? Wilek had despised nearly everything about the man. The mere idea of little Chadek hating him seemed to suffocate him, and tears welled in his eyes.
No. Wilek was not his father.
Rosâr Echad had always prioritized his own pleasures and vices. Nothing had ever mattered but that which he had deemed important. Wilek sought peace and to help the people in his realm thrive. And he had been trying to bring his people to worship Arman alone, but now that Sarikar seemed to be straying away from the monotheism King Jorger had worked so hard to maintain, Wilek felt alone in his endeavors.
Sarikar was becoming what Armania had once been.
In his weariness Wilek longed for a friend who understood his frustration. Using his voicing magic, he reached out to Kal.
“Your Highness,” Kal said. “I have been hoping you would check in with me.” And he went on to tell Wilek much about what had been happening in the realm now called Magos.
Wilek listened, shocked by Kal’s report. Charlon had killed a shadir to become Chieftess, and Shanek was already nearing the throes of adolescence. Such news only strengthened Wilek
’s resolve to deal with Rogedoth before Charlon unleashed her plans for Shanek.
“Will the boy cause trouble?” Wilek asked.
“He certainly could,” Kal said. “He is eager to please Charlon and myself. When he discovers we are divided, I don’t know what he’ll do. Though I’ve known him only a short time, he sees me as a father. I am . . . uncertain I could take his life.”
Wilek studied Chadek’s peaceful face. “I would not ask that of you unless there was no other choice.”
Kal talked until he had said all he must, and only then did Wilek share his own news of the meeting in Sarikar, Zeroah and Chadek’s ill health, and their son’s small size.
Kal listened well before answering. “Something seems amiss. Could someone have poisoned the queen?”
The question startled Wilek. “I think not,” he said. “Zeroah has been sickly since we reached land. In fact, she has always been somewhat frail, but surely I would have seen the effects of poison.”
“There are many poisons,” Kal said. “Some are slow-acting and difficult to detect. Find an expert to look into the matter. Increase security and make sure that no one has a chance to tamper with your food. Perhaps even appoint a taster.”
Wilek had no argument, so overwhelmed was he at the mere thought that someone might have purposely harmed Zeroah and their child. “You are wise, Kal,” he said finally. “I will do as you suggest.”
Wilek felt better after talking with his friend and promised to voice him more often for updates. Wilek set Chadek in the cradle, then went to his office. He paced about, eager to investigate Kal’s hunch. He would have Dendrick speak to the kitchen staff immediately about security, have Rayim find an authority on poisons, and then he would summon Miss Onika and tell her all that had happened in New Sarikar and Magonia—now Magos.
His enemies were working hard against him, and Wilek would not remain idle. He must do whatever possible to protect his family and his realm.
Amala
Amala left Rosâr Wilek’s office and retreated to the castle roof, where Sir Kamran DanSâr was waiting. She crossed to the parapet and stopped beside him, leaning on the crenellation and gazing out over the clear water of Lake Arman.
“Well?” Kamran asked. “Did he speak with you?”
“The rosâr treats me like a ward, not a princess. He is bossier than Kal ever was and always refuses to see me. If I want to speak to him, I must send messages through his sisters, guards, or staff. His wife is desperately sick, yet he has no time for her either. He cares about nothing but his own agenda. It rules his life.”
“Master Harton would never have treated you so ill.”
Her heart pinged at the mention of that name. She loved Harton Sonber, so help her. “But he left me. He is gone and cannot return. So I am trapped here, ruled by a man who wants nothing to do with me.”
“You are too impatient, lady. I told you that if you helped me, Harton would be able to return.”
She shook her head and dabbed a tear before it fell. “He has Lilou Caridod now. I saw the way she looked at him the night they escaped. He wouldn’t remember me.”
Kamran put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Harton misses you, my dear.”
“How would you know?”
“Because I talk to him. With the voices. And he tells me things.”
She perked up. “But Harton is not royalty. I thought only royals could—”
“I am royalty, lady. And just as I can talk to you, I can talk to him.”
Her pulse quickened as it always did when Sir Kamran spoke to her mind. “Master Harton mentioned me? Truly?”
Kamran sighed as if speaking of such things pained him. “Being parted from you torments him, lady. He feels responsible for your welfare, having deserted you to save his own neck.”
Does he really? “But he had no choice. Had he stayed, he would have been hanged for attacking the sâr.”
Kamran looked out at the horizon. “He sometimes tells me he wished he had stayed and died honorably rather than to have deserted you like a scoundrel.”
Oh, Harton! “No, he was right to flee. I wanted him to live.”
Kamran took her hand in his. “If you wish to see him again, you must help me, good lady. Rosâr Wilek is destroying New Armania and must be stopped. Once a man of sense takes the throne, Harton can return.”
“Then Sâr Trevn could rule. Everyone says he is very clever, and if he brings home my sister as his bride, then I would be sister to the queen.”
“Now there is an idea. With your sister as queen, you would surely be heard. Do you think Rosâr Trevn would pardon Master Harton?”
She considered it. “I’m not sure. If Mielle asked him to, he might. So I would have to convince Mielle to help me.”
