Once a King

by Erin Summerill

  One by one, Astoria reads through the list of names. As each woman receives her performance order, the chatter in the Elementiary grows.

  “Lirra,” Astoria calls out, and I wedge between two fire Channelers to get closer. “Your glider performance will be the last one of the night.”

  My audition was terrible, so I know Astoria orchestrated this. I don’t mind, however. Jitters turn me into one of my bouncing brothers. I shout my thanks over the noisy crowd and rush out the door to my carriage, withdraw my glider, and place it in the covered wagon that will be carting props and necessities to the tournament field.

  A shadow moves behind me. It’s Astoria hobbling out of the Elementiary. “I wanted to see your beautiful glider before you loaded it.”

  The wings have been folded down and wrapped in material. The bundle lies on the cart. “You’ll have to wait two more days.”

  She leans both hands on her cane and smiles at me with rheumy eyes. “I’ve waited this long. A couple days more is manageable.”

  Astoria knows how I struggled against the guilt of wanting to help my father and at the same time wanting to explore where the wind could take me. But she encouraged me to use my magic to strengthen Channeler society. Each time Da left for business, she nudged me to build something new. I came up with gliders of all sizes. Large ones to carry people. Small models for delivering letters—those, of course, have to be controlled by wind Channelers.

  But Astoria is my champion.

  The next few days will be busy. Seizing my chance, I hug her, feeling her fragile bones beneath my hands. “Thank you for getting me here.”

  “I’m proud of you, my girl. You were always meant to perform in the jubilee.”

  Those words dry out my throat and leave it aching. They mean a lot, coming from her. But I’d always imagined my father saying them.

  She studies my face. “He’d be here if he could.”

  “Of course.” I turn away, the tightness in my chest choking me. I don’t want her to read anything more into my expression and feel pity for me. “If he’d let me help him more, he wouldn’t be gone so often. Da doesn’t have to manage the workload on his own.”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  Her silence always has a way of uncorking my frustrations. “Eugenia needs him. The littleuns cannot grow up without a father. All this time he’s gone, he’s missing out on their lives. If he would see that I’m here, that I’m capable of helping him—”

  “He knows you are.” She thunks her cane on the cobblestone. “You don’t have to prove yourself to him.”

  “Don’t I? We are partners and yet he doesn’t trust me with anything that would actually lighten his load.”

  Even though she asked me to avoid Sanguine, I admit that I’m working with Aodren to find the maker and the supplier of the oil. “Da would’ve been back for the jubilee if he’d accepted help. But he didn’t ask me. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.”

  Astoria’s papery skin turns sallow and bunches into a frown. She reaches out and squeezes my arm with ink-smudged fingers. “Lirra, you said you’d leave the oil alone.”

  I nod, swallowing hard. The last thing I want is to disappoint Astoria.

  “I’m sorry. But Da’s family needs him. If this is what it takes to prove he can trust me and rely on me more, then it’s what I have to do.”

  I look at the front of the building to a group of Channelers leaving the Elementiary. Another day, I might join in their light steps, exuberant voices, and laughter. It’s been five years since the last jubilee. Happiness is expected.

  But long after I say goodbye, all I feel is dismay.

  Chapter

  27

  Aodren

  SEGRANDE IS TOO DISTRAUGHT TO RETURN TO the summit meetings to finalize trade agreements, so Leif attends in his stead and sits by my side.

  It has been two days since we’ve met as leaders and dignitaries. Judge Auberdeen stands at the head of the table. His spectacles hang from the pocket of his formal coat. He greets everyone with pleasantries and proceeds to open the meeting as he did before. Except, instead of recounting the events attended and agreements made the previous day, he refers to when last we met. The day Baltroit died.

  His mention of Lord Segrande’s son is followed by murmured condolences or silence. Even Gorenza has finally dammed the flow of verbal attacks.

  Leif has been on edge since I informed him that he would be attending this meeting. I hoped by now he’d feel more comfortable conversing with others.

