King's Blood

by Jill Williamson

  “The last time I saw your half brother or my ward was aboard the Seffynaw.”

  Wilek sighed. “I had estimated their arrival in Magos by last night. Perhaps they will reach you today.”

  “I have always believed it my duty to enact Justness upon traitors.”

  “Upon Kamran, Kal, please do. But I would never ask you to harm Amala. Zeroah believes Kamran tricked her.”

  The words eased the growing pressure in Kal’s chest. “Thank you, Wil.”

  “You should know, I ride to Sarikar at present to wage war. Rogedoth’s compelled native army has taken Sarikar, and we attack in two days’ time to defend King Loran. Any words of advice for me?”

  Though war’s effects had plagued Kal for years, he longed to be at Wilek’s side, where he might do some good. “Always appear cheerful and undaunted. If you look otherwise, your men’s spirits will fall with yours in the belief that disaster is impending. Overall, trust your instincts, Your Highness. You are a well-trained warrior. I wish I could fight beside you.”

  “Thank you, Kal. You have bolstered my courage.”

  “May your victory be swift as your enemy falls at your feet,” Kal said, quoting a phrase from his army days.

  “Farewell, my friend,” Wilek said. “I will voice you after the battle.”

  The connection vanished, and Kal found himself standing in the middle of the evenroot field, far from where he had been when Wilek had first spoken. A coldness swept over him, though the day was hot. He felt confused and overwhelmed by a deep loneliness.

  Wilek was going into battle, and Kal could not fight alongside him. That must be it. Kal longed to see his friend.

  Again he pondered the changes he felt in himself and the magic upon him. He no longer had to obey any mantic but Charlon. Gone was the original compulsion Roya had placed upon him in exchange for something Charlon had cast anew.

  For a time Kal believed Charlon had been rewarding him for his loyalty to Shanek—she had said as much. But then he began to look at her differently. He admired her ambition, her wit, her beauty, despite never having found her beautiful before. His thoughts drifted often to dwell on Charlon, and he found himself staring at the strangest moments. Worse, when she paid special attention to any other man, a jealous rage overcame him, the likes of which he had not experienced since Rosâr Echad had married Inolah to Emperor Nazer back when Kal was barely of age.

  The logical conclusion was that Kal loved the woman, though some small part of him knew better. He loved someone else, he was certain, but could not recall who. Straining to remember drove him nearly mad, and he resolved to ask someone. Surely Wilek would know, yet again the opportunity had come and gone and Kal had forgotten to ask.

  When giants had been sighted near the evenroot fields over a week ago, Charlon had asked Kal to stay in her tent, claiming that his presence gave her comfort. He hadn’t minded. He’d felt peace in the red tent, for some reason, and when one night he’d found himself sharing Charlon’s bed, it had also seemed to fit.

  Afterward, however, Kal had felt an overwhelming sense of shame and revulsion over what they had done and could not look the woman in the eye. That had been the first of many such interludes that always ended in remorse. Occasionally there were instances, brief flashes of clarity, in which he knew for certain it was all a trick of magic, yet those thoughts vanished as quickly as they came.

  Kal existed to do anything the woman asked.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to be healed?” she asked the next morning, tracing the ridged, pink scar under his arm.

  They lay together in her bed in the red tent. Gullik had brought breakfast, then Charlon had sent him away. Demanded they not be disturbed. Kal disliked how empty he felt with this woman in his arms. Twice he had tried to leave, and twice he had changed his mind.

  “I never wanted healing,” Kal said. “Mreegan took away my scars without permission.”

  “That was her way.” Charlon’s slender finger trailed over his chest to another scar. “How did this one happen? The yeetta?”

  “They’re nearly all the yeetta. They held me captive for thirteen weeks.” His scars covered his chest, arms, and legs. Lacerations, slashes, and punctures had healed in puckers of pink skin.

  “So much physical pain means heavier pain within,” Charlon said. “I hope you do not suffer.”

  Charlon’s empathy continued to surprise him. She understood things most did not, likely due to her own tortured past. “There is much I can’t remember, yet I can still see my men being killed. And I will never forget finding Livy and our child dead.”

