Kingdom at Sea

by Jill Williamson

  Lord Rystan finally let go. Walked off, waving joyfully. “Until dinner, dear sister.”

  Charlon tramped on through the grass. Lamenting yet another complication to her role as Lady Zeroah. She needed to finish her mission, and soon.

  She finally reached the clearing. Beheld the royal tents of King Echad, Prince Wilek, Prince Janek. A large meeting tent in the distance. She nodded at the guards outside and entered Wilek’s tent. Found him in a meeting with his brother Janek. Also present were Sir Jayron, Lord Dacre, and Wilek’s backman.

  Charlon stiffened at the sight of Harton. Run, her heart said.

  But her mind said, No. She had to stay. Had to take her place at Prince Wilek’s side, despite her hatred for his backman.

  The tent looked similar to Wilek’s cabin aboard the Seffynaw. His father’s large desk had been brought over. As had Wilek’s bed, two longchairs, several stools, a sideboard table, and a changing screen. The princes were standing a great deal apart from the others. She focused on their conversation. They were discussing traitors. Again.

  “Yes, I know many of them,” Janek said, perusing a scroll.

  “But you didn’t know they planned to attack Father and me?”

  “Of course not! I have had more than enough trouble from the mutinous behavior of my acquaintances. I cannot help it if they are zealous on my behalf and choose to break the law. I want nothing to do with their treason. And I have never encouraged it.”

  “Why do they persist? We have no land to rule. No Castle Everton or Seacrest to fight over. We have nothing but ships.”

  Janek shrugged. “I have no idea what goes on in their deranged minds.”

  “They shall all of them be executed before we leave the islan—” Wilek noticed her. “Lady Zeroah, good midday. I did not know you had come to the island. Why aren’t you enjoying first sleep?”

  She curtsied. “I was eager to have solid ground under my feet. And my tent is not yet assembled. Would you mind if I waited here?”

  “Not at all. Your brother Lord Rystan is on the island. I will call him.”

  “I have already seen him.”

  “Oh, good. You, uh . . . have none of your maids with you?”

  “I left them at the tent. To see it properly set up.” She winced inside, hoping that sounded noble.

  “Surely you lovers don’t want me about,” Janek said, walking toward her and the exit. “We will give you some privacy.” He stopped before Charlon. She curtsied to him. “What a pretty dress, lady.” A glance to Wilek over his shoulder. “My brother is a lucky man.”

  “Janek, we are not through yet,” Wilek said.

  “I’ve told you I know nothing of this situation. Kill them all, if you feel you must. They’ve brought it upon themselves.” Janek inclined his head to Charlon. “Lady Zeroah.”

  She curtsied again. “Good midday, Sâr Janek,” she said, regarding him thoughtfully as he quitted the tent. Sir Jayron and Lord Dacre followed him. Perhaps Mreegan was right. She had likely put her efforts into snaring the wrong man.

  To Charlon’s great relief, Harton slipped out with the other men. Wilek did not notice this until the door curtain fell closed. He sighed heavily. Walked toward his desk, which was laden with scrolls. He pushed them aside. Looking for something. “Allow me to ring Harton back, lady. It isn’t proper for us to be unchaperoned.”

  Charlon spied the bell on her side of the table and snatched it up. It betrayed her with a soft clink that caught Wilek’s attention. He reached out. She tucked the bell behind her back.

  “Sâr Wilek, please. We are both adults. We are betrothed. If not for the Five Woes, we would have been wed these past few weeks. Let us not stand on ceremony. I simply want to sit with you. Talk without the awkwardness of a chaperone. Especially your backman.”

  “I don’t see why Harton bothers you, lady. He has always served me loyally, and was a great help in this midday’s attack.”

  “An attack? Who would dare?”

  “We think they were a part of Rogedoth’s mantic cult.”

  Oh, the dreaded cult again. Prince Wilek was obsessed with it. Charlon decided to press more against Harton. “Are you so certain Master Harton is not part of this cult?”

  “I am positive.”

  “But you said he lied to you. Lying to a prince is treason.”

  “Everyone deserves a second chance, lady.”

