The King's Questioner

by Nikki Katz

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  Copyright Page

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  To Katelyn, my firstborn, who has the uncanny ability to read my mind.

  CHAPTER

  1

  Taking a breath to steel his nerves, Kalen turned the key. The door opened on silent hinges to reveal the hazy scene. A woman stood in the middle of the room. She seemed larger than life, towering like a giant scylee bird over the little girl in front of her. Her features were exaggerated, her mouth open wide as obscenities poured forth. The words hung jagged in the air, ugly and crimson. The girl cowered and tucked into herself. Dirty, blond strands of hair curtained her face. The woman stretched taller; her hands curled into fists, and her knuckles enlarged to twice their size. Sobs shook the girl’s tiny frame. The woman’s arm drew back. The fist swung forward, striking the girl on her cheek. Her head swung to the side, and her hair parted to reveal massive eyes. They were round and fringed in spider lashes like the dolls sold in the market shops.

  The girl screamed. A cobalt ribbon slipped from between her lips to twist and weave through her hair. Tears settled dewlike on her lashes. The woman froze. Her arm dropped to her side. Her knuckles shrank to normal. Her stature collapsed. She turned away, head falling and arms crossing across her stomach as she bent over.

  A fog curled in from the edges of the room, dense and cold, to shroud the two figures. Kalen shoved the door closed, turned the key, and removed it.

  He opened his eyes. A wave of nausea swept over him, and he fought to stay upright. His forehead felt hammered with a thousand nails.

  “She’s innocent,” he said. Of the accused crime anyway.

  He yanked his fingers from the woman’s wrist and stepped away. She wouldn’t know what he had seen in her mind, but she knew he’d seen something. She swallowed hard, unable to look him in the eye. Most people couldn’t, and, honestly, Kalen was okay with that.

  “What do you mean ‘she’s innocent’? This woman is our best lead.” Ryndel, the King’s Law, was entrusted with matters of crime and punishment in the kingdom of Mureau. He paced forward from a dark recess of the small interrogation room, not happy that Kalen had failed to find what he’d been looking for. The flickerfly lamps set in the wall cast a light that cut his features in half, and his wiry, black hair stuck out in all directions. His emerald brocade jacket was open to reveal the unspotted white shirt underneath. He never got close enough to the prisoners to get dirty.

  Kalen cracked his neck side to side and withdrew his gloves from the interior pocket of his vest. “Do we need to repeat this conversation every time?”

  Ryndel only wanted to hear the word guilty. Innocent meant more work, and the King’s Law frowned upon anything that kept him from being drinking buddies with the king. That did, however, mean steady pay for Kalen—with all the false accusations Ryndel brought him as soon as he had even the hint of a new lead—so Kalen wasn’t one to complain.

  “I’m never quite sure you’re telling the truth,” Ryndel said.

  “No, you can’t be.” Kalen met the man’s watery green eyes and pulled on one glove. “But you know my abilities.” He leaned in, bare fingers of his other hand a hairbreadth away from Ryndel’s arm.

  Ryndel scooted away.

  It hadn’t been easy for Kalen to prove his talent. Even he hadn’t understood it at first, when, as a child, he’d caught glimpses of thought the second he touched someone’s skin. He thought he was going a bit mad. But once he understood his ability, it wasn’t the memories that drew his attention—it was the secrets. Secrets locked and hidden away so people wouldn’t suffer from constant reminders.

  When he entered a mind, he found pathways. Sometimes trails in a forest. Perhaps hallways in a home or distributaries from a river. Memories were structured in a variety of ways, but there were always arteries and branches, and at the end, hidden down dark hallways, in twisted mazes, or behind false walls, lay the secrets. The darker a secret, the harder to find. And the harder to unlock. He tugged at the key that hung on a leather cord around his neck, a mirror to the one he used when exploring someone’s memories. His fingers stroked its length once before tucking it beneath his shirt. The cool metal soothed his hot skin.

  Ryndel knew firsthand about Kalen’s powers. The King’s Law had been a test subject when Kalen was a youth and had to prove the ability to the king, who was himself unwilling to expose his mind to someone who could unlock its secrets. In fact, the king always kept Kalen at a distance of several yards and mandated that the young man never remove his gloves in his presence.

  The Law was not the only person at court to distrust Kalen for his magick, but Ryndel had little to worry about. His secrets were mundane. A love of mulled wine and an unhealthy obsession with a young duchess. Not exactly appropriate but hardly anything treasonous.

  A steward rushed forward with a mug of tea. Kalen accepted it with a nod and gulped it. The headaches had worsened over the past year, and on days when Ryndel kept him busy, sometimes the only relief came when he was actually inside a prisoner’s mind. The tea also helped to ease the pressure in his forehead enough for him to unclench his jaw.

  “I told you I didn’t do nothin’.” Marcella spat the words from behind him.

  “I wouldn’t say nothing,” Kalen said.

  “I didn’t do no stealin’.” Her voice softened.