  He drums his fingertips on the arm of the chair, his thigh, and then the table.

  “Last we met, we were discussing north-to-south routes.” Judge Auberdeen slips into the empty seat beside Judge Soma. “Shall we start there?”

  Most nod or mutter an agreement.

  “Lord Segrande had proposed a route from Akaria that would run through Shaerdan’s southern end and wind up through Malam and into Kolontia.” I stand and lean over the table to gesture to the map, pointing out the exact cities the route would touch. “This would be advantageous for all of us, because for the first time we’d have one route that winds through each of our kingdoms.”

  “What of Plovia?” Queen Isadora’s fingers rest against the thick obsidian braid that coils over her shoulder and down the front of her yellow dress.

  I extend my reach over the table and point at the largest port city in Akaria. “The route that runs north–south doesn’t truly start or end here. I’d hoped for a regular shipping route from Plovia to Akaria. If we can align meeting times between ship merchants and traders on land, this route will link us all.”

  She glances to her dignitary, seeking confirmation. When he nods, she turns to me and lifts her dainty chin. “We’re intrigued.”

  “As are we,” says Fa Olema.

  I sit in my chair, allowing others to examine the map.

  Queen Isadora slides her hair over her shoulder and reaches for the parchment. But Gorenza’s hand slams down on the table, stopping her from moving it.

  “There’s no point discussing shipping routes until we agree it’s a favorable trade for the kingdoms on the continent.”

  The queen draws in a hiss of a breath. Her hands rest one on top of the other on the table. Long neck, flawless features, she is the picture of poise. But her eyes are clear and focused. Beneath the calm exterior she presents, a viper waits, ready to sink its fangs into Gorenza.

  He stands, leaning his stocky weight on one hand. The man is oblivious to Isadora’s fury. “We’re hesitant to open a route through our southern mountains. These areas are a concern.” His free hand sweeps over the map, encompassing nearly all of my kingdom. “How can we monitor the goods coming through, when anything can get into Malam?”

  “What does that mean?” Leif balls up his fists in his lap.

  Gorenza looks down his sharp beaklike nose. “Your fellow champion died so easily in that market brawl. It’s suspect, no?”

  “What have you heard?” I demand. How does Gorenza know about Baltroit? The circle of people who know about the oil is small.

  He stares at me, giving nothing away with his flat expression. “I think we should be asking—what secrets are you hiding?”

  In closed conversation this week with Ku Toa, Seeva, and Katallia, I confessed all I’ve learned about the Channeler oil and the effects it has on the takers. Based on the stories from the guards, I am almost certain Baltroit ingested Sanguine. This discussion, however, wasn’t shared with anyone else. Not even Segrande or Leif. They were deep in mourning. I didn’t want to stain their memories of Baltroit. Until more information can be found, I plan to keep quiet.

  Gorenza pounds his fist on the table. “You want us to set up trade routes through your land, when there is no guarantee of safety.”

  “Traders have always been safe in Malam.” Leif grips the chair arms.

  Gorenza sits and shakes his head. “You are a foolish child, just like your boy king.”

  My ca
ptain whips to face me.

  “Leif,” I say, under my breath, warning him away from reacting.

  “You’re too young to know,” Gorenza sneers. “Too young to remember the fear traders had of Malam. When Malam closed its borders before, it shut down all trade. And now you want it back?”

  “We’re moving on from the past,” I say, but my comment falls on deaf ears.

  Gorenza leans back in his chair and picks something out of his teeth. “Like spoiled children, you want your routes back.”

  “Yer a bloody fool. You don’t know what yer talking about.” Leif shoves his chair away from the table and lurches to standing. “All yer interested in doing is holding back Malam.”

  “Leif.” I stand. “Sit. Down.”

  Begrudgingly, he does, and goes right back to tapping his fingers. Across the table, Gorenza grinds his teeth, looking madder than a bull on stampede.

  It matters not that Gorenza isn’t Leif’s king. It is still a requirement for respect to be shown to all leaders during the summit. While Leif’s frustration is understandable, his verbal attack is not.

