“Where is this Dark One?” asked Jetekesh.
Jinji’s eyes drifted heavenward. “He is not upon this world at all, nor in the Realm of Shinac. He is extremely far away from here.”
Jetekesh smirked. “What a pity for Prince Sharo. It seems he’ll never find his missing liege.”
Jinji’s eyes twinkled, no longer grim. “Do not say so, Majesty. I never said the true king was still with the Dark One. I never said where the true king is at all.”
15
The Honor of Blood
There’s always a weak link. It took Queen Bareene longer than she’d hoped to locate a man who succumbed to her charm. He wasn’t among the more favored of the Blood Prince’s men, but he knew enough to answer some of Bareene’s questions.
The most important thought on her mind was Jetekesh. Where was her son? Why could no one find him?
HeshAr, the KryTeer knight, knew the answer. “He has fled south with his protector, my lady.” The knight leaned close and stared. She pretended not to notice.
“All alone, save one man to guide him?” Why would he flee south? His greatest hope of salvation lay in Peregrine Fortress or if that road proved too dangerous, the Keep of the Falls near Nagali River.
“He’s in company with a soldier and a vagabond as well,” said HeshAr, before he took a sip of wine. They sat together on the terrace of her private rooms. Only her maid servants came and went, accustomed to her habits, and inclined to look the other way.
Bareene twisted her skirts beneath the table. “A soldier and a vagabond? Pray, tell me more. I fear gravely for my son.” The prince wasn’t prepared for life beyond the palace walls. He was too delicate, too temperamental. Without her, he was helpless.
HeshAr set the goblet of wine aside. “Yes, my lady. Of course. The soldier bears the heraldry of Keep Lunorr, which means he has no lord anymore. It’s believed he’s a man for hire now, so if he’s well paid, your son should remain safe. The strange part is the vagabond. Apparently, he’s a storyteller, well known in your kingdom for his skill at his trade.”
Bareene stared. “A…storyteller?” Jetekesh had taken Jinji Wanderlust with him? What had possessed him? She nearly laughed. How preposterous! Absurd! She closed her eyes. How could one lordless soldier and a bumbling storyteller protect her son from the cruel world?
HeshAr slipped from his chair and knelt before hers. Taking her hand in his, he kissed her fingertips, her palm, her wrist. “My lady. How may I comfort you?”
Bareene wrenched free of his grasp and leapt to her feet. “Comfort me? How can anything bring comfort? My son, heart of my soul, rides the southern wilds with naught but ruffians as his companions.”
“And a little girl,” HeshAr said.
Bareene faltered. “A little girl?” Why by the names of all the saints would Jetekesh keep company with a child?
“I believe it’s the soothsayer, that daughter of Lunorr, the one my prince seeks for Holy Emperor Gyath—may his name be praised in song for all time.”
The queen’s eyes narrowed. She turned to face the Blood Knight. “Little Rille?” The mad child. The treasured heir of that foolish Lunorr. Her dead husband’s niece. “I thought all died at Keep Lunorr.”
“All but the child. We never found her. But that soldier came from there. It’s possible he sneaked her out in the commotion.” HeshAr shook his head. “What I don’t understand is why my holy prince doesn’t just order them brought here.” A shrug. “He’s always acted strangely concerning storytellers, so I’ve heard. He sought a certain one for five years. I think this vagabond may be the one he’s wanted to find.”
How this man did babble on!
Bareene sat down and caught up HeshAr’s hands. “My love, tell me more. Tell me about the soothsayer child your holy emperor wants.” At last! Now she could bargain with Gyath. She need only capture that horrid little child and at the same time bring Jetekesh home. And if the Blood Prince had a peculiar interest in Jinji Wanderlust, she could use that too.
HeshAr told her all he knew, and much he only guessed. Her smile grew as her mind plotted.
The Blood Prince would regret assuming she was only some silly woman.
“HeshAr has arrived, Holy Prince.”
Aredel looked up from the scroll in his hands. He nodded, and Shevek allowed the Blood Knight through the double doors to the private study. Once King Jetekesh had scrawled most of his decrees here. As Aredel lowered his hands from the grand desk of ancient monarchs, the scroll sprang back into its roll.