  “If you wish to forget, I can compel you.”

  Fear for his sanity chilled him. “No,” he said carefully, not wanting her to know how desperate he was to keep her from further altering his mind. “The memories are my punishment for failure. I deserve far worse.”

  “Do not blame yourself, Sir Kalenek. You are a brave man. A hero to your realm.”

  He snorted. “I don’t feel like a man. Certainly not a hero.”

  She looked stunned by his words, and he couldn’t believe he had admitted something so vulnerable aloud. He did not feel comfortable with Charlon, so why did he continue to behave in opposition to his instincts?

  “You are my hero,” she said, kissing him softly, and the desire in her eyes swept him along.

  Kal had always felt like he walked a thin line between light and darkness—that he was constantly fighting to stay in any part of the golden glow—but Charlon continually pulled him into a blackness so deep that despair threatened to drown him. All he could do to hold it back was to submit to her and hold on, hoping she would keep him afloat.

  Charlon suddenly pushed him away. “I told you not to disturb me when Sir Kalenek is here.”

  Shaken by the sudden change in her passion, Kal searched the room, listened. No one was there.

  “What does he want?” Charlon’s gray eyes had fixed on something only she could see. His arms pimpled. She was talking with her shadir.

  “I will prepare to receive him.” She threw off the furs and began to dress. “Sir Kamran DanSâr is approaching our camp.”

  Rage welled up in Kal’s gut. He could not fathom why Amala would have helped such a man. Why leave a life as a princess to become a fugitive?

  Regardless, Kamran would die. Kal would see to it. When next Wilek voiced, Kal would be able to report the traitor’s execution.

  Kal scrambled out of bed, pulled on his tunic, and stepped into the chill morning, suffocated by shame that he had yet again submitted to this woman.

  The Magosian camp consisted of two parallel lines of white tents with a grassy path between them. The red tent had been erected on a small hillock at one end of the path. At the opposite end stood an altar that had once been built to honor Magon. The Magon pole had come down upon her death, however, and in place of the bronze of Magon, Charlon had mounted a bronze of Rurek, the very name she called her new shadir.

  Two riders had already bypassed the altar and were steering their mounts up the grassy path toward the red tent. They were still a ways off, and Kal could not make them out.

  Movement behind Kal turned his head. Charlon stepped out of the tent and stopped beside him.

  “Rurek says the woman is named Amala. Do you think it your ward?”

  “Yes,” Kal said, heart sinking.

  “Inside the tent, Sir Kalenek,” Charlon said, “where you won’t be a distraction.”

  Kal’s body moved at Charlon’s command, which brought a flash of anger at his lack of freedom. Just beyond the curtain the compulsion ended, so he positioned himself at the door flap where he could see and hear everything that happened.

  Several more minutes passed as Charlon gathered her retinue to receive the illegitimate prince of Armania. Four of Charlon’s men and Shanek stood on her right. All five maidens lined up on her left.

  Kamran and Amala reached the top of the hillock. Both were filthy: clothes soiled and torn, ha
ir knotted and frizzy, faces haggard and thin. Kal studied his girl, noting the changes in her over the past year. She was a woman now, despite not yet being fifteen. Her eyes were cold and bloodshot, her posture somewhat wilted, and she jumped three times when others motioned harmlessly toward her.

  Kal had seen this before. Someone had hurt her, and if Kal’s guess was right, that man would die slowly, screaming for mercy that would not come.

  “Weary travelers,” Charlon said. “What brings you to Magos?”

  Kamran bowed low, extending full courtesy to the Chieftess. “I come representing my king, Barthel Rogedoth,” he said. “As mantic nations, King Barthel believes we have a mutual enemy in the father realms. I extend to you, Chieftess Charlon, an invitation to Islah, my king’s island city, where he wishes to make an alliance with you.”

  “King Barthel . . .” Charlon said. “This man puzzles me. I have also heard him called Pontiff Rogedoth and Prince Mergest. Which is he?”

  “He is all three,” Kamran said, “though he only goes by King Barthel Rogedoth now.”

  “I see,” Charlon said. “Miss Amala, we have met. You do not likely realize it.”

