Once a King

by Erin Summerill

  “Can you start at the beginning?” I step closer to force eye contact.

  But Lirra keeps babbling, her sentences tumbling over each other.

  “Lirra,” I say. Then, harsher, “Lirra, stop.”

  Her teeth dig into her bottom lip, stopping the flow of words. Wet, inky lashes sweep down to rest against her cheek. The sight pierces me with worry. I wasn’t patient or agreeable with her earlier. I regret that now. But those thoughts escape me the moment the guards move position, opening their protective cocoon around a man lying motionless on a board. Leif.

  “He was stabbed,” Lirra whispers.

  “No.” My pulse roars though my ears. I rush forward, not believing my own eyes.

  He has a seeping wound, high on the left side. He should be dead. But his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow jerks. He’s fighting fate. Shock pelts me like shards of ice, freezing and piercing me with grief.

  “How?”

  The question is intended for everyone, yet no one answers.

  Confusion rolls into fury as I stare at my fallen captain. “How did this happen?”

  A heavy hand falls on my shoulder. “Come, Aodren. Let the guards carry him to the healer’s room.”

  I turn to find Auberdeen, the man who, a little over a year ago, would’ve met me on the battlefield. Wariness and distrust remain between us; that much is evident by his somber set eyes that don’t quite meet mine. But my concern for Leif eclipses all else. In a daze, I follow as the men carry Leif on a board and walk to a branching hallway. An exchange of voices starts up behind me. Orders are issued. Someone calls for all involved to be captured and held in the lower level of the keep. I tune them out and walk with the guards to the healer’s room.

  Leif is laid on a cot in the middle of the room. Fluids seep from his tunic into the linens, staining them bright red. Then even more blood flows as the healer removes the blade. She is a thick, robust woman in a tidy frock and veil, with movements that appear practiced and efficient as she pulls back Leif’s drenched clothing. All I see is the blood, running like small rivers of crimson from his wound, trailing down his lifeless arm, and puddling on the stone floor.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, but the dull, wet thwacks and scrapes of the healer’s work fill my ears.

  I pace away from the cot, walking the square prison of the healer’s room while she issues commands like an army general, telling all the guards but one to stand watch outside. She orders the remaining man to supply her with clean white rags from a supply table, bottled remedies from the shelved wall, and thick stinking paste from a stone mortar. Time crawls as she cleans the wound, treats it, and sews it closed.

  “I’ll leave you with him,” she says eventually.

  I cross the distance to the cot in two long strides, hoping for a miracle that isn’t there.

  Leif is too still. Too gray.

  “Is that all you can do?” I choke out.

  “Yes, Your Highness.” She stands with hands folded, eyes downcast, and mouth pulled into a pucker on her square face. “I’ve washed him with Beannach water and stitched him closed. But it was a grave injury,” she says, tonelessly as if reading a town decree instead of discussing a man’s life. Leif’s life.

  “But he will live. Yes?” I rake my hand across my brow. “I know men who have been stabbed and lived. Hell, I’ve been stabbed, and here I am.”

  Her gaze flicks to Leif. The buttonhole of her mouth cinches tighter. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I cannot say. I’ve done all I can.”

  An airless breath wheezes out of me.

  This woman has no soft lines. No pity. Like the rest of the four kingdoms, she cares nothing for me or my people. She sees the mistakes of my kingdom’s past. Anger unfurls inside me. Who is she to deny me? I want to break something. To destroy all the bottles lined up like an army on the wall behind her. To use the power of my crown to force her hand.

  I lost so many people during the coup, from loyal lords who were murdered to my former captain, who was my closest adviser and friend. Now I trust few, to say the least. But one man I know I can trust with my life is Leif. I cannot lose him now.

  Desperation claws through me like a rabid animal.

  But I silence it. I will not be the tyrant the world expects me to be.

  “Please,” I say, and the guard stiffens, probably never having heard a king beg. “This man has saved countless innocent lives. He is good and honorable. I saw the Channelers Guild heal a fellow. The four of them worked together. If there is anything else that can be done for him, if you will summon Channelers to save him . . . I am pleading with you. Please save him.”

