King of the Rising

by Kacen Callender

  Voshell nods her acknowledgment of my respect. “I’ll await your return.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  All of the islanders from Hans Lollik Helle come onto land, and the villagers of Årud Helle welcome the newcomers into their homes. With Voshell’s blessing, suspicion shifts to a sense of celebration. The islanders act like they might if the war had already been won. It reminds me of the nights on Hans Lollik Helle before the attack, guards sitting around their fires to drink and laugh. A feast is prepared despite the strict rations Voshell has had on the island. There’s seared fish and boiled cassava and fresh coconut water, goat stew and roasted fruits. She claims our arrival is a worthy exception and promises that the newcomers will have to work hard in the fields to make up for it. There’s song and dance, and Voshell stands at the fire to tell the children the story of the woman who dared to brave the spirit of the sea. Frey has been captured by the children, and Anke crawls on top of him with all the others, screaming and laughing, already comfortable in what will be her new home.

  The celebrations will go on into the night, but I can feel exhaustion creeping through me. Kjerstin isn’t as tired, but she decides she’ll also retire. We’re given one of the last of the Fjern houses still standing with a straw bed still intact. I’ve enjoyed being here in the village tonight. It gives me hope to see that, with all we’ve survived, we can still find joy with each other and ourselves.

  The inside of the house is barren. The walls hold no decorations and the wooden floors rot into dirt. There’s only one cast iron stove that’s left ashes on the ceiling, where it looks like a fire might have started before it was put out. This is where a Fjern would have lived—someone who was not one of the kongelig, someone with little wealth but who still believed that they were worth more than me and Kjerstin and any of the other islanders. I feel content, that this Fjern is dead while I am not. I’m content that the Fjern would’ve been enraged and disgusted to see that I’ve taken residence in their house. Kjerstin lies down on the straw bed while I sit on the floor with my back against a wall. We sit in silence for a long while. There’s a lot that Kjerstin doesn’t like to share about herself. There are depths to her and layers that I’m curious about, but I don’t want to enter—not without her knowledge, not without her permission. She notices my quiet and guesses my discomfort.

  “Were you always able to see into people the way that you can now?” she asks me.

  I admit that the kraft only came to me recently through Sigourney Rose. “My ability stops the power of others and takes that power for myself. I’ve essentially borrowed her kraft.” I don’t tell Kjerstin that the bond between me and Sigourney has grown stronger, or that we’ve been connected after Sigourney left the royal island. Sigourney hasn’t attempted to reach out to me, not since the moment she told Lothar Niklasson that she would betray me. I’m not sure if she’s done what she promised. I’m not sure if she’s even still alive. I can’t risk attempting to connect with her again.

  Kjerstin notes that it seems I’m always connected to that name. “It’s like you can’t escape her,” she says. “And I’m not entirely sure that you want to.”

  She thinks of the time I had spent as Sigourney Rose’s personal guard and slave—thinks about the fact that I have spared Sigourney’s life multiple times, and that I would disappear so that I could visit Sigourney in her prison. Kjerstin’s accusation sits between us. This isn’t one of her false allegations that I have shared Sigourney Rose’s bed, or that I have loyalty to the woman because she was once my master. This is something that feels a little closer to fact—one that I wasn’t expecting to examine. Kjerstin worries that she might have been too pointed with her words. She apologizes.

  “I’ve always been too blunt,” she says.

  “It’s a strength. You aren’t distracted from the truth.”

  “Why are you so drawn to her, Løren?” Kjerstin asks me. “Why did you always show her mercy on Hans Lollik Helle?”

  It embarrasses and shames me to say the words aloud. But I also sense how Kjerstin resents that I feel all of her secrets and desires, but she knows nothing of mine. It’s a risk to tell her the truth. Kjerstin could easily share with Malthe and Geir and Olina that I’ve admitted to feeling drawn to Sigourney Rose, who is a traitor and enemy of the islands. She could use this to prove that I should not be the leader in this revolution. A part of me wishes she would, but this is a responsibility I must keep. If I’m not the leader, then Malthe will inevitably take control and destroy all of our efforts for freedom by either losing the war, or winning and becoming another king who will enslave his own people.

