Crownless

by M H Woodscourt

  “Did you know my father well, Sir Knight?” A faint quaver laced her voice.

  He frowned at the fire. “Not as well as I should like to have known him, my lady. But he was the very best of men.”

  She said nothing for a long time. Her skirts rustled. “I’m all alone, Sir Knight.”

  Two drops of water splashed against the floor.

  Yeshton jerked his head up. Her cheeks were wet. He hesitated. Should he comfort her? Pretend he didn’t see? She wiped at her face, hands trembling. Yeshton’s throat closed as adrenaline surged through his limbs. He straightened into a full kneel and wrapped his arms gingerly around the sobbing child.

  Rille threw her hands around his neck and clung to him. She began to wail. Water soaked Yeshton’s shirt front, but he didn’t move. Tifen had better watch the food, lest it burn.

  Yeshton glanced at the prince. Disgust had drawn lines in the boy’s face. Yeshton held his gaze, jaw tight. Was he so quick to forget his own loss? Perhaps the same thought dawned on Prince Jetekesh. His eyes flicked to Rille, and he looked away, hunching his shoulders forward to sink into himself.

  The sounds of Tifen prodding at the fire were all that broke the stillness of the forsaken hut. Rille’s sobs had quieted. The prince sat motionless beside the hearth. Jinji lay tormented by illness. Yeshton held Rille. If only he knew how to ease her pain.

  “I know what it’s like,” he found himself whispering. “I know how it feels to be all alone.”

  Cold swept through Yeshton like a winter chill. Not a single soul here had parents to claim; not even Prince Jetekesh, despite his mother’s existence. Not Tifen, whose father had vanished in disgrace. Not Jinji, whose father neither knew nor claimed him. Not little Rille, a true orphan. And not Yeshton, whose own parents had died of an illness that had ravaged his seaside village when he was a small child. He couldn’t even remember their faces now.

  We’re not so different, any of us. Together, we’re alone. His gaze rested on Jinji, and inexplicably he knew that the storyteller would put it a different way: Alone, we are together.

  The storm redoubled its barrage that night as the company ate supper. Everyone retired early, curling up in damp cloaks, catching what sleep they could against the howling wind and pounding rain that hammered the leaky roof and fragile walls.

  Yeshton slept in snatches, stirring now and then to tend to Jinji. The storyteller mattered to Rille, so he mattered to Yeshton.

  At dawn Yeshton rose to hunt for breakfast. He pulled the hut door open—and found himself staring out at an imposing figure wrapped in furs, a broadsword clutched in one hand, disheveled length of tangled brown hair veiling the man’s face.

  “What brings you to my humble abode?” boomed a voice. It tickled Yeshton’s memory.

  He held the man’s fierce eyes. “The hut looked vacant. One of my companions took ill, and so we stopped to wait out the storm.”

  “Perhaps you’re telling the truth, or perhaps you’re in league with the Bloody One I slew last evening.”

  Yeshton’s brows flew up. “You slew him, did you? That’s no small feat.”

  “‘Tis for me,” growled the man.

  Yeshton pawed at his mind, trying to place this figure, or his likeness. “Pardon me, but you don’t appear to be a woodsman or a trapper. That sword’s no trinket.”

  The man grunted. “You say one of your company fell ill. How many are you?”

  “Five, including myself.”

  “You speak like a northerner. Marsh Province? No, Sage, I think.”

  Yeshton started. He had never met anyone who could distinguish speech patterns so well. “I did hail from Sage Province until recently, yes.”

  The man grunted again. “I assume you fled in the chaos created by KryTeer’s invasion? Troublesome matter. I’d wager the queen bit off more than she could swallow, the greedy old hag.”

  Yeshton’s eyes widened more. “You speak boldly, stranger.”

  “I have a recollection,” said the man. “Your name wouldn’t be Yeshton, would it?”

  Yeshton staggered back a step.

  The man bellowed a laugh. “Right again, I see! I’ve not lost my touch. Well. You’ve grown into a fine young man. A bit stiff, mayhap, but fine nonetheless.” He reached up and pushed aside his tangled mane of hair, revealing a much older face, rugged and lined from hard years, but Yeshton knew him.

  Torn between falling to one knee before this legend or pulling his sword against a traitor of Amantier, he sucked in a rattling breath. “Sir Palan?”

