King's Blood

by Jill Williamson

  “I trust you to lead us, Grayson,” Trevn said. “Let us camp here for the night and set out early tomorrow.”

  Too unsettled to remain idle, Trevn pitched in to help the men erect his tent. Three more days, Grayson had said. Only three days until he might be reunited with his bride. He could hardly believe it.

  Once Trevn had eaten, he settled down to voice Mielle and give her an update on their location. They were so close now that each time their minds connected, the force of the soul-binding knocked him flat. This was why he no longer forged a connection between their minds unless he was seated or lying down.

  As soon as he reached for her, a sense of horror washed over him. “Mielle? What is wrong?”

  “Trevn! I have been praying you would speak to me. Giants came to the village. They were awful, half-naked beasts, and the Puru people gave their children away! Some of us women, we tried to protest, but the Puru men carried us off to one of the tents and held us captive until the whole thing was over. Captain Stockton tried talking with the Puru chief, but they cannot understand each other. And now the Puru are packing up as if they are going to leave. Can you send Grayson to translate? Please? We are desperate to understand what is happening.”

  Trevn steeled himself against the onslaught of Mielle’s emotions. “Fetch Grayson,” he yelled to Ottee, who was attempting to build a fire.

  The boy jumped up and scurried away.

  Grayson came, and Trevn sent him straight to Mielle. Trevn tried to console her, but she would hear nothing until she got the truth from the Puru people. When Grayson reached her, she closed her mind against Trevn so she could figure it all out.

  Trevn waited, curious what Grayson would discover and fairly relieved to be released from Mielle’s passions. When Grayson returned asking Trevn to contact Mielle at once, Trevn braced himself and reached for her.

  She had calmed down a great deal, yet overwhelming hopelessness bled through their connection. “What happened?” he asked.

  “They would say only that the children belonged to the giants. But, Trevn, the children didn’t want to go. Most of them were crying. And some of the Puru women were crying too. It was very dubious. And now the Puru are leaving.”

  “Going where?”

  “Migrating south along the lake. They’ve invited us to join them—said it’s too dangerous to stay when the Jiir-Yeke come—that is what they call the giants they gave the children to. It is incomprehensible. Captain Stockton wants to go with the Puru. He knows you are coming and thinks it will save time. But most of the people want to stay with their crops.”

  “Let’s ask Wilek.”

  So eager was Trevn to see Mielle and please Wilek, he had to force himself to remain neutral. Over the next hour he and Mielle passed messages back and forth between Wilek and Captain Stockton until a plan was agreed upon. Captain Stockton would head south with a group that included Mielle and Cadoc’s parents. Captain Gior Neuma, who had captained the Luvin, would stay and take leadership of the Armanian settlement. This gave the people a choice whether to stay or go.

  “There are only about seventy coming with us,” Mielle told Trevn late that night, “and mostly because they had family on other ships. The rest want to stay.”

  Since Captain Stockton’s people would be taking the southern route, Trevn informed his men that they would circle the end of the lake the next morning and take that same path. If all went well, they should meet up in less than two days’ time.

  The next morning Grayson led Trevn’s group from one location to another around the southeastern end of the lake and up the southern shore. This continued the rest of the day and into the next. When they stopped for a midday meal, Trevn’s soul-binding cut his emotions to shreds. He could hardly sit still, knowing Mielle was so near. He forced himself to try, desperate to focus his mind. He removed a nub of charcoal and a fold of parchment from his pack and set about sketching the coastline. This land was lush and beautiful, and a rush of thankfulness overcame his emotions.

  “Your Highness.” Three soldiers approached, and Cadoc stood to meet them. “There are pales camped just north on our side of the lake.”

  “Show me,” Trevn said.

  The soldiers led Trevn and Cadoc past a copse of trees and pointed down a slight incline into a valley. A peek through his grow lens confirmed they were pales, but he saw no buildings or tents of any kind. A native man climbed into a hole in the ground, and it occurred to Trevn that there were pit houses ahead.