  I’ve never been able to lie, so I tell Kjerstin the truth. “Our kraft can allow us to see into others. Sigourney’s is much more powerful than mine. Her ability lets her understand another person fully, as if she is that person. I have enough power to see another person like I might know a friend. I learn their histories and wants and pains and struggles. Sigourney’s kraft—her connection to me, and mine to her—has made it easy to sympathize with her.”

  There’s more that I don’t tell Kjerstin, because this feels more difficult to say aloud. It isn’t just the kraft connecting us. I can see some of Sigourney in myself. I can see the way that she is trapped between two worlds and has never truly felt accepted by either. It’s a feeling that I understand well. I understand the pain of being rejected by my own people. Sigourney has done nothing to earn the respect and love of us. I can’t say she doesn’t deserve the hatred islanders show her. But it’s still a pain I understand when she looks to us and sees that hatred. It’s the same pain I felt in the quarters as a boy, hearing the other islanders around me whisper that I can’t be trusted because I’m the master’s son.

  “It’s selfishness that makes you want to save Sigourney, then,” Kjerstin tells me. “Selfishness, because a part of you thinks that if you can save Sigourney, then you’re also saving yourself. If she is accepted, then you will finally be accepted, too. If she is redeemed, then you will find redemption for your own mistakes.”

  Defensiveness makes me want to argue. But in that moment, I also realize the sudden flourish of emotion is a sign of truth. Kjerstin notices my silence but doesn’t say any more on the matter. She closes her eyes as if she means to sleep and asks me instead what the next plan will be. Voshell and Årud Helle will only help us in the war if we have the help of at least one hundred more guards. Ludjivik Helle can’t offer this number, and not half of that is on Hans Lollik Helle. I also know we’ll have more islanders like Zeger to contend with. I’d been naive in thinking that everyone—all of our people—would unite against the Fjern for the common goal of peace and freedom. But I see that some will always be more attracted to the idea of power. I’d told myself I would always show mercy to my own people—that we’re deserving of being saved. I’m beginning to fear that this is a promise I won’t always be able to keep.

  We say our goodbyes to the villagers of Årud Helle, who line up in the early morning light. Anke doesn’t want me to leave her here on the island. She wants to return to Hans Lollik Helle with us, to fight and train as a guard. She’s only satisfied when I tell her that she’ll be needed soon, but only if she trains here on Årud Helle to become the best guard that she can.

  The trip to Ludjivik Helle is a full day and night. Though we’re still in the islands of Hans Lollik, the water seems darker with sand and dirt, the sky gray with clouds. The air is colder here, the trade-winds breeze making me shiver as we row from the ship to land. When we arrive to the rocky shore, splashing into the shallows sharp with jagged shells and dead coral, we aren’t greeted with any survivors. I worry that we’ll soon find another site of massacre. We begin to walk. I’d been to Ludjivik Helle once before with Sigourney Rose. She brought me here under the orders of her king so that she could execute an old and sickly man who had threatened betrayal to the kongelig. He was a Fjern who was disgusted by islanders, so I didn’t care that he died. I felt the same pleasure tha
t Sigourney did when she made the man choke, lungs bursting in desperation for air. It interested me that Sigourney spent so much time trying to convince herself that she did only what was necessary, absolving her of what the Fjern would consider sin under the eyes of their gods. She committed a sin. She killed a man. Her reasons didn’t matter. She was evil in this. I am, too. I can’t pretend to be the hero of a fairy tale when I enjoy and anticipate the deaths of others, even if they are the Fjern.

  The trip was faster on the carriage I had taken with Sigourney, but after an hour of walking across rocky and barren fields, we see three houses standing on the path where only twelve islanders live. They watch us approach. There are no weapons or smiles. I see that the islanders here are hungry and tired and that they don’t care if they live or die. If we are here to kill them, then so be it. A few watch us with the expectation that we’ve come to take their lives. They don’t plan to fight us. They’re surprised when we only raise our hands in greeting. Ludjivik Helle has always felt separated from all the islands of Hans Lollik, but especially now it feels like they aren’t a part of the war. They have been forgotten here by both sides, barely managing to survive on their own.