  The nurse looks up and studies me for a long moment and then nods. “I will return shortly, sir.”

  She bows and rushes from the room. I turn back to Leif and focus on him with the intensity of one poring over philosophy and history books. Small jerks rattle his torso. His lips are cracked and gray. His face slack. I’ve seen this before. I’ve watched other men take agonized breaths before death swooped down and snatched their souls.

  Breathe. Keep breathing, I urge Leif.

  “Your captain was young, but a true, loyal servant.” Judge Auberdeen’s low gravelly tone breaks the quiet.

  I look and find him in the doorway. I think he’s been waiting outside, allowing me time alone, and I’m not sure what to make of it. Auberdeen is a difficult man to read, but then, the history of war between our kingdoms gives us both reason to be guarded.

  Stopping a few paces from the cot, he views Leif. “Some deaths are destined, and we can do nothing to stop a man from crossing the infinite river.”

  “My captain hasn’t passed.” The words come out like a wintry gust.

  “No, not yet,” a quiet female voice interrupts.

  Auberdeen and I turn to greet the newcomer. Ku Toa walks into view, her robes scuffing like whispers over the stones. In spite of the crimson wrap looped around her head, my attention is drawn to her eyes. Round, wise eyes.

  “You are right.” She nods a greeting to the chief judge. “Sometimes we cannot stop others from leaving this life. We can, however, try to influence a friend away from the edge.”

  “This situation is dire,” says Auberdeen. “Perhaps too late for attempts that might give false hope to our young king.”

  If this is support, it might as well be a thrown dagger. “Hope or despair for my captain need not be your concern, Judge.”

  “My apologies,” he says, his tone unguarded and genuine. “I’ll leave you to say goodbye to your friend.” As he exits the room, I wonder if perhaps I’ve misjudged the man.

  Now it is only me, Leif, and the Ku.

  She moves through the healer’s room and comes to stand beside me. “The last year has held too many trials for one person to bear. Has it not?”

  “There have been many, but not so many that I have given up hope.” I choose my answer carefully, wondering what she thinks about me and my land.

  The unfettered attention of her owlish eyes is unnerving, as if this woman, who is ancient and ageless all at once, can see into my darkest thoughts. When I consider there is still much to learn about her and Akaria, the imbalance bothers me.

  “Hope you must always have.” She extends her hand, where upon her palm is a thumb-size bottle. Burgundy liquid clings to the glass, the consistency thick like oil. “Perhaps I can help. Something to aid your man. To spare you another loss. Sanguine. It means ‘the fluid of life.’”

  A shadow moves in the room, and I glance over my shoulder to see the healer woman. She must’ve sought out the Ku.

  I consider asking for more information on Sanguine. What was shared at dinner isn’t enough to provide a full understanding of the oil’s uses, or how it works, or if there is a chance it could make Leif’s condition worse. Though worse would mean death.

  But Ku Toa presses the bottle into my palm; its warmth, from being held in her hand, spreads to mine. “You can save him.”

  Can I trust her?
>
  I turn to Leif and feel myself crumbling inside. The rubble is covered with anger. I want to scream at the turn of the night’s events. Nothing is fair. Leif should’ve never gotten hurt.

  From what I know, Ku Toa has no motive to harm Leif or me. But I’ve been fooled before. When you rule a kingdom, few who cross your path are truly trustworthy. The summit has barely begun, and already there is tension among the leaders. I am leery of trusting anyone. My gaze drops to the bottle. What other choice do I have?

  Leif will die regardless. Ignoring the overwhelming feeling of uncertainty, I force myself to make a choice. I open the bottle and, at her direction, tip the Sanguine to his mouth. A drop of deep burgundy rolls down his cheek, but most of the oil makes it between his lips, staining them the color of life.

  When the bottle is empty, we wait.

  How long does it take for Sanguine to work?

  Seconds turn into years. Years to eons.

  Leif shudders, a violent racking heaves his chest. His breath becomes staccato gasps, and then leaves as quickly as it came. His chest does not rise again.

