Crownless

by M H Woodscourt

  Now, within the cabin of a barge headed south, King Jetekesh lowered his fork to the empty plate upon his tray. He drained the last of his wine. His eyes flicked back to the maps spread around him.

  He thought, and plotted, and prayed. In the end it might make no difference. He might well fail in all his schemes. But he must try; to gain freedom for his brave kingdom, for his suffering boy, for himself. For he was still king of Amantier, a descendant of King Cavalin the Third, hero of Nakania.

  18

  Where Deception Ends

  “The White Death, they’re calling it. Now the borders of Shing are sealed. KryTeer has pulled out most of its armed forces until the plague completes its deadly run.” Sir Palan sighed. “‘Tis a sad affair.”

  Every eye strayed to Jinji, who slept beside one leaning wall.

  “You don’t suppose…?” Prince Jetekesh couldn’t finish the question. He sprang to his feet and hurried to the door. Panic hammered against his temples and his lungs constricted.

  “Where are you going, Highness?” called out Sir Palan in his booming voice.

  “Out.” Jetekesh shoved the door shut behind him and stumbled away from the hut, gulping fresh air. A plague? Had Jinji carried it out of Shing? Sir Palan alone had appeared undisturbed as he narrated his recent travels through the infested realm while he’d chased after phantom reports. It was there the old knight had learned of Mother’s alleged treachery, and he’d hurried back to Amantier, but too late.

  The rush of water guided Jetekesh down a wooded slope. There he found a tiny glade where a brook tripped and gurgled over rocks that sparkled under hints of sunlight above the trees. He halted, dazzled by the playing light, until the burning of flea bites, the grime of mud and sweat, the reek of his body, swarmed his senses.

  Jetekesh lurched to the edge of the water. His distorted reflection stared back at him, eyes wide. His hair was matted. Clothes disheveled and stained. Face smudged with soot and dirt. He raised his hands and watched them tremble. Ruined. His hands were ruined. Calluses and scrapes riddled his palms and knuckles. His nails were broken and muddied. Mother would weep if she saw him this way.

  I look like a peasant!

  He sank to the ground. Mud squelched beneath his knees. He leaned forward and plunged cupped hands into the frigid depths. Shuddering, he splashed his face with clean water, again, again, again. Spluttering and gasping, he didn’t relent until his reflection in the brook revealed that every splotch against his skin had been scrubbed away.

  It wasn’t enough. With surging adrenaline, he wrenched the clothes from his body and plunged into the deepest part of the brook. He gasped as his limbs ached in the frigid water.

  I won’t leave this spot until every speck of me is clean!

  His clothes were another matter. They lay in a heap, soiled with sweat and dust. He couldn’t put those back on. The cloak he’d slept in was caked with mud at the hem, but otherwise it was the safest stitch of cloth he had. Grimacing, he wrapped himself in the coarse garment and found a rock to scrub the stains and crusted sweat from his other clothes. As he worked, his scraped knuckles bled in the icy water. Tears pricked at his eyes.

  Everything was a ruin.

  His life had become an endless nightmare, waking or sleeping. There was no peace. No comfort. Sobs escaped his lips as he scrubbed harder, harder. His fingernails chipped as he dragged his shirt across the rough rock face. Up, down. Hair clung to his cheeks. He tasted salt against his chapped lips. All he did anymore was cry. He was nothing but a throneless prince blubbering in protest against all his life had become. But there was no changing it. No means of escape. He could go on bawling—or he could stop.

  With a scream he flung the shirt. It slapped against the muddy earth. Jetekesh drew his head to his knees and rocked back and forth. It wasn’t fair. Not any of it. Why would Mother betray Amantier? Why would she poison Father? It couldn’t be true. Everyone was wrong. They lied…lied…but why? Why lie to him?

  Why not? Mother always did. She lied and said she cared about Father when she never had. Not ever. Father had tried to fulfill her endless needs; to give her whatever she demanded; to be a dutiful husband. But it was never enough for the selfish woman.

  Jetekesh knew this. He knew it.