  We ask if there are any Fjern left alive on the island, and they say that the Fjern of Ludjivik Helle have been dead for some time. The cousins of the Ludjivik were traitors of the crown. In punishment, Patrika Årud had sent in her forces to slaughter all of the Fjern—everyone, no matter the age and no matter their innocence. There weren’t many to begin with, and those here hadn’t put up much of a fight. The islanders were supposed to have been taken and sold on the docks of Niklasson Helle, but some managed to hide. There had been more islanders before we arrived, but most left after the revolt—escaped to the northern empires and to what they considered true freedom. The survivors of Ludjivik Helle couldn’t say if they’d made it to the northern empires safely.

  We ask the islanders to return with us. We can’t bring them to the royal island, but Voshell would be more than willing to welcome more islanders onto Årud Helle. I’m surprised when they refuse.

  “Why would we go to any other island, when we’ll only be met with the same war?” one man asks. Ludjivik Helle, as barren and isolated as it is, has always been his home, and the home of all the other islanders here. They prefer to stay here in the comfort of the only place they’ve ever known, even if it means they will die. At least they’ll die in peace.

  We promise that islanders and guards will come back to Ludjivik Helle, but they have long since been disillusioned and don’t believe that we will return. We board our ships to sail for Hans Lollik Helle. The breeze is softer than usual and the waves are smooth. The trip will take days. My anxiety builds with each passing moment. What has happened on Hans Lollik Helle while we’ve been away? Malthe could’ve taken control as he’s wanted, or the Fjern could have attacked without our knowledge. We might be about to return to find the royal island in ruins, everyone dead. Kjerstin doesn’t share her thoughts aloud, but as we stand together on the deck, I can sense the same fear growing inside of her. She worries that this trip was only a waste of time and resources. The only goal we’ve fulfilled is finding safety for the nonfighting islanders, but that safety is temporary. It’s only a matter of time before the Fjern attack Årud Helle. Anke, Helga, Voshell, and all the others would be at their mercy. We have to find a way to get the guards that we need, and attack Niklasson Helle with certainty that we will win.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Marieke waits on the shore. She joins me and Kjerstin as we walk into the groves and toward Herregård Constantjin. Marieke doesn’t look like she’s suffered attacks at the hands of the Fjern or Malthe, but it’s easy to see that she’s tired. This war has taken a toll on her. The woman had once been fueled by need for revenge. She had been more vengeful than me or Malthe or Sigourney Rose. Maybe more vengeful than any of the islanders of Hans Lollik. Her daughter had been killed in the same massacre that claimed the family of Sigourney Rose. She was willing to wait a lifetime to witness the fall of the Fjern if it meant finding her revenge. But Marieke has changed. We all have. She senses the oncoming defeat. She’s tired, and she’s realized that she will die. Whether she’s killed at the end of a blade by the Fjern in a few days’ time or she dies in her sleep in any number of years, she will eventually die.

  “What’s happened while we were away?” I ask her.

  “Fjern ships approached, but they didn’t attack,” Marieke tells us. “We’ve been on high alert. We thought we would be ambushed, waiting for your return.”

  She asks what we learned of the other islands, and we give her updates on all that we’d seen on Skov, of the attack of Zeger on Nørup Helle, and explain Voshell’s conditions. I want to call a meeting with all in the circle to decide our next steps, but she tells us to rest.

  “You’ve had long travels. It’ll do no good if you both fall to exhaustion. I’ll pass the message on to the others, and we’ll meet tomorrow in the morning.”