  “That is correct.” Kalen finished the tea and set the mug down on a narrow shelf against the wall. “You did not steal a letter from the king’s courier.” Of course she hadn’t. Ryndel was intelligent, but not when it came to matters that should be handled by the guardsmen. This woman was of a stocky build, a heavy breather. There was no chance she could have snuck up on the courier, who was most likely on horseback the entire time, to steal correspondence as it was brought into town.

  “Who did?” Ryndel asked.

  “Damned if I know. And she doesn’t, either.” Kalen hooked his thumb in Marcella’s direction.

  “Can I get goin’ now?” the woman whined. “I have a daughter who needs me—”

  Kalen’s head whipped around, and her words stopped. He glared at her as Ryndel waved a hand in dismissal. The steward led her to the door, and she scurried through without a backward glance.

  Kalen’s gloved fingers rubbed at his temples.

  “What’s so important about this letter?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  Kalen sighed. “Perhaps not. But you do know that if you find the culprit and use me to prove it, I will learn the contents of the letter in the process.”

  Ryndel frowned and rubbed at his chin, as if the thought hadn’t quite occurred to him. Kalen knew most of the kingdom’s secrets. Whether he wanted to or not. His talent made him equally as much of a target as an asset. His family could attest to that.

  “Have a good day, gentlemen.” Kalen handed the steward the empty cup and raced into the hall to catch up with Marcella. She was slowly making her way up the stairs when he moved next to her
and leaned in. “Was that your daughter you tormented?”

  “I don’t know what yer speakin’ of,” she said.

  “It won’t happen again.” Silence fell. A sticky, stifling sort of silence, like she didn’t know if she was supposed to respond. “Repeat the words.”

  A pained whisper. “It won’t happen again.”

  “I will find out if you harm her again.” He paused to let his words sink in. “Consider this your one and only warning before I have you thrown in prison for a much more punishable offense.”

  “You couldn’t.”

  “Try me. Or ask around. It’s not that difficult to blame someone for a crime when there’s nobody to refute my allegation other than the accused.” He let the truth weigh her down. “If you were a juror, who would you believe? Me or you?”

  Her shoulders sank.

  “You shouldn’t find it that hard.” Kalen stood. “Only keep your hands to yourself and your voice to a motherlike volume. You may come to find the girl loves you.”

  Although most likely not.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Kalen stood in the middle of the courtyard, a sword gripped between his gloved hands as he worked his way through the meditative steps of Hakunan. The concentration on movement always settled his nerves and relieved the residual aches in his head after a questioning.

  Eyes closed, Kalen crouched, keeping his weight centered over his feet. With a slow and steady movement, he brought the sword above his head to point at the sky and then lowered it to the ground in front of him, acknowledging both the gods and his ancestors. From there the sword swung up to the right and behind his head, down to the left and up again. He spun and danced, the sword a mere extension of his arms and a tool to center his focus. His breaths settled into a deep rhythm of inhale and exhale. His mind cleared of thoughts of revenge and anger. He was simply present.

  Time passed in a void. Kalen had begun the final sequence when he felt the barest shift in the air at his side. He jumped back. His eyes opened, the glare of the sun a slice of pain through his forehead.

  He caught a glint of metal and a blur of sapphire in his peripheral vision.

  Cirrus.

  And then the young man stood before him, still and stoic and just out of reach of Kalen’s sword. They were of the exact same height, and Cirrus’s brown eyes glared into his.

  “Good reflexes.” Cirrus winced as he spoke, as if the words pained him. They probably did. The compliment was the first Cirrus had thrown in his direction in years.

  Kalen nodded in thanks.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt your playtime.” Cirrus’s gaze fell to Kalen’s sword, now clutched awkwardly at his side. “You can continue. I’m sure you could use the extra practice.”

  Kalen’s jaw tightened. “I think I’m done for the day.”

  The false sense of calm blanketing Kalen mere moments before was now gone. He lowered the sword and dug the weapon’s tip into the dirt before leaning against it. His entire body felt heavy and sore. He ran his gloved hand through his hair and fought the urge to yawn. He refused to show Cirrus even the smallest weakness.

  “Haven’t seen you around much.” Cirrus spun his own sword like it was weightless.

  “You, either.” Not that Kalen made much of an effort to see Cirrus, or anyone really. He pretty much relegated himself to his room between questionings.

  “I’ve been busy touring the countryside. Fresh air does wonders.”

  “Yes, if only my work here wasn’t so very important.”

  Cirrus glared at him.

  Kalen knew Cirrus hated his ability, even if the king seemed to appreciate its usefulness. “Well, I best be going.”

  Cirrus’s eyebrow rose. “Off to town for a little female distraction?”

  “That sounds like a great plan.” Kalen turned around to walk toward the weapon rack. Nobody ever turned their back on Cirrus without permission. Nobody but an ex–childhood friend anyway.

  Kalen knew it would irk Cirrus, and he hated that they always seemed to return to immature behavior and juvenile slights, ruining one’s meditation and making insinuations. Although he guessed it could have been worse. Cirrus could have still hated him. Kalen thought most of the time he did.