  He sat before the rushing brook, bruised, battered, chilled through, and finally clean. His eyes found their reflection in the water. He held his gaze. Mother was the liar. She had murdered Father and allied herself with KryTeer.

  She was the reason Jetekesh’s world was over now.

  Even before this nightmarish journey, even before Father’s death, she had been the source of his pain and confusion. She wouldn’t let him ride horses for fear of him tumbling off. No hunting for he might grow ill or bruise himself. No fencing for it created calluses. He was delicate, she said. He couldn’t strain himself like that.

  So he was delicate. Whose fault was that? The horrible woman had never let Jetekesh grow stronger, never let him pick himself up and try again. He’d tried many times to defy her, but she always found out. Like the servant who had always groomed Jetekesh’s horse and let him ride in secret; that servant had vanished one day. And the fencing master, executed for teaching Jetekesh on the sly.

  Why must she take everything from him?

  Why did she murder Father?

  Because Father said Jetekesh could be strong. He wouldn’t let Mother have her way in all things. Because Mother was a selfish, gluttonous creature who used every man at court to satisfy a hole she could never fill. Mother had been wounded since she lost her second child, the little sister Jetekesh had never met, for the baby was dead at birth. It had almost killed Mother, so the rumors said. Mother could never have another child. That was certain. But was it an excuse to become cold-hearted, selfish, and cruel? Was it the reason why Mother did what she did? Hadn’t she destroyed Sir Palan’s life before that tragedy?

  She’s always been horrible. The realization struck Jetekesh like a physical blow. His heart flinched. She blames other people to escape a guilty conscience.

  I hate her.

  He stared at the blisters and calluses on his hands. Hadn’t he wanted these? It meant he wasn’t delicate. He didn’t need coddling. He could make decisions on his own without Mother plotting out every course he took. His knuckles were bleeding. Fine. He must understand and accept pain or he’d never get back up when a horse threw him.

  Too late.

  He hunched his shoulders. What did it matter if he learned now? He would never be king. KryTeer had conquered his country. He had no throne and no future.

  Jetekesh lowered his head back to his knees.

  Amantier was no more. He was nothing. In the end Mother had won.

  Yeshton followed the prince’s retreat with his eyes, but he didn’t run after him. Tifen was still somewhere out there in the woods, and it was his job to protect the prince, not Yeshton’s. He turned back to Sir Palan.

  “Do you think the storyteller carries this plague?”

  Sir Palan shook his head. “I don’t think so. He’s pale enough, to be sure, but fevers don’t accompany the White Death. This man is sick in a different way.” He studied Jinji’s face for a moment. “It’s a strange thing, but I’d almost say this man’s case is a matter of too much contained within too little; like if all the countries of Nakania tried to fit within Amantier’s borders. Of course, the country couldn’t contain all that land; it simply couldn’t.”

  “He’s a storyteller true,” said Rille, speaking from her bedroll. Yeshton smiled at his mistress. She smiled back.

  “A storyteller true, is he?” Sir Palan rubbed the stubble on his chin. “A rare gift, if it is so.”

  Rille’s eyes pinned the knight. “It is so.”

  He nodded. “I’ve also heard of you, young mistress of Sage. Emperor Gyath dearly wants your gift for himself.”

  She lowered her eyes.

  The rustle of cloth brought Yeshton’s eyes back to the storyteller. Jinji had sat
up, shoulders stooped forward, eyes clouded. He raised his head and smiled at Yeshton.

  “Where is Prince Jetekesh?” His voice was a whisper.

  “Outside.” Yeshton inhaled. “Tell me truth, Wanderlust. Do you carry the plague of Shing with you?”

  The man was still for a moment, gaunt face blank. He blinked, and a smile twitched at his lips. “Nay, Sir Knight. I do not.”

  “Can I believe you?”

  “As I told you, Yesh—”

  Yeshton raised his hand to cut off Sir Palan. “I need to hear it for myself.”

  Jinji nodded. “Yes, Yeshton. You can believe me. I am ill, but I am not spreading the White Death across Amantier.”

  “You know this for certain?”

