Kingdom at Sea

by Jill Williamson

  Wilek’s neck tingled. “Is that a threat?”

  “No. A warning. With a mantic seeking to harm you, I am the best man to keep you safe. My knowledge of mantics gives me insight none of your other soldiers have.”

  That was the main reason Wilek had decided to keep Harton on board the Seffynaw. “I am not dismissing you from the guard, Harton. Should I have need of your mantic expertise, I will call on you.” He held out his hand. “The ring, please?”

  Harton pulled off the shield ring and tossed it on the desk, where it clunked and rolled to a stop. “What happens now?”

  “I am reassigning you to the Queen’s Guard under Captain Veralla.”

  “But that’s a demotion!”

  “It cannot be helped.” Wilek wasn’t certain he should keep Harton aboard at all and trusted him to no one but Rayim. “Report to Captain Veralla for your new assignment. And thank you, Harton. You have been a friend to me, and I will not forget that.”

  Harton looked as if he doubted the veracity of Wilek’s words. He bowed curtly, spun on his heel, and marched away.

  Wilek dismissed the guards and sat staring at the ring. What did it say about a sâr who could find no shield to protect him?

  Sands! He needed to appoint a new High Shield. He wished he could have Oli, but that wouldn’t do. Promoting Novan made the most sense. The young man had only been with Wilek for a week, but he had been true bringing Kal’s message of Miss Onika across the crumbling Five Realms. Wilek would need a backman from a family he could trust, though. No more promoting outsiders. Lady Zeroah’s brother, Lord Rystan, came to mind.

  A knock and Dendrick’s voice drew his attention. “Your Highness?”

  Wilek looked up. “What is it?”

  “Sâr Janek’s Order of the Sandvine has discovered that the first mate Quen has been using his cabin as a brothel. He is paying women to entertain men there and keeping a cut of the profits.”

  Wilek groaned and rubbed his eyes. “Arrest him and put it on the agenda for the next council meeting.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “If there’s nothing else, Dendrick, I need an hour’s peace. Can you see that I get it?”

  “I will stand outside the door myself, Your Highness.”

  By the time Janek arrived, all of the anger inside Wilek had cooled to numbness. He studied his brother as Janek slouched in the chair before the king’s desk. The ridged brow that he’d inherited from his grandfather. Sleepy eyes as if he had reveled long into the night. A short beard in the Rurekan style, inspired, no doubt, by Sir Jayron. The small scar on the end of his nose that Randmuir Khal’s daughter had given in answer to his affections. Janek wore his hair braided in five warrior locks, a tradition common to humble warriors who did not wish to flaunt their killings. But Janek had never been in battle, and this one choice exemplified all that he truly was: a vain, selfish deceiver.

  “You summoned me, oh important Heir?” he asked.

  “I did,” Wilek said, confident in his authority over his brother. “It is my understanding that you have a confession for me.”

  “Really? And what am I confessing?”

  “Bakurah Island. Think hard.”

  “Ah.” Janek had the decency to lower his head. “Wil, listen, I didn’t go after her. I swear. I never would have. But she came to me.”

  “And if your wife came to me? You’d be fine with that?”

  He chuckled. “Be reasonable, brother. My wife is only six.”

  He would turn this into a joke. Every muscle strained against vaulting over the desk to strangle Janek. But Wilek calmed himself. Violence would make him feel better, but the truth would hurt Janek far more. He put his hands on the desk and leaned toward his brother, took a calming breath. “Lady Zeroah has been kept prisoner, locked in a trunk these past four weeks.”

  Janek’s face creased in confusion. “That’s not possible.”

  “Oh, I know it sounds like the tale of a bard, but it is possible. Trevn and Miss Mielle found her just this midday. She was put there by a Magonian mantic seeking to conceive a child with Hadar blood.”

  Janek’s expression fell away slowly and his eyes grew large as comprehension dawned. “She was not Lady Zeroah.”

  “No, she was not,” Wilek said, greatly satisfied to see that Janek could experience mortification. “Dear Lady Zeroah has been greatly abused, and now, thanks to you, she has been freed from her prison to a tarnished reputation. But that, though beyond despicable, pales at the notion that your vainglory might have given the Magonians a weapon to use against Armania.”