  The meeting continues for a short time with no progress, until the tension in the room swells. It’s then that Judge Soma suggests a break, since the second half of the joust has been rescheduled for this afternoon. Perhaps that’s exactly what Leif needs.

  * * *

  The other tournament events were held in the evening. The joust, however, will begin midafternoon, to accommodate the mourning schedule changes.

  The blue sky would be spotless if not for two slashes of dirty gray clouds. Unlike the soft golden glow of the tournament lanterns, the sun’s harsh brightness exposes all the field’s flaws. Mud, caked and dried, mats the grass. Divots give the field a pimpled appearance. Chipped paint flakes from the royal stands. Spectators press together, a sheen of perspiration glossing their unsmiling faces.

  And from the east end, piles of horse dung give off a foul odor.

  The announcer takes the stand across the field from where I sit in Malam’s nobles’ section. Lord Segrande is seated on my left-hand side. He’s spoken few words since Baltroit’s passing, and so I may as well be sitting alone. No other lord from Malam has come to sit with us. The Malamian fans nearby are subdued.

  The announcer waves the black and silver banner for Kolontia as Hemmet rides onto the field. The clanking plated armor worn for the joust covers all of him. His horse wears the black and silver ribbons. And the pole he carries has been painted in matching colors. On the southeast side, the crowd cheers.

  The announcer lifts Akaria’s red and yellow banner and calls Fehana to the field. Her black armor gleams under the sun as she rides out on a raven black horse, a beast that stands a head taller than Hemmet’s steed. A wind of whispers rolls through the crowd. Everyone is in awe of the southland horse. When Fehana loops the field, her appearance awakens the onlookers.

  Before the event begins, as the riders move to opposite ends of the jousting field, the crowd rises, shouting and cheering.

  A horn blares. Hoofs thud, armor clanks, lances crunch, and the crowd screams.

  Fehana wins the first match.

  The sounds repeat as each match is announced and those competitors enter the field. Leif must joust twice as many times to make up for Baltroit’s absence.

  In the third round, the announcer calls for Leif and Folger from Shaerdan. In silver armor, with Malam’s colors hanging from his painted horse, Leif enters the field, and immediately the crowd cheers. People shout for the Channeler Defender, their enthusiasm reminding me why I needed Leif in this competition. In spite of this being his first time on the field, the support of the spectators proves he’s a new crowd favorite. A Malamian favorite.

  Their cheers buoy up my hope. Today’s meeting made me realize the losses Leif has recently suffered. His predecessor was killed during the coup. His relationship with a woman in Malam ended. And now he’s lost Baltroit, his co-competitor. It makes sense that he needs an outlet, somewhere to release his anger. I should’ve thought about that before bringing him into a trade meeting.

  On this field is where he belongs.

  The horn sounds, and all of Malam holds their breath as Leif gallops toward the Shaerdanian.

  I’m suddenly nervous. If Folger hits him in the wrong spot, will Leif’s wound reopen? Will it take him out of the competition for good?

  Their clanking armor and the beat of the horses and the screams of the crowd grow louder. And then Leif thrusts the lance at Folger’s chest. The impact knocks the Shaerdanian from his horse.

  Folger falls. Leif wins.

  I clap and shout for the Channeler Defender. This is a man Malam can rally around.

  * * *

  Segrande and I are standing near the carriage, guards at our sides, when my eyes catch on Leif’s red head. In the haze of dusk, I lost track of him moments ago. He’s on the shoulders of the crowd, being carried toward the tavern tents. I hear him call out for Malam, and the people swarming his sides echo his cry. After the first match, Leif successfully unseated his following three opponents. Though Malam lost by one technical point to Kolontia, the Malamians didn’t care. They hoisted him up and paraded him around.

  He is their winner. And the sight couldn’t make me happier.

  They lower Leif to the ground. People flock around him, slap his back, laugh and talk and cheer their champion. Though dusk has fallen, I see how their faces shine with pride. The sight ignites a blaze of hope in my chest. This was what I’d hoped for when we came to the summit.