The knight, a rugged man with sun-kissed skin and dark eyes, cowered before Aredel. He fell to his knees. “My prince, holy son of KryTeer, O mortal god: spare me, I beg you.”
Aredel slipped from his wingback chair and rounded the desk to stand before the quavering knight. “From what offense should I pardon thee, Sir HeshAr?”
The knight poured out his sins: dallying with the heathen queen, confiding state secrets with her, disrespecting his liege lord, helping the queen escape the palace to go after her son.
Aredel listened. He already knew each offense. HeshAr also knew that Aredel was aware. So too he must know his fate, for there was no mercy in KryTeer.
“You are a brave and skilled warrior from my homeland, Sir HeshAr dij Aban, and so it is an honor to spill your blood that I may gain your strength.”
HeshAr’s shoulders slumped. He sobbed without sound.
“Shevek.”
“My prince?”
“You will execute Sir HeshAr and drain his blood that I may bathe in it.”
“As my holy prince commands.”
Shevek pulled HeshAr to his feet and together they left the study.
Aredel smiled to himself. He had known what Bareene would try. He sat again at the desk and unrolled the scroll. Dipping his quill, he let the ink drip back into its pot.
Finally, he began to scrawl:
The lady queen has left Kavacos as expected. She will travel south to obtain both her son and the means of bribing you, my lord and holy father. Thus, it shall be easier to rid ourselves of her by a means which appears natural. She believes herself unequaled in beauty, but rest assured, my holy liege, she is among the ugliest of her sex I have ever beheld. The witches of Lioth are roses by comparison, for their souls are not so withered.
You shall have your soothsayer as soon as I accomplish all that must be seen to in Amantier. I expect to return to the shores of my homeland by next planting season at the very latest. Be well, I pray. Yours faithfully in the blood.
He dripped sealing wax against the parchment just beneath his message and pressed his signet ring against the red wax. A flash of light, red like the seal, erased the message from the scroll, leaving it blank.
He waited. Another flash of red blinded Aredel, and then he saw the return message scrawled against the same scroll face: I lose patience waiting for my soothsayer. Return by harvest. The royal seal swirled gracefully beneath the command.
Aredel sighed. He scooted back his chair and rose to his full height. Lord Father was a selfish and demanding old fool, but his word was the law. Harvest wasn’t enough time to subjugate the people of Amantier, but Aredel would find a way.
He slipped from the study through a private passage that brought him to King Jetekesh’s chambers. Aredel marched to the bed. For a long moment he studied the man lying there.
“Your lady wife travels southward, King Jetekesh, intent to claim your son and heir. I must follow her. Shall you journey with me?”
King Jetekesh’s eyes opened. His jaw set. “By all means, Your Highness. I have a debt to repay.”
Aredel’s lips pulled in a grim smile. “As do I.”
High Emperor Gyath elvar Kenn d’ara KessRa of the Holy Empire of KryTeer, Spear of the World and High Heaven’s holy portal, studied the reports resting upon his golden desk. He sat back and steepled his sausage fingers to tap them against his several chins. For once, in this moment alone, he regretted becoming fat.
Once
, years ago, he had been as spry and lithe as his children, but prosperity and gluttony had altered the emperor. He had never minded the change, for it was a sign of endless pleasure and delights, of his wealth and influence. He had never minded the passing years either, for the beauty of youth expired for all, but he alone was emperor of the civilized world.
Yet he sensed change upon the wind. Indeed, he feared it.
No, not quite.
If he was honest—which was rare—yet if he was honest, he must admit to himself that he didn’t fear change, but rather he feared Aredel. His own son, blood of his blood. The most dreaded man in all Nakania. None were fiercer, more violent, nor cleverer, than he. Gyath had always been pleased with Aredel’s skills, his cunning arts, his merciless sword carving a path for KryTeer across every border in every land. But now a question plagued Gyath’s mind. Aredel had conquered the world. What would a man who bathed in the blood of the strong do now that he had no more ground to claim?