  Janek swallowed, speechless for the first time ever, Wilek surmised.

  “You see my side of things now, do you?” Wilek asked.

  Janek winced. “I cannot imagine she conceived a child.”

  “Do not dare brush this off!” Wilek yelled. “That is all. Get out.”

  Janek stared at his hands, contrite, perhaps, for now. Wilek doubted it would last. After a moment Janek stood, walked in silence to the door, then turned back.

  “I have been useless. I see that now. Beyond useless. I have risked the safety of Armania, and for that I am deeply grieved. I will make this up, Wil. I’ll find a way to help you with the ruling of the realm. I am the Second Arm, after all. And I can begin by weeding out any who stand against you and setting them on the right path.”

  Wilek had expected indolent mockery of the severity of his behavior. So while Janek’s remorseful attitude surprised him, he did not trust it.

  “I should like to see that,” Wilek said, knowing he would ask Lady Pia to keep him apprised of Janek’s every move to help “with the ruling of the realm.”

  Charlon

  Magon carried Charlon from the Seffynaw. Together they flew like birds. Through the twilight sky. Over the blackish Northsea. Skimmed raucous waves. The splashing heights of water drenched Charlon. Fully herself again. Her small feet had lost Lady Zeroah’s silk shoes over the ocean. The black gown was too tight and too long. Now hung wet and heavy.

  Charlon did not care. She marveled at Magon’s power. Wondered what would become of her. But she did not ask. The goddess did not seem in a mood to talk.

  Charlon felt her ahvenrood stores draining. She had taken a full dose this morning. Magon must have used it. To save them. To fly. And all Charlon’s ahvenrood had been left behind in Lady Zeroah’s sideboard. She had only her flask left.

  They approached the nearest ship. It could not be the Vespara. Mreegan kept it far from the fleet. Magon soared toward the stern deck, and the ship’s name became visible.

  Rafayah.

  Magon set Charlon on the wood planks of the stern deck. Lady Zeroah’s gown pooled at her feet. Charlon felt weak. People were scattered about, but none seemed to notice them. Magon had made them invisible. It would not last long. Charlon needed to purge.

  She fell to her knees. Lady Zeroah’s soppy black gown bunched underneath her. “I have failed you,” she said aloud. “Failed the task you set before me.”

  “Yes,” Magon said. “You disappoint me.”

  Fear of losing Magon welled within. Make her stay, her heart said. Charlon wanted to. Desperately. “Do not abandon me,” she said.

  “Why should I remain? You have lost your power over Armania.”

  “I could be with child,” Charlon said, hopeful that her time with Prince Janek had not been for nothing.

  “You are not,” Magon said.

  Despair fell heavy. Charlon wept. “Will you heal me, at least? Of the ahvenrood?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I love you. Take me back to the Chieftess and I will serve you loyally forever.”

  “You don’t have enough strength in you to power such a spell.”

  “I have more!” Charlon sat down. Pulled up her skirt to her leg sheath. Removed the flask. It was full. Enough root juice for a week of major spells.

  Magon narrowed her eyes. “Your ways are not my ways. And my ways are not yet compl
ete.”

  Hope surged within. Charlon dared not speak. For fear the goddess would abandon her.

  “I will not cast you out,” Magon said. “Not yet. But you must be punished.”

  Dread pinched her heart. Charlon had been punished many times. Run, her heart said. But Charlon must stay. If she was to please Magon.

  “You will remain here. Do not try to use your ahvenrood, for I will not answer to heal you until your exile is complete.”

  “How long will it last?”

  “Until I say it is over. Find the women’s tent. Volunteer to serve as a midwife. There you will be safe from harm.”

  “But I know nothing of midwifery,” Charlon said.

  “You may cast one last spell to give yourself this knowledge,” Magon said. “Purge afterwards, and I will heal you before I go.”

  Charlon fell to her knees on the stern deck. “Your mercy is great, goddess. I am forever in your debt.”

  “Indeed you are. But I believe you are worthy of it.”