  The knight grinned, showing his teeth. “You’re not pleased to see me, I think.”

  “I heard you died aboard a pirate ship off the coast of Tivalt ten years ago.”

  “Aye. And others say I died as a mercenary in Lormenway three years before that. Which is right, I wonder?” His grin stretcher wider, but lines appeared between his brows. “Don’t give me that look, Yesh. Not you.”

  “I owe you a debt for bringing me as a lad to Duke Lunorr,” said Yeshton, “but that debt does not grant me right or desire to rekindle friendship with a traitor.”

  The grin slipped from Sir Palan’s face. “Harsh words indeed. Enough I’d lop your head from your shoulders, but for fond memories of your boyhood and our journey together.”

  Yeshton squared his shoulders. “Memories do not sponge out sins, Sir Palan.” He grimaced. “I shouldn’t call you sir. You lost that title when you disgraced yourself.”

  The man, once a fetching figure, now showed the wrinkles of one approaching his sixtieth year. He took a step forward, eyes flashing. “Tread carefully now, lad. My composure isn’t as it used to be, being so long from court life. I might forget for a moment that I like you.”

  “You don’t know me, Palan. It’s been over fifteen years.”

  “So it has.” The man’s shoulders relaxed. “And so we should let it remain.”

  Yeshton’s hand tightened on his sword hilt. “Your son is within.”

  “Tifen? Here?” His gaze flicked past Yeshton to the dark space beyond the open door.

  Yeshton heard metal scraping as a sword unsheathed. “My father is dead,” said Tifen in a rasp. “Sir Palan is no more.”

  The old knight looked his son up and down, a gleam in his eyes. “What a man you’ve become. Your mother would be proud.”

  “Do not speak to me of my mother.” Tifen pushed past Yeshton. “Leave, old man. Do not return until we have abandoned your pathetic home.”

  Pain creased Palan’s brow. “You have every cause to hate me, believing what I am alleged to have done.”

  Tifen shook his head. “Do not speak of it. Do not disgrace yourself further.”

  Yeshton rested a hand on Tifen’s shoulder. “Easy. He has killed a Blood Knight. His skill isn’t diminished.” Yeshton turned his eye to Palan. “You used the word alleged. Do you profess that you were falsely accused?”

  Palan shrugged. “Not that it matters, but yes. And the king knew it too. Knew his lady queen claimed that I’d forced myself upon her, all because I refused her advances.”

  “Liar.” Tifen spat out the word. “If you were innocent, King Jetekesh would not have banished you.”

  “He didn’t banish me, my son. I left. Court rumors called it my guilt-ridden conscience chasing me off, and from there stories of concocted dalliances sprang up like milkweeds. King Jetekesh warned me not to go, but I had to. The queen’s influence was too great, her court too corrupt, and I’d had my fill of it all.”

  Tifen’s lip curled into a snarl. “If that is truth, it’s little better than rumor. You abandoned me and I became a servant, without lands or titles, forced to lug your soiled memory and the shame of our blood.”

  “And if I had stayed?” Palan shrugged. “There was no means to exonerate myself. No proof against the queen’s testimony. And she expecting the heir apparent at the time. No, I couldn’t stay, not even for you, Tifen. The king knew it too. It was best that I disappear. I am sorry that you lost all
you had, my son, but without titles you were no target for the queen. I spared you that, at least.”

  Tifen’s eyes flashed the same fire as his father. “Don’t make it sound noble.”

  “Be calm,” murmured Yeshton. “Reflect on Sir Palan’s words before you pass judgment. There is the ring of truth in his tale.”

  Tifen turned his head away. “Whatever his tale, whatever the truth, my father is dead to me.” He sheathed his sword and stalked away from the hut, out into the shelter of the stately trees. Sunlight glistened against water droplets and birds trilled their morning song. Yeshton watched Tifen’s back until the man had vanished against the forest.

  He turned back to Palan. “You were never close?”

  The knight sighed. “Tifen was always conscious that our blood wasn’t noble, and he felt we must therefore prove ourselves better and stronger than any other knight or lord. Our honor meant much to him. I understand his plight, but in my mind a knight should be chosen for his actions, his integrity, not the stature of his house or the past honor of dead ancestors.”