  When his magick had first manifested, the king had brought Kalen’s family into the fold of the royal court. It was meant to look like an honor, but Kalen soon realized it was actually to keep him close and at the king’s mercy. Two young boys in the castle, he and Cirrus had bonded over their mutual love of climbing trees and skirmishes with wooden swords. They’d schooled together and shared secrets, including Kalen’s concerns about how to control his ability. He feared losing himself in someone’s mind.

  Cirrus had invited Kalen to practice on him, in the hopes Kalen could learn how best to use his magick, so one afternoon the boys sat in a clearing, Kalen’s hand resting on Cirrus’s arm. A storm hovered, and the air felt heavy with humidity. They were both tired and had taken a break from play. Kalen raced through Cirrus’s mind, knowing most of the memories as his own—they had shared so many of them. But this time he pushed farther, faster, and he spotted something he’d never seen before. Not necessarily new, but hidden, on the fringe of Cirrus’s thoughts.

  Clouded in darkness.

  A door.

  And locks.

  Kalen stepped closer, his fingers brushing over the metal of the lock faces. One was a shiny silver color with a large plate. Swirls and floral designs were etched into the surface, tightening around the center. The second was diamond shaped and of a matte finish. The final lock was round and plain in design but fabricated of a black onyx stone. He didn’t understand how it was attached to the door. The design was seamless.

  And he didn’t know how to access it.

  He retreated from Cirrus’s mind and told him what he’d seen. Cirrus shoved Kalen away and jumped to his feet. “You’re lying. You didn’t see anything.”

  His tone and words were angry, but Kalen recognized the look that flashed through his eyes. He was afraid.

  After that, Cirrus distanced himself from his friend. He took to insulting Kalen and calling him a freak. Kalen never mentioned to anyone what he had seen, but he began to find locks in other people’s minds. His own powers manifested in a mental key, exact in shape and size to the one he wore around his neck, the key to his chambers, the only place he felt safe. He learned how to unlock the doors and find the secrets hidden deep behind them.

  And he always wondered what memory Cirrus kept locked away, what secret had cost them their friendship.

  * * *

  THE SUN HUNG just above the upper lip of the courtyard walls on its descent toward the horizon as Kalen placed the sword into its slot on the rack and made his way over to the wall and the trough of fresh water. He dipped in a tin cup and lifted the cool liquid to his mouth. After several gulps, Kalen tilted his head forward and poured the remainder onto his hair, letting the cool water soothe his scalp. He shook his head once, droplets flying, and tossed the cup in the bucket on the side.

  He allowed himself one glance back at Cirrus as he paced across the courtyard toward the large door leading into the main wing of the castle. Cirrus had moved to the sparring ring, where he now stood facing Terrack, the head guardsman. Terrack towered over him, his massive frame making Cirrus look like a woodling. Kalen shook his head at the sight, wondering if the king had chosen Terrack for this task because of his skill or because he was the only one who would agree to spar with Cirrus, who was the prince, after all.

  CHAPTER

  2

  Kalen rifled through the obscene amount of clothing that filled his wardrobe to find something a little less sweaty and cleaner scented to wear. And that’s what he chose. The wardrobe held a vast array of brightly colored shirts and vests in rich fabrics and patterns, all gifts from the king and meant to be worn for the many royal events that Kalen tried to avoid, but even so, the space was mostly filled with black garments. Anoth
er pair of black breeches with a black undershirt and tight-fitting vest.

  He removed a pair of older boots off a shelf that held many of the same style in various states of wear. A low dresser held his gloves, and from it he removed a clean pair made of supple leather. He snagged an overcoat and returned to his bedchamber. The massive bed took up much of the room, the covers pulled neatly to the pile of pillows, not because any attendant or servants made his bed each morning, but rather because Kalen didn’t sleep there. The makeshift pallet near the door worked well enough. It kept him grounded, and he never wanted to let his guard down again. His parents had taught him a difficult lesson, and although he’d come to understand their decision to flee in the years that had passed since they’d abandoned him, the lesson was one he would never allow to be repeated.

  Never get too comfortable.

  A glance out the window showed the sun had slid farther over the horizon, shading the sky’s canvas a darker spill of blue, and Kalen caught a star winking at him. He had just enough time to stop at the kitchen to grab a bite to eat before heading into town.

  Kalen exited his room and shut the door behind him. He used the key around his neck to turn the lock, squared his shoulders, and headed down the stairs. Minutes later he walked through the great hall, outside, and across a small courtyard into the kitchens. They were offset from the main buildings in case a fire started in one of the dozens of ovens.

  The building was frantic with people hurrying this way and that, arms laden with bags of flour or pots filled with soup or trays piled with pastries. Kalen stayed close to the outer wall and worked his way along the edge. He rarely ate with the royal family or their honored guests, whatever lords happened to be vying for attention that week.

  He stopped near the hearth and slopped a large ladle of stew from an oversize pot into a bowl. Cradling it close to his chest, he stepped into the pantry and grabbed a hardened roll. Away from the kitchen chaos, he leaned against the wall and dug into the food. The roll served as a spoon, and he scooped vegetables and buttery chunks of meat into his mouth. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he’d licked the bowl clean and his stomach ceased clenching.