  Not Harton. “Perhaps, but some things are unforgivable.”

  “Did Harton interfere with you in some way?”

  Oh, if he only knew. But perhaps this was how she might be rid of him. She asked Magon to help her produce tears. “He has never done anything obvious, Your Highness. It’s the way he looks at me.”

  Wilek stepped toward her, brow pinched. “How?”

  She leaned against his arm. Rested her head on his shoulder. “Let us talk of something else. Choose a date to marry. I want to bear you a son. So that no man will ever be tempted to raise a sword against you.”

  “I have told you that we will marry once we reach land.”

  “But we are on land this moment!”

  “True, but I’m afraid we cannot stay here. It is too small. We plan to leave a colony and continue north. Our hope is that this island is the first of many. We might find our new home any day. And I promise you that I will put our—”

  And then he came back inside. Charlon stiffened. Get away, her heart said. Protect within.

  “Forgive me, Your Highness,” Harton said, glancing briefly at Charlon. Not recognizing her of course. “The king is asking to see you.”

  “I must go.” Wilek took Charlon’s hands. Looked into her eyes. “Lady, we will marry within a week of finding our new home. That is all I can promise for now.” He kissed both of her hands and released them. Walked away with him.

  And Charlon was left alone. Again.

  What kind of a man refused the pleasures of the flesh? If Charlon had not felt the passion in Prince Wilek’s kiss back when she wore Lady Lebetta’s mask, she might believe that he preferred men.

  But no. He preferred his memories. Charlon doubted he would ever get over that Lebetta woman.

  Enough. Charlon was finished. Finished wasting time. Finished waiting. She would visit Prince Janek. Tonight.

  Hinck

  Just look at it!” Janek cried. “My biggest sandvine. Dead.”

  Hinck jolted awake, pulse pounding, disoriented. He was reclining on a longchair in Janek’s tent. Ah, he’d dozed off again. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up a pawn in a nasty prank.

  He sat up and swung his legs off the side, hoping such a position would keep him alert. Janek’s tent felt empty with only six people inside. In the past, when Janek held court on a journey, his tent had been filled with dozens of jubilant carousers. Now, besides Hinck, Janek had only his concubines, the Honored Ladies Pia and Mattenelle, who sat on mats by his feet in their traditional two-piece gowns; his Rurekan shield, Sir Jayron, who paced behind Janek, foreboding with his henna-tattooed head and sculpted beard; and Kamran DanSâr, the king’s stray son, who lay on another longchair, smoking a poured-stone pipe.

  All faced Janek, who sat on a wicker throne, holding a potted plant on one knee. The Second Arm of Armania had lost much in the past three weeks, the dearest of which was the desertion of his closest friend, Oli Agoros, who now did nothing but drink wine and moan about the loss of his arm. But Hinck could hardly blame him for that.

  “I had hoped freshwater from the island stream would revive it,” Janek continued, “but I fear it’s too late. I now have only one sandvine left on board the ship. One.”

  “What if you planted this one here on the island, lord?” Lady Pia suggested.

  He frowned at her. “And leave it behind?”

  “With time and rain and rich soil for its roots to grow deep, it might yet live, eventually go to seed, and populate the island with sandvines.”

  Lady Pia never ceased to impress Hinck with her quick thinking. She always seem
ed to know just what to say to appease Janek.

  Lady Mattenelle was the opposite, always moaning and fawning over whichever male was closest, and using her beauty to get whatever she wanted. “I think it’s an omen,” she said, adding a new blade of grass to the mat she was weaving. “We are going to die, and these ships are but massive death boats carrying us all to Shamayim.”

  “None of that,” Janek snapped. “I am sick of such talk. If I hear another word of dying, I shall send you to the pole.”

  “There is no pole at present,” Kamran said. “If you must punish her, send her to me.”

  Janek ignored him. He’d never sent his concubines to the pole, though he had done so to his friends, who shockingly always returned to his company afterward, reticent and as loyal as ever.

  “I itch for root,” Janek said. “It is not as bad as it once was, but the craving lingers.”

  “Wine helps,” Kamran said, taking a swig from the goblet in his hand.