  “You’re the mantic witch who pretended to be Lady Zeroah and seduced Sâr Janek,” she said, her voice fiery despite her haggard appearance.

  Shanek perked up. “My father?”

  Kamran frowned at Shanek. “Who is this?”

  “Meet Shanek DanSâr, son of Janek Hadar,” Charlon said.

  Kamran barked a laugh. “Good joke, lady. He looks enough like Janek to be convincing, but I’d go with Janek’s twin, if I were you, seeing as they’re practically of age. Or would’ve been, anyway. Where did you find him?”

  “You Father’s friend,” Shanek said. “You jealous. Want his Lady Mattenelle.”

  Kamran folded his arms and inched back from Shanek. His evident fear made Kal smile.

  “Silence, Shanek,” Charlon said.

  “Sâr Janek was my half brother, you fool,” Kamran said to Shanek, then asked Charlon, “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Shanek is a root child, born of mother, father, and ahvenrood on the voyage across the Northsea,” Charlon said. “With the help of ahvenrood, he grew very fast. He also has the mind-speak magic that runs in the blood of kings and a rude habit of speaking others’ thoughts aloud.” This last statement she said with a glare at Shanek, who hung his head.

  Kal expected Kamran to laugh again, but instead he looked at Shanek in horror. “I have heard Rosârah Laviel speak of root children, but I believed them myth.”

  “He is no myth,” Charlon said. “Sâr Janek was rightful heir. To the Armanian throne. Shanek will therefore rule.”

  A slow grin spread over Kamran’s face. “Now that’s a good plan. Even with all his mantics and evenroot, King Barthel has nothing so creative as this to help him take power. You two should talk—work together. If this root child is Janek’s son, he is Barthel’s heir as well.”

  Whether Charlon agreed or disagreed with Kamran, she did not reveal. “I would like to meet this King Barthel. We will make plans tomorrow.”

  “He will be pleased to hear that,” Kamran said.

  Kal did not like this development. If Charlon and Rogedoth worked together, Wilek wouldn’t stand a chance against their magic.

  “My men will show you to your tent, where you can bathe,” Charlon said. “We have no clothing in your style, but you may wear ours while yours is washed.”

  “I want my own tent,” Amala said, shrinking when Kamran’s dark eyes seared her with a glare.

  Charlon had compelled Kal to go inside the tent, but not to remain there. He seized this moment to push past the curtain and into the group of people. “I will show you to my tent, Amala.”

  “Kal!” Amala threw herself into his arms. He held her close, and her body shook from the force of her tears.

  “Sir Kalenek Veroth,” Kal heard Kamran say. “So this is where you’ve been hiding yourself.”

  “Sir Kalenek is Shanek’s high shield,” Charlon said. “If you’ll excuse me, Sir Kamran.” She shot Kal a dirty look and entered her tent.

  “Show Sir Kamran to his tent,” Kal told Gullik. “Miss Amala will stay with me.”

  Kamran started down the hill before Gullik even moved. Kal wasn’t surprised. The man would be wise to flee while he still had the chance.

  Kal took Amala to his tent and fed her. While she ate, her story spilled forth. She had been angry with the rosâr for so many things: demoting Master Harton, not trying harder to find Mielle, not supporting Mielle’s marriage to Sâr Trevn, banishing Kal. “When Kamran asked for my help, I felt certain he would find some evidence of the rosâr’s wrongdoing. It never occurred to me he would try to kill Prince Chadek and the queen.”

  Kamran had then used his mind-speak abilities to blackmail Amala into helping him escape. “I fled with him because I thought they’d hang me otherwise,” Amala said. “I didn’t know what else to—”

  Shanek appeared in the room then, sitting cross-legged between them as if he had been there all along.

  Amala screamed.

  “Shan, go back to your tent,” Kal said. “It’s rude to enter someone’s space without being invited.”

  “He hurt her,” Shanek said. “I saw. They got different memories. He was happy. She was scared.”

  Amala stared at Shanek, her face a mask of shock. “He ate all the food I had brought along. His shadir helped him find more, but he wouldn’t share. I was hungry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  She burst into tears and collapsed on her side, curled into a ball. Kal went to her, rubbed her back, and pondered the best way to kill Kamran.