“I am sure your sister would do anything to see you happy.”
Amala frowned, no longer certain. “She never has before. She scolded me as much as Kal. Who else could rule Armania if not Sâr Trevn?”
“Well, let me think.” Sir Kamran tapped his chin. “What of this idea? Harton serves King Barthel, who has made a claim to Sarikar. He might be persuaded to bring Sarikar and Armania under one nation. Greater numbers would protect us against the giants. And King Barthel would bring Armania back to the Rôb faith.”
Amala knew nothing of King Barthel. “What would become of Rosâr Wilek and Sâr Trevn? And the sârahs and Rosârah Brelenah? King Barthel wouldn’t do anything dreadful, would he?”
“Royals have immunity in such situations,” Kamran said. “They would be given a new role in the realm—at worst be stripped of their titles and made lords and ladies. But King Barthel would need a reason to challenge Rosâr Wilek. Harton asked me to help, but I can’t do it alone.”
Amala wrung her hands. “What do you want me to do?”
“It’s very simple. I need to look around the royal chambers every now and then to see what I can learn. As one of Queen Zeroah’s honor maidens, you have access. When the rooms are empty, unlock the servants’ door. That way I can go inside and have a look.”
“But how will you know to come?”
“I have my ways. Now, you must not wait for me. Unlock the door and go elsewhere. Can you do that, lady? Will you?”
Amala heaved a deep sigh, reluctant to give any man access to a woman’s bedchamber. “I don’t see why I can’t search for whatever it is you are looking for. I am competent, you know.”
“I dare not risk your safety, lady. If something were to happen, Harton would never forgive me. I don’t mind risking myself. Even as the stray son of a dead king, I can still get away with much that you could not.”
“I’m supposed to be royalty.” Adopted royalty. But royalty all the same.
“You see why we cannot trust Rosâr Wilek as king, don’t you?” Kamran said. “He does not keep his word.”
No, he did not. “Very well,” Amala said. “I will help you.”
So from that day on Amala began unlocking the servants’ door to the royal apartment in Castle Armanguard whenever it was empty, hoping that when King Barthel took over and Harton returned, they might finally be together.
Kalenek
Kal made his way through the dark tent toward the sound of Shanek’s screams. The boy looked to be about fifteen now, practically a man. Once Charlon had become Chieftess, Kal had convinced her to stop giving Shanek evenroot, and his growth had slowed some. This did not stop the voices from sometimes waking him in the night.
Kal crouched beside the boy’s bed of furs and rubbed his back. “Wake up, Shan. You’re safe. I’m here.”
Shanek’s eyes opened and he stopped squirming. “He want kill Rosâr Wilek.”
The words struck Kal deep. “Who?”
“Barthel.”
Rogedoth. “It’s just a dream,” Kal said, though he knew that it wasn’t. It had only been a few days since he had spoken with Wilek. They likely wouldn’t speak again for another week. “Do you still hear them?”
Shane
k shook his head. “Shut them out.”
“Good,” Kal said, thankful that Wilek had known what to do with this new magic. “That’s good.” He hoped Rogedoth had only been venting his desire to kill Wilek and not planning anything concrete.
Kal stayed with Shanek until he fell asleep, then returned to his own tent, his mind a conflicted tangle of thoughts. The boy might look fifteen and the root might have helped his mind develop faster, but as he had been alive less than a year, he had not the benefit of life experience to teach him judgment and common sense. Each day he got into more mischief. There were no children in the Magosian camp, so Shanek had no one to play with but shadir. Kal had tried to fill that role, but Charlon kept him busy hunting, plowing fields, and planting root. And while Kal was busy elsewhere, Shanek ran free with the shadir.
Shanek was known by all to be a pest, always sneaking into places he didn’t belong. Far too many times Kal had punished the boy for stealing or playing pranks or watching the women bathe or dress. The sound of a scream delighted him, whether it be in anger, surprise, or frustration. Once Shanek had learned to move like Grayson, there was no catching him. He appeared and disappeared all over camp, frightening people to the point of madness. Roya, Kateen, and Astaa had all demanded he stay away from their tents.
As unabashed as these women tended to be, Kal didn’t know why they cared what the boy saw. Regardless, most saw the ever-growing Shanek as a nuisance. Only Charlon treated him like the king she hoped he’d someday turn out to be.
In the past week his actions had gotten bolder. Not only did he spy on the women or play pranks, he grabbed them. Kal had sat him down, man to man, and explained about how a man must respect a woman’s privacy. None of it mattered. Shanek might have the body of a young man, but his mind was that of a spoiled child. He saw himself as superior to everyone else, an opinion bolstered by Charlon’s near worship of the boy, and he did not understand why he couldn’t do whatever he wanted.
“You cannot expect him to live like an Armanian,” Charlon said when Kal complained.
“You brought me here to train him to behave like one,” Kal said. “I warn you, if you take him to Armania and try to claim the throne and he pops in and out of women’s private chambers like a deviant, don’t be surprised when no one wishes to make him their king.”
King's Blood Page 59