  “Shall I fetch you more?” Lady Pia asked.

  “Yes, do,” Janek said.

  “Is there no root to be had on the entire ship?” Hinck asked as Lady Pia rose and refilled Janek’s goblet with wine.

  “Oli always had a vial,” Lady Mattenelle said.

  “Do not speak his name!” Janek yelled.

  The tent fell quiet. Lady Mattenelle set her full attention on weaving her mat, as if someone else had mentioned the deserter’s name.

  Sir Jayron bravely broke the silence. “Sâr Wilek’s mantic advisor had a vast amount of evenroot, but no one has been able to find it since the woman was killed.”

  Janek began his performing laugh, the one that rose slowly in volume until he made enough noise to be practically yelling. This always meant he was about to reveal some grand secret. Oftentimes these were completely ridiculous. But every once in a while, he really did shock.

  All eyes watched the prince, who was nursing a confident smile. He got up, set his dying sandvine on the floor beside his throne, and walked to his bed. “Sir Jayron told me how Wilek brought the old woman to Canden, how she used her little creature to search for evenroot.”

  “That was how he caught the Pontiff and your mother with root,” Kamran said. “Lau and Yohthehreth as well.”

  Janek crouched at the head of his feather mattress that lay on the floor. He picked up a lidded straw basket, stood, and started back to his chair. Hinck had seen him with that basket many times in the last week. Figured it held seeds or something related to gardening.

  “Fortunate that the old woman didn’t start in my chambers in Canden,” Janek said. “Fortunate that you warned me, Sir Jayron. Fortunate that when I heard of the woman’s death, I went to her chamber with my empty root vial and waited until Errp came to me.” He lifted the lid, and a pale lizard scampered onto Janek’s wrist. Its tongue darted out, tasting Janek’s skin, and then it crawled up his arm and stopped on his shoulder.

  “You have that thing?” Sir Jayron grinned. “Sâr Wilek still has guards looking for it.”

  “How did you know its name?” Lady Pia asked.

  “Did you kill her?” This from Kamran.

  “I cannot reveal my sources, Lady Pia,” Janek said. “And no, Kamran. I am not a murderer, like you. But someone on board the Seffynaw has the old woman’s evenroot. And I want it. Errp will help me find it. Perhaps even find her killer and appease my brother. But I need a reason to search.”

  “You’re a sâr,” Sir Jayron said. “You don’t need a reason to do what you want.”

  “Please,” Janek said. “These days I must walk on glass around the Heir and break nothing. He nearly arrested me again today because of Fonu and his idiotic plans. Attacking when my father had doubled the guard. What a fool.”

  “We’re all good with swords,” Kamran said. “Form us into a squadron to seek out those dastardly supporters you claim to know nothing about.”

  Janek grinned. “And which of you will I execute first?”

  “Fonu, who else?” Kamran said, blowing out a stream of smoke from his pipe.

  “You won’t ever catch anyone truly guilty,” Sir Jayron said. “But it would give you permission to search cabins, and in doing so, you’re sure to find someone hiding something.”

  “You must call yourself Master of the Order,” Lady Pia said.

  “Master of the Order of the Sandvine,” Hinck said. “Lady Pia could sew us all silk sandvine blossoms to pin upon our breasts, medals of honor to wear as we seek to instill peace on board the Seffynaw, support Sâr Wilek as Heir, and stamp out any traitors to his name.”

  A spark lit in Janek’s eyes. “All while I am gathering evenroot to myself. And when I have it, I will have power over them all. Oh, I like this very much.”

  “But will Sâr Wilek allow it?” Kamran asked.

  A slow smile spread across Janek’s face. “He will if I first gain permission from our Father. I will think more on this. Right now you must all help me plant my dying sandvine. Perhaps, as Lady Pia has suggested, it will take root or go to seed and next spring bring about a fresh crop on Bakurah Island for its colonists.”

  “Good evening.” Fonu Edekk entered the tent, his presence bringing a curious silence over the group. He was a short, muscular man with black skin, full lips, and a big nose.

  “What are you doing here?” Janek demanded.