There was but one answer. After all, Aredel was heir of KryTeer. He had been toppling kingdoms and growing KryTeer’s wealth for more than Gyath’s sake these several years, and now he must want to enjoy the fruits of his labor. Could he bear to wait until Gyath died?
No. Gyath had murdered his own father to gain the throne, for the old king of KryTeer, at the time not an empire, never seemed like he would die on his own. Aredel would not wait either. It wasn’t in the blood of the KessRa House to wait for death. They were its masters. Death served them until the end, and only a KessRa ever had the skill to destroy a KessRa.
But Gyath was far from ready to die. Despite his physicians’ warnings, he felt hardy and well. He would last another forty years or more. He would glut himself on all of life’s pleasures for decades yet. No son of his would defeat him and take away his property. His empire. His world.
Aredel must come home, and when he did, when he faithfully obeyed, Gyath must kill him. The man was too powerful, his influence too great. Should Gyath hold back, the Blood Prince would bathe in his essence.
Gyath looked up from the reports. One from Aredel. Another stating that his informant, a man called HeshAr, had been killed by Aredel. The third accompanied a letter from Queen Bareene, that self-satisfied, witless woman.
Gyath’s eyes strayed again to the death report of HeshAr. How had Aredel known?
The truth struck Gyath hard: He could not allow Aredel to live, not even until his return to KryTeer. It might be too late then to protect himself from the power of the Blood Prince.
“Bring me Second Prince Anadin.” Who better to send against Aredel than his own brother? Anadin would see his chance to become heir of KryTeer. He would seize it. Once the two brothers had loved each other but grown men in KryTeer knew better than to maintain such sappy sentimentality. It could be deadly.
16
The Hut in the Woods
“On the other side of the world,” said Prince Jetekesh, “the farther south you go, the hotter it grows.”
“That’s ludicrous,” said Lady Rille, but her voice rang flat.
“It’s true. My tutors explained it. The great scientist Galin set about to prove it, and nearly has. He calls the dividing line an equator.”
“Nearly has.” Rille sighed.
The cousins stood beneath a drooping tree, trying to defend against the rain, but to no avail. Yeshton stood beneath a nearby tree, his cowl and cloak sopping wet, water running down his neck. Jinji sat beside him, and Tifen stood still as a statue on the storyteller’s far side.
Yeshton glanced down at Jinji. “Feel all right?”
Jinji’s head rested against his knees. He raised a hand and waved off Yeshton’s concern, but otherwise didn’t move. Rivulets of water ran around Jinji’s feet, cold and muddy. The rain just wouldn’t let up. The sky hung low and dark, though it wasn’t yet noon. The nearby road had been washed out, and the company had taken high ground to avoid being swept along the raging river.
Thunder grumbled above. Yeshton watched lightning strike over the hill.
Rille stepped from the shelter of the tree. “There is a woodsman’s hut nearby.” She tripped her way across the uneven ground and Yeshton trotted after her. The others followed. Sure enough, not more than a few hundred paces brought them past a stand of trees to view the derelict shape of a long-abandoned hut.
Upon inspection the interior proved sounder than the outside suggested, except for the piles of debris. Yeshton let the others in, and they collapsed on the dirt floor in sodden heaps.
“I’ll never walk anywhere ever again,” moaned Prince Jetekesh. He struggled to sit and wrenched his boots from his feet with a wince.
Rille wrung out her skirt. “I cannot say I blame you, cousin.” She brushed hair from her face and glanced at Jinji. “Are you well?”
Jinji had flopped down against the wall. He leaned his head back now, pale, and breathless. “I shall be. Tomorrow.”
Tifen crouched before him and touched the storyteller’s forehead. “He’s fevered.”
“It shall pass.” Jinji crumpled forward as harsh coughs overtook him.
Yeshton stepped close, frowning. “You can’t keep this up. We won’t be able to move on until you’re well.”
Jinji looked up with dismay. “There is no time for that.”
“Time? Are we pressed for time?”
Jinji frowned and lowered his eyes. “We must reach the Drifting Sands before Lord Peresen succeeds.”