  Charlon cast her spell. Depleted every bit of ahvenrood within. Then she purged the poison to the Great Goddess. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She did not know. Would Magon come back for her? She had no choice but to obey.

  “Trust me, and prove your allegiance by remaining faithful,” Magon said as Charlon came back from the haze. “If you do this, I will return for you when the time is right.”

  Magon vanished.

  Charlon became visible then and nearly upset a sailor carrying a length of rope looped over one arm.

  “Get out the way, woman!” he spat. “What you doing on the deck? You hurt?”

  Charlon stood, gathered up her long skirt, and set off in search of the midwives.

  Hinck

  Hinck sat in the corner of Janek’s cabin, fingering the silk sandvine Lady Pia had given him. He had never expected Janek to like his ridiculous idea, though it was good that he had been included. At least he could keep Wilek informed if Janek took things too far as Master of the Order of the Sandvine, which he was certain to do.

  Already today the Second Arm of Armania had bypassed common decency by inviting Agmado Harton into his circle. Wilek’s former shield and backman had been released from the Heir’s employ, yet Janek welcomed the man warmly, bidding Lady Pia to give him a goblet of wine and pin a white silk sandvine to his uniform.

  “So she only looked like Lady Zeroah?” Kamran asked Janek. “But she was really a mantic?” He looked to Harton. “And your sister?”

  “That’s right,” Harton said.

  “So I didn’t lose our bet,” Kamran said to Janek, “because that woman was not the real Lady Zeroah.”

  Janek sighed. “Yes, yes. But I might back out of this bet altogether. I saw Lady Zeroah just this morning. She is skeletal.” He shuddered.

  Of all the . . . Hinck asked a question before he said something he would regret. “What did the mantic impostor want?”

  Janek took a long drink from his cup. “To get with child, Wilek says.”

  “That was why the Magonians abducted him before,” Harton added. “They want a child of Hadar blood to fulfill some ancient prophecy.”

  “And it didn’t matter which Hadar sired this child,” Janek said. “My father or even Trevn would have sufficed. Apparently Wilek, ever loyal to tradition, would not lie with his intended until they were married, so she came to me.”

  “I’m sure your reputation gave her hope,” Kamran said.

  “I tell you, she was nothing special,” Janek said. “Of all the things I’ve heard about Magonian women, I had expected more.”

  Hinck got up and carried his goblet of wine to the sideboard, where an array of food had been laid out. He wanted none of it. He’d just needed some space from Janek and those like him.

  Lady Pia approached with the bottle of wine. “Can I fill your cup, Lord Dacre?”

  His goblet was still half full, but he held it out to her, admiring the way her long earrings dangled against the curve of her neck and shoulder. She filled his goblet, then set down the bottle and reached for him.

  His hand trembled as she opened the folds of silk on the sandvine she’d pinned to his breast. “Yours is different,” she said softly. “If you open the petals like this, it forms the exact shape of the moon we saw on Bakurah Island that night.”

  She let go. And as the petals folded back in place, she picked up the wine bottle and went to fill Sir Jayron’s cup.

  Hinck noticed his hand was wet. He’d been shaking so badly he sloshed wine over the side of his cup. Why was he always such a feather heart around beautiful women? He drained enough of the wine that it couldn’t spill, cleaned his hand, then returned to his seat in the corner.

  “The rest of you should know that it was Master Harton who thought to look for Errp when that old Teaka woman was killed,” Janek was saying. “And this morning he told me his sister left a large store of evenroot behind when she fled the ship.”

  “In Lady Zeroah’s cabin?” Lady Pia asked.

  “I believe so,” Harton said. “But since I no longer work for the Heir, I have no reason to search her cabin.”

  “Indeed,” Janek said. “So the Order of the Sandvine must find a reason, and soon. I want that evenroot, Master Harton. And I will rely on your expertise in searches to aid my cause.”

  Inolah

  Inolah received word that breakfast would be served on the stern deck of the Seffynaw. She arrived with Vallah and found only three ladies eating: Miss Onika, Sârah Hrettah, and Miss Amala. Around the table, four times as many male guardsmen stood sentry, Kal among them. No sign of her cousin, Oli Agoros, who had promised to meet her here. How vexing.