  He reached for Grayson with his mind. “There is a pale camp just up the shore from here. Go and ask them if they’ve been there long.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Grayson was gone less than five minutes. He appeared beside Trevn without warning, startling him so badly that he yelped.

  “It’s Conaw,” Grayson said. “He’s a friend of mine. Sort of. We met in Zuzaan.”

  “Good,” Trevn said. “Let us go and meet your friends. Then you must find Mielle and lead her to us.”

  Grayson popped ahead to the Puru camp while Trevn and his men trudged behind, one step at a time. The pales watched warily as they approached. Before they reached the camp, a man with golden hair and pale, freckled skin walked out to meet them.

  Trevn spoke the names Grayson had mentioned. “Muna? Conaw?”

  The pale man nodded. “Conaw maqto. Muna kiva-peq.”

  Trevn patted his chest, then waved to his men. “Take us to Conaw? Or Muna?”

  “Owi. Nu maawi uma. Pewi.” The man turned around and walked toward the camp.

  Hopeful, Trevn followed. “Grayson, where are you?”

  “With Miss Mielle. We are very close.”

  Those words put a bounce in Trevn’s step. Mielle was close.

  As Trevn’s procession reached the middle of the settlement, the pale people stopped to stare. Children hid behind the legs of adults, who stood in groups, scrutinizing the Armanians’ clothing, dark skin, and swords.

  The freckled man yelled to a group of boys. “Uma! Aqni Muna-ti.”

  One of the boys sprinted away.

  The man continued to lead them in the direction the boy had gone. Trevn saw the boy crouch at a hole in the ground. By the time they reached it, an elderly woman was coming up.

  The Armanians circled around the pit house’s entrance. Cadoc gave orders to the soldiers to remain on guard. The elderly woman came to stand before Trevn. Portly and strong for her age, her pale skin was tanned and wrinkled as much as Kempe’s. She had bright blue eyes and wore her long, gray hair in a crown of braids.

  “Uma cross ocean, owi? Come far?” she said.

  “Yes,” Trevn said, shocked to hear his own tongue. “You speak Kinsman?”

  “Masaoo teach. Uma Masaoo friend?”

  “Who is Masaoo?”

  “Masaoo Massi. Massi gray.” She stroked her fingers down one pale cheek.

  “Grayson, yes. He is my friend. He is coming soon.”

  “Uma stay? Visit Conaw?”

  “Yes,” Trevn said, remembering that Conaw was Grayson’s friend. “We will stay.” He turned to his men. “Set up camp to the south of this settlement. We will stay here tonight.”

  Trevn wanted to talk more with the pales, but he guessed it would be best to wait for Grayson. Besides, the soul-binding was grating so strongly he didn’t wish to be around people at the moment for fear he might behave strangely. The soldiers hefted their packs, and the procession set off to the southern end of the native settlement. They had made it nearly halfway when a voice called out behind them.

  “Sâr Trevn?”

  He turned at the sound of his name. Grayson stood with Muna, back at the entrance to her pit house. Behind them, a crowd of Kinsman people had congregated.

  Mielle.

  Trevn jogged toward the group. He dared not open his mind to Mielle or he would surely fall flat on his face. As he got closer, he decided to use his actual voice. “Mielle?”

  “Trevn!”

  He did not
see her, but the sound of her voice made his heart race faster. “Mielle!”

  Movement in the crowd. People ducking aside, making way. A woman stepped out from the pack and stopped.

  Trevn’s breath caught. Mielle.

  So many emotions struck him at once. He found himself struggling to breathe, trying to keep from being overwhelmed. Elation, affection, happiness, weariness, joy . . .

  Mielle started running, so Trevn did too.

  They collided. Mielle wrapped her arms around Trevn’s neck, and he grabbed hold of her waist and spun her around, squeezing her tightly.

  He set her down and kissed her full on the mouth. The soul-binding made everything blur. He not only felt her weight in his arms, he felt the strength of his arms around her. While she smelled like honey, mint, and some kind of flower, he was also inhaling his scent of leather, campfires, and sweat. The fervent intensity of their affection weakened their legs, and they sank to their knees, still clinging to one another, completely engrossed in their love.