Tifen caught Jinji’s shoulders. “Lay down.” He glanced up at Yeshton. “He’s delirious from fever. And his flesh is frail as a bird.”
Timid footsteps approached. Yeshton glanced down to find Rille clutching a ragged blanket. “Remove his damp clothes. Wrap him in this. It’s better than what he has on now at least.”
Tifen peeled away the soaked apparel. Yeshton hung it from the moss-covered rafters. He and Rille then began to dig through the debris. There was no food and no more blankets. Only bones from hunted game, a few broken barrels, and shattered pottery.
“Lady Rille, do you know what Master Jinji seeks in the Drifting Sands?”
The girl shook her head. “I only know he must reach those Sands, and soon. And I know that we must help him do so. He cannot make it on his own now.”
That much did appear to be the case. Jinji Wanderlust was a very sick man. “Will he make it that far as he is? Can you tell?”
Rille said nothing.
Yeshton volunteered to go outside and set up traps to catch some supper. The rain turned into a drizzle as he pruned small branches with his boot knife to construct a rabbit snare. He used the strings of his satchel to finish the trap, found himself a comfortable niche in some brambles, and waited for some unsuspecting creature to lope by.
Duke Lunorr was dead. KryTeer had conquered Amantier, yet the world went on, oblivious, unchanged. Yeshton had a purpose, and for that he was grateful; but it was strange to travel the wilds of southern Amantier protecting a child who chose to follow a lunatic. Yeshton wasn’t altogether certain Rille was sane herself. Perhaps the child had a gift. She seemed to, but was it real or was it luck that led her along? Yeshton wanted to trust her. Jinji and even the KryTeer Empire believed she was special, yet that would suggest she had a sort of magic. Magic wasn’t supposed to be real.
The trap snapped shut.
He caught two rabbits and cleaned them before he returned to the hut. Rille had scooted the debris into a corner. Tifen had salvaged a few dry logs from behind the hut and started a fire. The hut still felt damp, but it was warm.
Prince Jetekesh sat near the hearth, his back to the room. Jinji slept beneath the musty blanket, shivering, head tossing in a fevered dream.
Yeshton held up the rabbits. “Supper.”
Rille flinched and turned away. “Well done, Sir Knight.”
While Yeshton cooked the meager meal, Tifen crouched beside him. His green eyes were riveted on the flames. “You served Duke Lunorr?”
“I did.” Yeshton g
lanced at the man. “Is that a problem?”
Tifen shook his head. “Not for me.”
Yeshton could feel the prince’s eyes on them. He ignored the boy and stoked the flames with a long, stout stick. “Why mention it?”
“I know you.”
Yeshton started. Was Tifen threatening him? To claim himself a knight was punishable by death under the law. Yet he didn’t claim the title; Rille alone did. Yeshton had wanted to inform the rest of the company that he was merely a man-at-arms in service to Keep Lunorr, but the girl thwarted him each time he tried.
Tifen studied his face. “I saw you once as a lad, when you rode through the gates of Kavacos upon the back of a certain knight’s horse. You’ve climbed higher than I had thought possible of common blood. In a way I envy you. But I must be content.”
Yeshton let his shoulders relax. With a crooked smile he eyed the protector. “What difference lies between us now, friend? Are we not both sworn servants to a fallen throne?”
“True that. A discouraging thought…but true.” Tifen nodded toward Jinji. “What think you of the storyteller?”
“He seems harmless enough, though a bit touched in the head. He really believes in Shinac, doesn’t he? I’d heard tales of that fairy realm as a small boy. I even wished I could see a dragon someday. But when I grew up, I grew sense enough to let go of fantasies. Life’s troublesome enough without whimsical dreams attached to one’s expectations.”
Tifen grunted. “Still,” he whispered, “stories do have their place.” His eyes flicked to Prince Jetekesh and then away.
Yeshton could appreciate the man’s unspoken hope. Jinji’s mild manner, his kindness, his stories, and morals, might just help the miserable prince value those same qualities, if he’d let himself. Or such gestures might drive the prince deeper into his selfish ways. Too often kindness was mistaken for weakness.
Rille padded to Yeshton’s side as he rotated the rabbits.
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