  Chapter

  5

  Lirra

  THE CHIEF JUDGE OF SHAERDAN, THE KING of Malam, and the men carrying Leif disappear between the pillars.

  Their exit rips the lid off order in the entry hall. Right away, the dignitaries from the other kingdoms close in and crowd the remaining guards, slinging questions and demands like tavern rats throwing back ale. They press for information, and when satisfying answers aren’t given immediately, the sound of their discontented voices swells.

  “Who started it?”

  “What kingdom are they from?”

  A woman strides into the crowd, dressed in sand-colored evening robes, head held high atop a long, slender neck. A servant takes notice and bows, whispering her name to the others. She is Queen Isadora of Plovia.

  “Why did this happen?” she asks, but her words are lost in the loud conversation.

  Her assessing gaze homes in on King Gorenza. Her nostrils flare, so slightly I doubt anyone but me has noticed. The lanterns’ glow barely touches her rich, black hair, so dark in fact, it seems to absorb the light as she strides across the foyer to greet the northern king.

  I trail a few paces behind her, needing to know the answer to her question. Grief knots my throat. I cannot let go of how quickly the fight escalated. Baz’s shift into rage was lightning swift, which is nothing like the dockworker who’s been flirting with me for months. So, why did this happen?

  “It was the Malamians,” says a guard in the thick of the group. “They were harassing a Channeler.”

  That much is true. But Malamians harassing Channelers is nothing new. And it’s never resulted in a brawl like the one tonight. Could it be Shaerdanians have finally hit their tolerance limit?

  Disdain for Malam’s prejudices spurs another round of murmurs from the Shaerdanian guards. Someone brings up the Purge. Another claims Channeler treatment hasn’t changed much in spite of the abolishment of the Purge.

  “Hate never listens to new laws,” says one of the Plovians.

  “Those Malamians cornered the woman at the well. She’s alive only ’cause a kinsman jumped in,” a guard near me shouts. “Shaerdanians take care of their own.”

  True, the people of Shaerdan look out for Channelers. Whereas, in Malam, they were hunted for nearly two decades.

  “Course they do. But let’s not overlook that it was Leif O’Floinn from Malam who risked his life to help the Channeler woman.” This comes from an older man. He looks as though he’s skinned a bear and is proudly displaying the spoils on his face.

  Before sneaking into the summer castle, I read Da’s notes on who would be traveling in Aodren’s retinue. The grizzly bearded man is Benjamin Bromier, the Lord of Segrande.

  “Maybe he jumped in to take down the Channeler,” a guard argues.

  Lord Segrande’s casual demeanor is gone in a flash. “Watch it, boy. That’s the captain of Malam’s royal guard you’re talking about. He’s a supporter of the Channelers, as is the rest of Malam. He’s known as the Channeler Defender.”

  “Leif might be a supporter of Channelers, but he’s not like other Malamians.” The Shaerdanian guard’s argument is ballsy, considering Lord Segrande looks primed to tear him apart.

  The only person in this room who actually saw the start of the incident is me.

  It’s true, men with Malamian accents were suspicious of the Channeler woman’s water play. Their actions were unsavory, but they didn’t corner a woman who was alone. She was joined by other Shaerdanians before things spiraled. It was the Malamians who were outnumbered and a Shaerdanian man who threw the first punch. I consider clarifying, though I’m not sure it’ll matter.

  “They’re hurting our women.”

  “Bunch of feebs.”

  “Watch it.” Lord Segrande’s threat thunders over the crowd as he searches for the speakers.

  I cringe. The guard’s slur for giftless people isn’t fit for a royal audience. The phrase might be intended for the Malamians, but at best, it’s a tasteless smear spoken by a moron, because the cut includes himself. Men do not have Channeler abilities.

  “Their people should’ve never been allowed near the tournament or market.”

  Someone chuckles darkly. “You know they won’t come to the Channeler Jubilee.”

  “String the bludgers up.”

  “Enough!” King Gorenza’s shout conquers the others. The stocky man, a couple decades older than me, with shoulders wider than a door, is nothing if not imposing. “This insolence would never happen in my country. Gather all involved,” he commands the guards. “Return immediately to the fountain and track everyone down.”