  “Hrettah, how fares Rosârah Valena?” Inolah asked.

  “My mother is unchanged,” Hrettah said. “She fears the hard little fruits from the island made her sick.”

  “I ate the fruit and do not feel ill,” Miss Onika said.

  “Nor I,” Inolah said.

  “Janek believes some of the commoners brought several illnesses aboard,” Hrettah said. “He and his Order are investigating the matter.”

  “What qualifications does Sâr Janek have to make such inquiries?” Kal asked. “He is not a physician.”

  This comment steered the conversation toward another concern with the Order of the Sandvine, Sâr Janek’s supposed contribution to maintaining safety on board the ship. Apparently they had searched Miss Onika’s cabin for evenroot, much to Kal’s displeasure. Miss Amala further annoyed Kal by praising Sâr Janek’s new order. Inolah would have enjoyed the debate between Kal and his ward if she weren’t growing ever more concerned about the Duke of Canden’s absence. The moment breakfast ended, she left Vallah with Rashah in Rosârah Valena’s cabin, then set out with her guardsmen to find her cousin.

  Oli Agoros had a master’s cabin on the main deck. She knocked on his door. When no answer came, she tried the handle and found it unlocked.

  “Please wait here,” she told her guards, then went inside and closed the door behind her. The room was dark and smelled of dirty laundry, tobacco, and wine. Discarded clothing covered the floor—all male, thankfully. It only now occurred to her that her cousin might not have been alone.

  But alone he was. She found him sitting on the floor under his hanging cot, leaning back against the bulkhead. The cot swung just over his head with the rocking of the ship. He was asleep, shirtless, gripped a sword in his left hand, and held a bronze canister pinched between his side and what remained of his right arm.

  What in all the Northsea had he been doing?

  Though she felt like an ogler, she studied his severed arm. Oli was a fit young man. His chest, shoulders, abdomen, and left arm were muscular. But what remained of his right arm was much thinner than the left. Surprisingly she saw no evidence of stitches or even scarring. The entire nub was smooth skin, as if he’d been born that way. A brand had been burned onto the upper arm in the shape of a rune. Strange. As was the way he’d fallen asleep holding t
he canister.

  His wooden arm lay on the floor by his legs. She picked it up, intrigued. Someone had carved a hand and arm of dark brown wood. It turned at the elbow, permanently bent, and ended where a muslin sleeve had been glued to the wood. This Oli normally wore on what remained of his arm. There were ties at the top to secure it around the upper arm and neck. These were sweat-stained and creased from heavy use.

  Inolah set the arm on the sideboard, then turned back to her charge. She found two full bottles of wine on his desk and a third on his sideboard, all unopened. She saw no signs that he had been drinking, nor did she find a pipe or any tobacco, despite its lingering smell.

  Though she hated to wake him, she decided she must. No grown man should be sleeping well into the morning like this. But with that sword in his hand, she must be careful.

  “Oh, Duke? Oli? Wake up, please.” When he didn’t move, she gripped the wall for balance and squatted slowly, which was becoming harder to do with each passing day of her pregnancy. She picked up two tunics and threw them at his face, one at a time, while slapping her palm on the wall and yelling, “Wake up, Oli. Right now!”

  He gasped, his eyes flashed open, and he lifted his sword. It wobbled in his hand, and she pressed back against the door, uncertain whether he lacked the strength, stamina, or skill with his left hand to use it well. His eyes rolled in his head as if he were trying to see her but couldn’t. The whites were red and his pupils very large. Her heart sank. He’d consumed something. But what?

  Time to disarm him. She slipped past his legs and easily took the sword right out of his hand.

  “Hey!” he yelled. “Give that back!” Yet he did no more to retrieve it but move his eyes.

  She dropped the sword into his hanging cot, then stepped over his legs to his right side and took the canister.

  This made him howl. “Nooo! That’s mine! I need it. Give it back.” He reached with his good arm and looked for her with eyes that could not seem to find her, though she stood but three paces away.

  She fought back a groan. She had seen this before. Not the whining, but the rolling eyes and the lethargy.