  I want to argue with her. There’s little time to make our move against the Fjern, and there’s no way to tell when they will next attack. We have to move before they do. But I also feel myself wavering on my feet. I’ve had little sleep these past few days, sitting on the decks of ships and by dying campfires. Marieke is right. I need to rest. I do as she suggests, walking the path to the manor of Herregård Constantjin that overlooks the island from its hilltop. It’s strange to be back after days of travel. Hans Lollik Helle has never been my home. I grew up on Jannik Helle with my brother and father and the Elskerinde, coming here only for the storm seasons. The manor on Jannik Helle didn’t inspire any love from me, but I was still familiar with the paths that would lead me through the gardens and to the field and to the quarters where I would sleep at night. I feel out of sorts returning to the royal island. My mind feels muddled. Maybe I’m more exhausted than I’ve realized.

  Though the manor is falling apart, it’s still a symbol of luxury. I feel disgusted walking its halls and sinking into my bed when I think of the starving islanders of Ludjivik Helle. I close my eyes and see images of the dead of Skov Helle lined up as one, and I think that I hear a whisper that there’s something I’ve forgotten. There’s something I must remember.

  I don’t think I’ll sleep, but one moment the day is bright and the next I wake to shadows. There’s a gentle knocking on the door. I assume it’s Marieke, returned with food and water. The moment that I tell her to come in, though, I feel a different presence. I realize that it’s Kjerstin before she shows her face, glowing brown in the setting sun’s golden light.

  She’s recently washed. She’d slept and when she woke, she walked to the bay to use saltwater and sand to scrub her skin. It was something she would do here on Hans Lollik Helle whenever Konge Valdemar had no need for her. Kjerstin enjoyed the feeling of the sharp grit of sand. It stung, leaving fine lines on her arms and legs. Her hair is still wet, plaits undone so that her thick hair rises around her ears and shoulders.

  I sit up in bed, surprised. I can’t think of something to say that wouldn’t be offensive. Asking her what she’s doing here would make Kjerstin feel unwelcome. She closes the door as she walks into the room. She observes the bed’s tapestries, the rotting wallpaper, the balcony doors that I’ve closed from the saltwater air.

  “You really are living like a kongelig,” she tells me.

  “It’s not where I’d prefer to be.”

  “You don’t have to defend yourself against me. I don’t really care, either way.”

  I understand her implication: There are others that do. There are islanders who’re frustrated that the war hasn’t gone as planned. There are guards that remain on the island who are angry that we’re losing this war because of our indecision and lack of action. And here I am, their leader, hidden and locked away in my manor. Kjerstin has seen that Malthe is angry about this, too. She went to speak with him to share an update on the state of the scouts to the north. He stays with his guar
ds in the barracks, but from his comments on how I live like a Fjern king, she can see that he wants to be here in the manor as well, though it seemed there was a silent agreement that living in the main house was an honor fit for only the leader of the revolution.

  “Maybe I should return to the quarters where I was sleeping before,” I tell her.

  “No,” she says. “If you were to do that, I’m sure you’d lose the respect we’ve seen you earn from the guards and the other islanders. People would wonder why you treat yourself as the masters treated you. You can’t sleep in the barracks, either. You need to show yourself different, of a higher rank, than the guards you command. Sleeping in the fields with the people would make them become too familiar, like you’re one of them.”

  “I am one of them.”

  “You’re not. Malthe is right, in a way. You’re our new king until we have won this war and decide how we want to govern ourselves. There’s no winning for you, sadly. In a position like yours, you’ll never make anyone truly pleased, and you’ll always receive ire and anger and hatred, no matter what you do. You’ll always be someone’s enemy. This room is the option that has the least backlash. Convenient that it also means you get to sleep with your head on a pillow.”

  She opens the balcony doors so that the room fills with salted air and the sound of waves. She doesn’t step outside. The ends of the curtains begin to drift on the breeze.

  “You really are good at reading situations,” I tell her.

  “Perfect to replace Tuve,” she says, understanding my meaning.

  “Is it a position you want?”

  “It’s a position I’ve already accepted.”

  “But is it one that you want?”

  She shrugs, looking over her shoulder at me. “I wouldn’t say there’s any particular role I crave. I’ll do whatever I can to help. What I want is to be relaxing in my bed with a proper meal in my stomach and the taste of guavaberry rum on my tongue. That’s all I truly want.”