  Fonu strode over to Janek’s chair, hands behind his back. “I came to speak to you.”

  “Most involved in today’s attack were captured,” Janek said, “though your name was not on Wilek’s list of rebels. Where have you been hiding yourself?”

  “In the forest. I’ve had a message from Moon Fang.”

  Janek drained the rest of his goblet of wine. “Of course you have. What does he want now?”

  “He is sending a boat to fetch us. To take us to his ship.”

  “Ridiculous!” Janek said. “I am not going anywhere.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why shouldn’t I turn traitor on my father and side with his enemy? You really need ask?”

  “He has made himself king of Sarikar,” Fonu said. “You are his Heir.”

  “To rule what nation? Armania is on the Seffynaw, not on whatever ship my grandfather stole. How can he even ask this of me? After he took Timmons from me and left me to rot in prison. I must appease my father, not anger him further. Had you succeeded in your endeavor, we might be having a very different discussion at present. But you failed. So away from me. I want nothing to do with your mutinous plots.”

  “After all we’ve done to forward your claim, you would abandon us?” Fonu asked.

  Janek picked up his potted sandvine from the floor. “No one consulted me on this foolish plan. Yet you expect me to stick out my neck to help you clean it up? Impossible. Your last effort to put me on the throne left me in a holding cell for three weeks. I won’t risk myself again for your reckless ambitions. You may leave. You’re no longer welcome here.”

  “Yet Kamran gets to stay?” Fonu asked. “He is one of us. And Nellie and Jay—”

  “Kamran was wise enough to fix his own problems without groveling to me. Get up, all of you. We must put my sandvine in the ground.” Janek carried the plant past Fonu and out of the tent.

  After returning to Janek’s tent, everyone resumed their former positions except for Janek, who fell back on his bed and stretched out.

  “I’m hungry,” he said, patting his stomach. “Kamran, go find me something to eat. Pia, rub my feet. They’re sore from all that walking.”

  Lady Pia walked to his bedside, knelt, and removed Janek’s boots. Hinck couldn’t imagine how the lady managed it so often with a smile on her face.

  Kamran returned and Janek demanded that he, Hinckdan, and Lady Mattenelle act out a play. Lady Mattenelle hated playacting because she was terrible at it. Kamran had been acting out plays for years in the court of the king. Hinck was new to the sport, but he’d fared well enough at spying so far. Acting was just more of the same. P
lus he enjoyed embellishing his lines to make them more dramatic. Janek seemed to like it too because he always gave Hinck the heroic roles and made Kamran the villain.

  Hinck caught Lady Pia staring as he waxed poetic in the role of Athos, god of justice. She often watched him closely when he was acting, and it made him nervous. Of the two concubines, most men fawned over Lady Mattenelle, a goddess of a woman, to be sure, with her voluptuous body, huge amber eyes, long coils of black-and-gold hair, pouty lips, diamond nose ring, and a helpless way of talking that made men want to open doors and canisters for her.

  Lady Pia, on the other hand, had an athletic body with just enough muscle to make her intimidating. She had dark brown eyes, a black onyx nose ring, and wore her hair straight and cut at a circular angle, starting at her left shoulder and tapering around to her right elbow. Everything about her seemed strong and fierce, yet she served Janek with the utmost humility and her alto voice sounded like music.

  A guard pulled aside the tent flap for a maid carrying a platter of food. It was Shemme, Cook Hara’s daughter. She wore a black dress under her apron, still mourning the loss of Kell, her betrothed, who had died in the Woes.

  “Put it here on the end of my bed,” Janek said, his devious gaze locked on the girl. “What is your name, maid?”

  Shemme kept her gaze on the dish. “I am Shemme, Your Highness.”

  She grasped the lid, but Janek set his hand over hers. Hinck’s stomach lurched. Surely Janek wouldn’t pursue Shemme? She was pretty in a gangly, young sort of way. Hinck’s age and terribly shy.

  “Your skin has a red tint. Have you Magonian blood in your veins?”

  Her eyes flashed wide and her bottom lip trembled. “I don’t know what you mean.”