  “He hurt her,” Shanek whispered, then vanished.

  Amala choked in a sniffling breath. “Where did he go?”

  “Who knows with Shanek.” Kal hoped he behaved himself.

  “He is really Sar Janek’s son?” Amala asked.

  “Yes, Sar Janek and Miss Shemme.” And magic.

  Amala gasped. “The kitchen maid? Is she here?”

  “She died giving birth,” Kal said.

  A man’s scream caught their attention.

  Kal jumped to his feet and tore out of his tent. “What happened?” he asked Gullik.

  “Don’t know. Sounded like it came from the guest’s tent.”

  Gods, no. Kal sprinted to Kamran’s tent, which was five away from his own. A crowd had formed outside. Kal pushed his way toward the entrance.

  “Let me by. Move!”

  They parted and he ducked inside.

  Sir Kamran lay crumpled on the floor, clean, half dressed, and two steps from a tub of dirty bathwater, head twisted at an odd angle. A trickle of blood ran from one nostril and down his cheek.

  Kal stood over him, looking down on glassy eyes that stared, horrified, at nothing.

  A deep breath brought no pity for Kamran DanSâr. The man had always been a reprobate, and after what he had done to Amala and Wilek and Wilek’s wife and child, Kal only wished his death had been more painful.

  Still, the way it had happened was a problem.

  Feeling helpless, he walked to Shanek’s tent and let himself in. He found the young man in bed, huddled under a heap of furs.

  “Shanek,” Kal began, but what could he say? Kal had fully intended to kill the man once he had assured himself that Amala was safe and cared for. Shanek had likely heard Kal’s thoughts about killing the man. Considering that the boy had also listened in on Kamran’s vulgar memories, could Kal blame him for taking action?

  Of course he could. Killing was wrong.

  So said the trained assassin responsible for the deaths of his own wife and child and Shanek’s father.

  “I did it,” Shanek said, peeking out from under the furs. “All gone bad man.”

  Kal sighed heavily. “He was a bad man, Shan, you are right about that. But it was not your job to punish him.”

  “Girl is happy now?” Shanek asked, rising to his
knees. “She happy?”

  Kal blew out a sigh. “I don’t know, Shan.”

  How could any of them find happiness when magic continued to destroy lives?

  The unwelcome pull of Charlon’s compulsion forced Kal to stand. He growled deep in his throat and spat out a curse as his legs propelled him toward the exit. “Mother calls, Shanek. We’ll talk later.”

  Shanek scrambled from his bed and chased after Kal. “You hate Mother.”

  “No,” Kal said, far too quickly. “She uses too much magic on me. That’s all. Magic hurts people sometimes, Shan.”

  “Mother hurts you?”

  “When she takes my freedom, it hurts my pride, yes.”

  Shanek fell behind then, and when Kal looked back, the boy was gone.

  Kal wondered if Shanek might kill Charlon to avenge him. The thought brought immense sorrow, which maddened him. Why should he care? He wished he knew what that witch wanted from him. He needed his mind back—his whole mind—not just the parts she permitted, but he could see no way to break free from her spell.

  As he entered the red tent and found Charlon waiting, a great emptiness opened up inside him, pulling him into a darkness from which he could not escape.

  Wilek

  The day of battle had come. At dawn Wilek bid a formal farewell to Zeroah in his mind, and she promised to pray all day and keep her mind open to him for updates. Miss Onika still had no word from Arman, but she prayed over Wilek and his men that Arman would bless their endeavors.

  Wilek’s veteran army of two thousand set out from camp and marched toward the fortress at New Sarikar. He had brought only half his fighting forces, not willing to leave Armanguard completely vulnerable. Since horses were still rare, the only men riding were Wilek, Rayim, Novan, and Rystan. Everyone else was on foot. The two front infantry squadrons carried two ladders each for breaching the fortress walls.

  Wilek wore the king’s bronze armor, the helmet of which had a thin fillet of gold that circled the crown. The armor hadn’t been worn in over forty years, and Wilek hoped it would bring him victory as it had for his grandfather King Chorek.