  Everyone?

  Surely, he doesn’t mean me. I had nothing to do with the fight.

  My neck crawls. I’m in a crowd of guards who have just been ordered to capture me. Better get scarce. I move to the perimeter of the room. The shadows near the corridor where Leif was taken provide decent concealment. Everything in me calls me down the hall to Leif, to see how my cousin is faring. But I know his room will be surrounded by guards.

  “This is not your kingdom to command, Gorenza.” The soft rebuke comes from a man standing just inside the pillars. He’s a walking artifact in red robes. Compared to Lord Segrande and King Gorenza, the man is ancient. White-peppered brows sit above eyes that might’ve been black once, but now are the color of morning mist against a canvas of brown, papery skin.

  “I demand order.” King Gorenza’s voice grinds like a millstone. “Ku Toa should too, Fa Olema.”

  The second man, Olema, hums a brief, noncommittal tune.

  “I wasn’t aware that Kolontia had developed a liking for Channelers,” says Queen Isadora.

  King Gorenza eyes her. “My concern is for safety during the summit,” he says coolly.

  “Of course. But, might I ask, whose safety?”

  “All of ours.”

  I don’t want to leave Leif, but I cannot stay here and allow them to catch me. How can I get out of here without someone noticing me? My cap flew off at the fountain. Most of the pins have popped out of my hair. Aside from a few pieces trapped on top of my head, the rest hangs around my shoulders in tangles. Dirt covers the stable hand clothing, and two tears, darkened with dried blood, show my injured knees. I may as well be a princess walking into a tavern.

  I take the first few steps toward the door and then pause. What if Leif doesn’t make it through the night? Seeds. The thought sinks a dagger into my heart. Chief Judge Auberdeen and King Aodren are with the healer, seeing to Leif. They’ll be heavily guarded and impossible to sneak past.

  I could wait in King Aodren’s room for word. Then I won’t be far from Leif. And while the king is at Leif’s side, I could busy myself by searching for Da’s letter. The idea is tempting because it’ll let me be here for Leif. But with all the guards around, I might get caught. Also, considering His Majesty’s earlier refusal, I
know if he catches me trying to steal the letter, he won’t be a font of information about Leif or my da. Better to leave and return tomorrow when the furor surrounding the fight has died down.

  Leif will survive. He’ll be fine. The healer here at the summer castle is one of the best. She’ll keep him alive.

  I sneak around the pillars and slip out the door.

  I’ve barely made it into the courtyard when a man peels out of the shadows, flanked by two guards. “Lirra Barrett, stop right there.”

  “Judge Soma.” I jolt.

  The frown he wears sharpens his nose and cheekbones into blades made colorless by the moonlight. A chill slips over me, lifting the fine hairs on my arms.

  Da has one hard-and-fast rule when it comes to business. Don’t get involved with anyone or anything too big. Our business deals aren’t connected to or part of anything that would bring about government- or kingdom-wide consequences. For this reason, we do not interact with members of the chief judge’s counsel. However, Judge Soma used to be a kinsman intent on building a name in shipping. Before he worked his way into the ruling authority, he had transactions with Da.

  “Hullo, Judge.” My best cheery smile lifts my cheeks. Hopefully it’ll detract from my odd dress.

  “Where are you going?” His commanding stance, coupled with the way his nose sniffs the sky when he speaks, is nobility born, nothing like his common upbringing.

  “Home,” I say as if I’m not uneasy. “It’s late, and I’ve chores in the morning. No doubt you’ll have a long day of summit meetings tomorrow.”

  His expression warms a tad. “That I do.”

  “Well, I must go before my stepmother worries. Good night, sir.” I start to curtsy, remembering a second too late my lack of skirts. The result is an awkward bob.

  “I’m sorry, but I cannot let you leave.” Judge Soma motions to the guards.

  I lunge in the direction of the gates, but the guards move quickly. Their hands seize my arms, digging into my skin when I try to twist away.

  They force me to turn toward the keep. Images of being trapped in the castle’s prison flash through my mind. The thought sucks the air away. I slump so I’m dead weight and suck in enough breath to bellow at them to release me.