  Yeshton considered the man before him. Sir Palan, strongest knight of Amantier, born of questionable means, raised as a servant, groomed on the front lines in combat against KryTeer in years past, distinguished by saving the life of King Jetekesh the Third. All before the age of peace established under the hand of King Jetekesh the Fourth. Yeshton had admired him until the scandal fifteen years ago. Despite Palan’s unknown parentage and coarse upbringing, he’d been hailed for his honor, his unfailing virtue, his unwavering faith in the One God. Even when news reached Yeshton’s ear that Sir Palan had fled in disgrace, he’d not believed it. He’d expected the knight to clear his name and return to his king’s side. But he never had.

  “You left your family, never explaining your side of what happened. Why?”

  Palan sighed again, shaking his head. “Tifen was a grown man even then. Ready to be knighted. He refused to see me before I left, too ashamed to receive his dishonored father. He would not read my letter. Of course, he had hoped that my shame would not destroy his own chance for knighthood. In a just world that might be so. But this world isn’t just, Yeshton, and the queen saw to Tifen’s misery. But as I said, it spared him her interest, and that has eased my mind these many years.”

  Yeshton uncurled his fingers from his hilt and leaned against the door frame. “What have you been doing all this time? Not living a woodsman’s life, surely. Your strength is as great as it ever was, if your account of the Bloody One’s death is true.”

  “You doubt me?” Palan’s grin reappeared. “I’ve served King Jetekesh these fifteen years. In disguise I’ve traveled from land to land, even within KryTeer itself, reporting what I see. Keeping trouble at bay…” His smile slipped. “That is, until the king grew too sick to receive my reports. I can guess the why of it. Queen Bareene, always the ambitious vixen, saw her chance and took it. One kingdom isn’t enough for a woman so hungry as she. I heard the first hints of an alliance two years ago, but by then King Jetekesh was already ill. Ill.”

  He barked a sharp laugh. “Poisoned; that’s my guess. Something slow, lethal, but undetectable by any without the proper knowledge. I imagine the king’s physician is already the queen’s man. And now it’s done. The king is dead. A pity, for he was a good man. Young, and occasionally foolhardy, but strong where it mattered most.”

  Palan tapped his chest with his large fist. “Much of this you must already know, Yesh. Why else would you be so far south? Whom do you protect? Which nobles have escaped the queen’s betrayal?”

  His sincerity was the same. Yeshton knew Palan well enough to recognize it. And he wanted to believe this knight was as he had always seen him. Yeshton nodded inside. “Come. I’ll introduce you.”

  They entered the hut. Yeshton found Rille first, still asleep inside her cloak, hair tangled around her face. Next his eye fell on Prince Jetekesh, but the boy was wide awake, expression hard. His blue eyes, bright against the sunlight leaking into the hut, shimmered with unshed tears. He hugged his legs to his chest, as though he tried to shield himself from all the world.

  “You’re wrong,” he whispered, voice choked. “My mother isn’t what you say. She wouldn’t…betray her people. She wouldn’t accuse a knight falsely. She wouldn’t…”

  Palan looked sharply at Yeshton. “Is this…?”

  “Yes,” said Yeshton. “This is the heir of Amantier, your crown prince.” He faltered. “Your king now, I suppose.”

  The old knight sank to one knee and clapped a hand to his chest. “My king, I am honored to meet you at last, though these days are dark and uncertain.”

  Confusion clouded Jetekesh’s eyes. He trembled. Reaching a hand up, he wiped at his face with his sleeve. “Are you truly Sir Palan, First Knight of the Rose?”

  “Yes, sire. So I am.”

  A smile haunted the boy’s lips, before it fell away. He turned his face from the knight. “Leave me alone.”

  “As you command, sire.” Palan climbed to his feet. “Yeshton, you’d best explain all you can.”

  “I will. Come away and let the others sleep.”

  The two men strode back outside.

  17

  Threads of Freedom

  So, Muhun was dead. That was no small feat.

  Prince Aredel studied the scroll. A splotch of red ink signified the death of the party to whom the twin scroll belonged.

  No doubt it was murder. Muhun was too skillful a warrior, and too careful a man, to die by accident or illness.

  “Shevek. Ledonn.”

  Aredel’s warrior attendants appeared at his side. He rested a hand on the bow of the barge and studied Lily River stretching on before him, southward.