  “I do.” His eyes were bright even in the dim hut. His face unguarded. If Jinji was lying, he was the greatest liar Yeshton had ever met.

  The soldier sighed. “Very well. I’ll believe you.”

  Jinji’s smile deepened. “I thank you for your faith.” He pulled the blanket from his legs and struggled to rise.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I must see Prince Jetekesh.” Jinji reached his feet and leaned against the wall, trembling.

  Yeshton climbed to his own feet. “Is that wise?”

  Jinji chuckled. “Wise? That I could not say.” He glanced at Sir Palan and inclined his head. “It is an honor to meet you in the flesh, Sir Knight.”

  “And you, Wanderlust. I’ve heard of your exploits in Shing. You got yourself kicked out of KryTeer headquarters not long ago if the rumors are true.”

  Jinji laughed again. “So I did. It seems the KryTeeran Regent of Shing despises tales of Shinac.”

  “You seem to be unpopular no matter where you go, Master Tale-weaver.”

  “So I do.” Jinji stepped away from the wall, wavered, but steadied himself. “I must find Jetekesh. I will return.”

  He moved gingerly to the hut door and out into the green world. Yeshton watched his back. Would he make it to the prince in his condition?

  “Let him go,” said Rille. “Let him do whatever he pleases.” She pointed to the smoldering embers of the fire. “I’m hungry, Sir Knight. May we eat something?”

  Yeshton stirred up the fire at once. Sir Palan’s unexpected appearance had made him forget his duty to young Rille. Instead he’d explained how he and his companions had come to be so far south. Then Sir Palan had taken a turn to describe his own recent adventures.

  Rille sat beside Yeshton as he poured water into the cooking pot Kyella had sent along with them. The little girl watched Yeshton’s hands for a moment, then she leaned her head against his shoulder.

  “Thank you, Sir Knight, for last night. I was…distraught.”

  He smiled but didn’t glance at her. The girl had trouble expressing herself. No need to make her feel more uncomfortable by acknowledging that fact. He broke apart several roots he’d gathered the previous evening and plopped the pieces into the water to brew up a broth for Jinji. Finished, he rummaged in his satchel until he found some hard biscuits and dried meat. He offered them to Rille.

  “Eat up. I’ll catch fish for the midday meal. I promise.”

  “This will do.” She nibbled the biscuit.

  “I’m very grateful for your patience.” The sound of scraping feet brought Yeshton’s head around.

  Sir Palan stood, brushing off his tattered clothing. He grinned at Yeshton. “I’ll go hunt us a proper meal. There are also a few nests nearby. We can create a respectable repast for your half-starved company yet. Stay here and protect the young lass.” The old knight left the hut, his movements like a prowl.

  He’d always moved that way, as long as Yeshton had known him. Despite his age, Sir Palan didn’t look stiff or weary. Yeshton had to admit to himself that having the legendary knight here, and keen to help, was an immense comfort.

  They might make it through this after all.

  19

  A Storyteller True

  Jetekesh’s head shot up. His ears thundered with the rapid pace of his heartbeat.

  I was asleep? For how long?

  He pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders, eyes flicking to the discarded shirt in the mud.

  Someone’s coming!

  Too late to dress. Was it Tifen padding down the slope behind him?

  Let it be Tifen.

  He leapt to his feet and whirled.

  Jinji Wanderlust stumbled to the bottom of the incline, eyes bright under the morning sun. He wore his usual, detestable, cheerful smile, but a question hung at the corner of his mouth. “Sire, are you well?”

  Jetekesh scoffed. “That’s a rich question coming from you.”

  The storyteller shrugged. “Nevertheless, I ask it.”

  Jetekesh mimicked the shrug. “Should you be up? Aren’t you dying or something?” He stiffened and stepped backward. “Stay away! You’ve got the plague!”

  “Nonsense,” said Jinji in an amiable tone. “My ailment is different.”

  “How do you know?”

  The man laughed airily. “I know, sire. Healers have assured me. I haven’t got the White Death.”

  “You might be lying.”