  When finally they broke apart, Trevn studied her face, the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, her full lips, her narrow nose, and found himself struggling to separate what he saw from what she was seeing and thinking about him. She looked different. Her hair had changed. The braids were thicker. Shorter too.

  “Trevn? Did you hear me?”

  “No,” he said, still staring at his glorious wife. She was his. Reunited. Together again. “You are so beautiful.”

  She chuckled. “Tuhsh, Trevn. You are sweet.”

  “And you are mine. I will never lose you again.”

  Wilek

  Wilek sat in his council chambers with the Wisean Five, discussing the options for an offensive attack against Rogedoth. He could barely keep his eyes open. He inhaled a slow, deep breath. Why did that seem so difficult?

  “Attacking the island won’t work,” Oli said. “He would simply use his malleants to create a magical shield over his land. His archers could shoot out of it, but our soldiers would not be able to penetrate.”

  “Could we get him to come to us?” Danek asked.

  “Waiting is King Loran’s strategy,” Wilek said, his voice raspy.

  “I didn’t mean wait, Your Highness,” Danek said. “I meant to purposely lure him into a trap of some kind.”

  “Grayson might be able to,” Inolah said. “Rogedoth wants the boy, and if he truly can move as Sâr Trevn says he can, he could surely escape before being captured—maybe even after capture.”

  “He is just a boy.” Wilek picked up his glass of water. “I hesitate to risk him.” He took a sip, but the water didn’t help.

  “We simply need to weaken him,” Barek said. “Destroying his evenroot would do the trick.”

  “Will root burn?” Inolah asked. “It would be too risky to try to transport it.”

  “Most of it is root juice,” Oli said. “We only need dump it out. Any idea how much he still has?”

  “We don’t have access to the room in which it’s kept,” Wilek said. “I can ask. Maybe there’s a way to get inside.”

  “Perhaps a small team could sneak onto the island and target his evenroot stores,” Barek said.

  “If we’re sending a team, why not kill him?” Inolah asked. “An assassination would end all this. He has committed treason against Armania. Had he not escaped, he would have hanged months ago.”

  “A mantic is not easy to kill,” Oli said. “The assassin would have to catch him completely off guard, which would be nearly impossible considering all the shadir he has employed.”

  “What about defensive strategies?” Wilek asked. “Harton has likely told him everything he learned of Armanian military plans. Rayim, think back. Are there older strategies that he might not have learned? I don’t want them anticipating every move our men might take.”

  “Certainly,” Rayim said, “but there are reasons why such strategies would have been discarded. They might not be the most efficient maneuvers.”

  “I just need to know that we can fight without the enemy knowing our every move,” Wilek all but whispered. He was losing his voice. He should probably be in bed, resting.

  “The problem is, you are talking about battlefield strategies,” Rayim said. “If we attack the island, we won’t be fighting on a battlefield. We’ll be fighting in a village or inside structures we know little about.”

  A knock at the door preceded Dendrick and Master Vento. The two men entered, with the latter wringing a handkerchief in his fists. Since Master Uhley had died at sea and Rayim knew little of poisons, King Loran had sent his personal physician to examine Zeroah and Chadek.

  “Master Vento, you have news of my wife and son?” Wilek asked.

  “Your suspicion that they have been poisoned is correct. I found traces of rôsh powder in both their beds and yours as well.”

  “What is that?” Wilek asked.

  “It comes from a deadly type of coral found in deep reefs,” Oli said, brows furrowed in concern.

  “His Grace is correct. It is deadly when ingested in large doses, but exposure to the skin can also kill over time.”

  Wilek shifted in his seat. “Kill?”

  “I’m afraid so, Your Highness,” Vento said. “After a thorough examination of both, I believe the queen ingested the powder at some point—likely for several weeks before the babe was born. Rôsh powder is particularly dangerous because it is initially painless, so people can become exposed without realizing it, and visible damage may not appear for weeks. Rôsh powder seeps through the skin and into the blood, initially causing fatigue and watery eyes, appearing as nothing more serious than a common cold. Over time it damages the lungs and eventually causes drowning.”