  “See to our guest’s needs, Ledonn.”

  “Yes, holy prince.” Ledonn bowed and backed away.

  “Shevek.” Aredel held out the scroll. “Muhun is dead.”

  “Surprising,” said Shevek, taking the scroll to inspect the mark. “An impressive thing for one to accomplish. Do you know the killer?”

  “I have only suspicions about his identity.”

  “Palan?”

  Shevek had always been a clever guesser.

  Aredel nodded. “Probably, though I had thought he was farther east, near Shing.”

  “That slippery snake is always where we least want him,” said Shevek, rolling up the scroll.

  “True.” Aredel took the scroll and tapped it against the wooden rail. “Can this great, unwieldy contraption go any faster?”

  Shevek sprouted a wicked smile. “With the proper motivation, anything can go faster, Holy Prince.” He cantered away, far too pleased by the prospect of intimidating the ship crew. Aredel allowed himself a smile.

  He reached into the inner pocket of his red cloak and pulled out a dried crimson flower. “Rehar vilDoch, Muhun. Rest in the arms of the Gods of War. Paradise is yours.” He tossed the flower over the rail and into the waters of Lily River.

  King Jetekesh the Fourth looked up from the maps spread before him on the bed. A Blood Knight stood in the open doorway of the barge’s single cabin, a tray of food in one hand.

  “I am to see to your comfort, Your Majesty,” said the warrior.

  King Jetekesh frowned but nodded. “I thank you. What is your name?”

  “First Warrior of the Blood, under First High Prince Aredel. I am called Ledonn.”

  “Ledonn. Very well.” King Jetekesh watched the knight place the tray upon the bed. “Have we passed Crystal Port yet?”

  “About an hour ago,” said Ledonn as he poured white wine into a goblet. “Will there be anything else?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Ledonn left. King Jetekesh stripped meat off the bone of a pheasant with a relish. For the first time in more than a year he had a healthy appetite, thanks to the last person in all Nakania one might expect. The Blood Prince of KryTeer was not what King Jetekesh had imagined him to be.

  When he first woke from fevered
madness, Prince Aredel had stood before his bed to explain two facts: Amantier was now a province under Bloody Gyath; and King Jetekesh was recovering, not from disease, but from a poison administered over two years by his own wife. Neither fact surprised the king. What did surprise him was that he yet lived.

  Traveria, that deadly pale plant found only in the darkest reaches of the deepest woods, was almost impossible to combat once administered. After it ran through a man’s blood, he was never the same. Visions of terror haunted his mind. His body grew cold. Even without a lethal dose, it altered him forever. Yet somehow, apart from weakness, King Jetekesh was now mending. The terrors were gone. Warmth spread throughout his limbs, and he could eat; wanted to eat. To stretch his limbs. To stretch his mind. He could face life again.

  Strangest of all was knowing who had given him back that life. And why.

  Prince Aredel had explained that too. “I’ve used a peculiar cure to save your life, Majesty. It is not known in your lands, but the blood of what is magical can counter what traveria does to those without magic. Were you fae, the poison could not have done its lethal work. As it is, I have given you a draught of blood taken from a fae creature, and thus your life is spared. This I have done, not from some noble sentiment, but from a desire to know my enemy—and to make use of your mind. You know that your wife attempted to kill you. Indeed, she did kill you. But I have resurrected you, and you have a chance now to exact your vengeance upon that fell beast you once called queen.”

  King Jetekesh agreed. Bareene was the cause, not only of his suffering and illness, but also of betraying her country. And, most personal of all, she had done her own son great harm while King Jetekesh was too weak to intercede.

  Now Prince Jetekesh hid somewhere in the wilds of Southern Amantier, Queen Bareene on his tail; determined to sever the last stubborn threads of the boy’s independence; to make him into nothing more than a doll for her amusement. King Jetekesh shuddered to think of all that might entail.

  It seared King Jetekesh’s soul to know he worked alongside the Blood Prince of KryTeer, but to accomplish his goals it was the smartest place to stand. He would find and execute Bareene. He would rescue his son. And once he had gained his strength back, he would muster a force to stand against KryTeer, even should every soul fall. He would not let Amantier, last free kingdom of Nakania, fade under the corrupted shadow of Emperor Gyath and his barbarism.