  Jinji’s mirth faded. “So I might. And if I am, you are already dying, Your Highness. But you may rest assured in the knowledge that I do not have any catching diseases at all.” His lips twitched upward. “I have been accused several times of possessing an infectious smile, if that alarms you, my prince. Though I shouldn’t worry if I were you. You’ve proved immune to its effects on several occasions.”

  Jetekesh shook his head. What a peculiar creature. For a wild moment, he was torn between laughter and indignation. “You show no respect to your king, you know, Wanderlust.”

  Jinji bowed his head. “But I do, sire. I also wish to treat you like you are human. I fear too few people in your life have until now.” He padded forward and rested a hand on Jetekesh’s shoulder. “You have been crying.”

  “No, I haven’t. I’ve been bathing.”

  That patient smile didn’t slip. “May I listen? Perhaps it would help.”

  “How could you help? Does your gift of tale telling lend you some supernatural ability to patch what’s broken? My father is dead. My mother killed him and sold Amantier to our greatest enemy. And why?” A choked laugh broke from his lips. “I certainly couldn’t say. Can you?”

  Jinji’s fingers tightened against his shoulder. Jetekesh met the storyteller’s eyes to find himself snared by their clarity.

  “Queen Bareene is a greedy woman, for that is all she has known. Indeed, it is all she had ever experienced until she came to Rose Palace to wed your father. He tried, oh how he tried, to give her the kindness and affection she had never known from her disinterested and self-absorbed parents and a cruel elder brother. Her husband was the chance she needed to learn a new course; but alas, my dear prince, she chose not to follow that course. Instead she hardened her heart and continued in what she knew. It was familiar and safe. She became the very thing she had always hated, for that is what occurs when we choose the easy way. This is the truth of her life, sad as I am to tell you. But that is her tale, Prince Jetekesh. It is not yours, and her choices needn’t bind you to those consequences.”

  Jetekesh pulled back. “But I do face those consequences, you half-wit. I am throneless. I am alone.”

  “You are among friends.”

  Jetekesh scoffed. “Friends? Princes—and kings—do not have friends.”

  “Your father did when he was a prince, and even as a king.”

  Blood pounded in Jetekesh’s ears. “You know nothing of my father!”

  “With respect, I know much of your father. King Jetekesh the Fourth has a noble spirit, a farseeing eye, and an abiding respect for life. Just as Queen Bareene harbors selfishness and disdain and gluttony within her, so King Jetekesh harbors love and hope and concern for others. Small wonder that you, Jetekesh, struggle so within yourself under such a heritage. Yet your love for
your father abides and strengthens you. It is my hope that you shall choose to walk his ways, rather than Bareene’s.”

  “Silence. Silence! My father is dead. Stop speaking of him like he’s still here. He’s entombed by now. Encased in rock and buried in darkness. I’ll never see him again!” Jetekesh threw his hands over his eyes. “He left me. He left me behind! Why!”

  Jinji’s cool fingers curled around Jetekesh’s wrist. “It is a hard thing to lose a loved one, sire. Words are not enough to comfort you. Time alone may soften your grief into a caressing memory.” He pulled Jetekesh’s hand from his face until their eyes met again. “You are wet, weary, hungry, and heartbroken. But you are with friends, my king, if you will allow us to be such. Then you will not feel so alone. Indeed, you will be warmed a little, and that will ease your suffering. Let us try. Let us relieve the ache if we can.” He tugged on his arm. Those eyes were so bright, so inviting, warm and kind, just like Father’s.

  Jetekesh allowed himself to be pulled toward the hut, toward life and noise, away from the gushing waters that echoed in the hollow of his heart.

  He faltered at the foot of the incline. “My clothes.”

  “I have a clean set of garments you may wear,” said Jinji. “After you are safely in the hut, I will return to the brook to clean what you’ve been wearing and mend the holes. I am not a bad hand with needle and thread.”

  The inside of the hut was dismal after the brilliance outside. Jetekesh stood in the doorway, willing his eyes to adjust. Jinji had slipped by him to rummage through his satchel. Soon he returned, a bundle of clothes in his hands. “Try these. They will be too big, but it will suffice until your other clothes are dry.”