  A hush fell over the room, and Wilek felt the weight of every stare.

  “Survivors may suffer lingering breathing problems,” Master Vento said. “Now that I know what we’re dealing with, I can see at a glance that you’ve been exposed.”

  Wilek recoiled, struggling to form words over the rising panic in his chest. “My wife and son?” he managed.

  “Yes, well, while the queen is stronger and I do believe she will improve in time, your son, I fear, has reached the end of his short time in this world. There is nothing I can do.”

  The words had been softly spoken, but they ripped violently at Wilek’s chest. “Surely not.” He stood, his legs shaky. “I will remove Prince Chadek at once. Fresh air will help him improve, will it not?” He circled the table and headed toward the door. “Continue the meeting without me.”

  Novan Heln was waiting out in the corridor and walked with Wilek as he headed up the stairwell.

  “Your Highness?” Master Vento said, following him from the council chambers.

  “Tell him I’ll return in a moment,” Wilek said to Novan. His shield dropped back briefly, and Wilek took the stairs two at a time up to the fifth floor and the apartment he shared with Zeroah. He bade the guards at the door let him in, then fought for breath. He’d gone too fast, perhaps. He couldn’t breathe.

  Because he’d been poisoned.

  Someone inside the room screamed. The guard wrenched open the door, and Wilek and Novan followed him inside.

  In the drawing room that separated Wilek and Zeroah’s bedchambers, a man was bent over a woman, his hands squeezing her throat. At first Wilek thought the woman might be Zeroah, and he leapt at the man. His guards were quicker, though, and pulled the man and woman apart. Wilek got a good look at both. A chambermaid and Kamran DanSâr.

  How had he gotten inside the apartment?

  “Novan, see to the queen and prince,” Wilek said, glaring down on his half brother.

  “They have already been moved, Your Highness,” a man said from the doorway. Master Vento. “I saw to it the moment I realized what we were dealing with.”

  “Your Highness.” Novan picked up a bottle from the floor and held it up. It was filled with white powder. Kamran was wearing gloves.

  “You would poison my wife and
child?” Wilek roared.

  Something flickered in Kamran’s eyes. “You are not fit to rule,” he spat. “King Barthel will destroy you and return Armania to its former glory.”

  Wilek snapped. He shoved Kamran against the wall and swung, striking this traitor with all the force he could muster. Rage consumed him. He couldn’t stop swinging, each punch fueled by the full force of his anger, hatred, determination, revenge. This ruttish, hedgeborn miscreant had tried to kill his wife and child!

  Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. He took a step back. Staggered. Kamran sank to the floor, bleary-eyed, face bloody and swollen, mouth open and drooling.

  Wilek’s head spun, vision blurred. He swayed. Fell.

  Novan caught him under the arms and lowered him to the floor. Wilek choked, gasping in hitches of air. Something was blocking his throat. He sputtered, as if a good cough might clear it. His eyes watered. Despair swarmed like a fierce wind, mocking him.

  “Take him . . .” He wheezed. “Dungeon.”

  Two guards hauled Kamran away. Wilek sat on the floor until he got his wind, and he realized that he hadn’t seen Lady Pia for some time. “I want to talk with Lady Pia right away.” His voice came dry and grating.

  Novan motioned to another guard, who ran from the room.

  Wilek caught sight of the chambermaid, cowering in the corner.

  “Question the maid.”

  Master Vento crouched beside Wilek. “Let me get something to wrap your hand, Your Highness.”

  Wilek glanced at his bloodied knuckles, shook his head, and sucked in as much air as he could. “Zeroah and Chadek.” He reached for Novan, who hoisted him to his feet.

  Novan helped him down the stairs. His breath improved with each step. He had just reached the ground floor when Zeroah came running toward him, followed by her guards and honor maidens.

  “Wilek!” Her voice cracked, and her face was pale and tear-streaked. “Our son is dead!”

  Wilek caught her in a tight embrace, and as she collapsed upon him, he sank to the floor, the two of them giving in to their grief.