  Musicians, standing in the open grassy area outside the tavern tents, play a boisterous tune with their fiddles and drums. As night deepens, lanterns start to blaze to life, emanating a soft golden glow that falls over the couples dancing. Partners swing each other around in circles, their laughter joining the night’s music.

  “Go with him,” Segrande says. His dark mood hasn’t broken since Baltroit’s death. “Celebrate with Leif. We have no more meetings. Let me be alone today.”

  “Were we not going to discuss today’s trade meeting?”

  Segrande doesn’t answer, but it’s as if his desire to be alone conjured up a familiar brunette. She strolls to the tavern tents in a summer dress. The sight of Lirra beckons me forward. Perhaps it would be best if I celebrated with my countrymen and gave Segrande time alone. He needs time to grieve.

  Lirra moves to Leif’s side. He notices her, and his expression changes. It becomes more animated, more open. He dwarfs her, a fact made obvious by the placement of his arm around her narrow shoulders. Lirra leans into the embrace and lifts her mouth toward his ear. I pause, wondering if perhaps I might be interrupting a private moment. His arms wrap around her, closing their embrace, and then they’re both spinning around, joining the dancers.

  I watch her with Leif, seeing the way she dedicates all of her attention to whatever he’s saying. The way laughter quakes through her entire body. The way she must make him feel like a king.

  And I realize that I’ve allowed things to go on too long with Lirra.

  Their friendship is easy and free. Easier than anything Lirra and I could ever share. What Segrande said the day we were by the docks makes sense now. The price of actually being king is solitude. My life is for Malam, the very kingdom that destroyed Lirra’s family. Killed her mother. Left scars on her body. It wouldn’t be fair of me to expect Lirra to forget those transgressions and live in the kingdom that inflicted harm and destruction in her life.

  She must already know that there could never be anything real between us. Perhaps she has already accepted that what we’ve been sharing is nothing more than a Summit dalliance.

  My chest tightens and cracks.

  The summit will be over soon, and yet there is much work left to be done. There isn’t time left to further this relationship. Nor is there reason if we will never have a future together.

  “Changed your mind?” Segrande asks, and I realize I’ve stopped walking. “Fine, let’s go
. You can catch me up on today’s trade meeting, and we can discuss the jubilee. Have you found someone yet?”

  “No, I haven’t.” I tear my gaze away and follow him into the carriage. In spite of the warm evening, my body goes cold.

  Chapter

  28

  Lirra

  PRUDENCE MEETS ME AT THE JOUST. SHE sidles up to me right as the winners are announced. The boom of celebration drowns out our voices, so we wait as the Kolontians and Malamians swarm the field. They lift their competitors and carry them out, singing their kingdom’s praises. Prudence and I trudge slowly behind the mass exodus. If only I had my glider here, I could sail us right over the crowd.

  When we finally break free, I accompany her to her family’s merchant tent. We duck into the corner for privacy.

  “I asked around.” She tips her head so a wave of tawny hair keeps our conversation private from anyone who might pass by. “No one is talking.”

  “You mean, they might know something, but they’re not talking?”

  She nods.

  “Who has enough power to silence every trader here?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispers. “You said you’re looking for the maker. The question is, what Channeler has that much power?”

  Immediately, four women come to mind. The Channelers Guild. I know it’s not them, but whomever it is has power that rivals theirs.

  “I considered the Guild,” she says.

  “It’s not them.”

  She shrugs. “Maybe not. But it’s interesting your aunt Katallia cannot represent Malam in the jubilee. Everyone’s talking about it, and it doesn’t look good for Malam.”

  I don’t like how her suggestion paints my aunt. Nor do I like that Aodren has no Channeler to represent Malam. I think of the conversation I had with Aodren the night Baltroit died and I wonder if I should’ve made a different decision. It worries me that he hasn’t found someone yet. “What does that have to do with Sanguine?”