King of the Rising

by Kacen Callender

  “Cut their necks and leave them here in the garden,” I say.

  The guards are hesitant and disappointed at my words. But there’s also gladness that it doesn’t seem their leader has lost all of his will to fight and does not show mercy to the Fjern. Only Malthe isn’t pleased. He watches me. In his gaze, he sees the truth. It sickens me to order so many deaths, but this was also a mercy. The alternative was something I wouldn’t have been able to stand. My command isn’t something that he can rebel against, however, not without him receiving the same ire that I had before. I’ve given my order. He has to follow it.

  There are screams from the villagers when they hear their fates, and some try to fight back, but the guards line up, and on Malthe’s command, the screams are silenced. The bodies and blood fill the empty garden. There’s satisfaction from the others as they wipe their blades clean, but I look at the tangle of bodies before me. This isn’t what I saw when I envisioned the islands, free of the Fjern. I’m not sure if this is what freedom means.

  We would normally spend a full day and night digging holes for the bodies, but we have no time and no energy to spend. Preparations for the attack on Jannik Helle need to begin immediately. The fear that we won Larsen Helle too easily, and that this must somehow be a trap, hasn’t left me. We burn the bodies instead. The smell of charred meat and bone fills the air and sickens me. I want to retreat to the ocean. Standing on the shore, in the shallows, and staring at the sea has always been the only way I can clear my mind. But I can’t now. Into the night, Malthe and I sit over a table with maps marking the current of the seas. If we’re able to receive the defensive guards of Hans Lollik Helle by tomorrow’s end, then we’ll have forty guards total. There isn’t any way to see how many Fjern wait for us on Jannik Helle. And, even if we survive the battle, there will be hundreds more fortified on Solberg and Niklasson Helle. We will not win.

  Malthe and I sit in what might’ve once been the master’s main chambers of the Larsen family manor. It’s one of the few rooms that seemed to have survived a fire from long ago. The relics of the past remain. There’s a bed with torn sheets. Paintings stained yellow by heat and age remain on the walls. Everything of value has already been taken from the wardrobes and the shelves. Embers die in the fireplace, warming the room. Though these islands fall to the harshness of the sun during the day, the nights have always been cool with the breeze that blows in over the sea. There’s a crackling fire, but especially in the days after the storm season, the night gets cold enough that I shiver by the window. Malthe leans back in his seat, a table of maps spread between us, our cups empty of the guavaberry rum that’d been found in the manor’s cellars. There’s no food, but the rum fills our stomachs and warms our skin.

  “We’ll be lucky if we live through the attack on Jannik Helle,” Malthe acknowledges.

  “The spirits are always with us,” I tell him. “Our lives are in their hands.” I must be tired. I sound like Marieke.

  Malthe smirks, sharing the thought. “I would feel safer keeping my life in the hands of the living who still fight.” He’s also tired, though he doesn’t want me to see this. He’s self-conscious about how much more tired he becomes in these later years. There were days when he was young, once. He would be able to fight under the hot sun for hours without faltering. Now, he can feel the exhaustion in his bones. It’s a constant reminder of how death will always come, no matter whether he will die on a battlefield or in a chair one night after closing his eyes for a short rest.

  “We’ve known each other for so many years,” Malthe says. He also realizes how he sounds as he speaks. An old man, surrendering to death, reminiscing on the years of youth when he didn’t have to consider that his life could so easily come to an end. “I’ve known you since you were a boy. A child, younger than the one I killed for you today.”

  It was a topic I’d been trying to avoid. I still try to avoid it. “I pretended you were my father, once.”

  Malthe doesn’t answer this, and I can’t feel any emotion come from him in response.

  “Anyone would’ve been better than my father, I suppose.”

  “I was nothing like a father to you,” Malthe says. His voice has become rougher, harsher, a tone that reminds me of long days of training and sweat and blood. “I always expected the most from you. I knew that you were strong. I could see that you were talented with the blade. This made the others hate you.”

  “They hated me because I was the master’s son.”

  “That, too,” Malthe concedes, “but they also hated you for your power. Not because you have the blood of the Fjern in you, but despite that. It almost seems the more those boys hated you, the better you became in training. It was almost amusing to watch. I expected a lot from you. I pushed you.”

  “I’m grateful for that.”

  “And I have to continue to push you,” Malthe says. “This revolution—our people, our islands—deserve more than what you’re giving us, Løren.”

  These are words that are meant to hurt. They’re meant to make me hesitate, to question myself. For a moment, those words succeed. “You’re right,” I tell him.

  He watches me steadily. Malthe’s mind is filled with silence. It’s difficult to get a sense of what he thinks of me at this moment. It’s difficult to feel if he hates me enough that he might want to cut my neck while I sleep tonight.

  “Let me take control,” Malthe says. When I don’t respond, he keeps speaking. “You aren’t ready for this. You aren’t prepared. You’re still that boy training in the fields in so many ways. You still look to others for help and approval.”

  “I don’t think it’s a weakness to look to others for help,” I say. “I look to others for wisdom and advice. I don’t want to be the king, relying on only my own thoughts and opinions—”

  “That,” Malthe says, interrupting me. He points and nods. “That is exactly why you aren’t ready to command. You are king. You should depend on only yourself. The others will only lead you astray.” I shake my head, but he continues. “Hasn’t someone already led you astray?”

  His meaning is clear. We’re still not sure who in the circle might be acting as a spy—if anyone truly is, then it’s possible that I’ve already taken false information and bad advice from someone who wants to see us fail. But I also know what I see when I imagine these islands. I don’t see one king ruling over us all, with all the power to take away freedom as he sees fit.

  “I think that’s something we’ll have to continue to disagree on.”

  Malthe doesn’t answer this. We’ll disagree, yes—but this disagreement will likely end with one of us dead.

  Malthe stays in the main chambers for the night. I take one of the smaller rooms several halls away, but I can’t sleep. I stay awake with my thoughts and the spirits. On Hans Lollik Helle, there would be the echoes of laughter late into the night as guards drank rum and ate the last of our rations around a fire. The silence on this island is eerie. A reminder of the lines of the dead that wait for us below and how easily any of our bodies could soon be lying dead in the night as well.

  When the pain begins behind my eyes and spreads, it takes Sigourney long enough to appear that I think it really might just be a headache, created from a day of stress and misery. But when she appears in the corner of my eye, standing by the window like she can really see from it, I feel a tinge of relief. I shouldn’t be relieved. I shouldn’t trust her—should not see her as an ally. But with Malthe and the guardsmen who’ve begun to see me as the enemy, this is my first reaction. I have to remind myself that Sigourney could still be the enemy, the spy that has somehow managed to trick me for the Fjern. Though Marieke hopes and trusts that Sigourney can and has already started to change, there’s no evidence of this. None of this internal back and forth passes Sigourney’s notice. She’s almost smug. She enjoys how unsure I am about her. How I hate her but show her empathy in the same breath. Her appearance solidifies. She might as well be in the room.

  “You�
�re still alive,” she says. “I wasn’t sure you’d survive Larsen Helle. I tried to warn you about the ambush, but you pushed me out.”

  “I wasn’t sure if I could trust you.”

  “But you trust me now? What’s changed?”

  I don’t trust her now, she understands that. But she can also sense how little choice I have. Sigourney’s advice has been helpful in the past, and I feel lost, unsure of which direction to turn.

  She can see into me without the block between us. She realizes this isn’t the only reason I’ve let her in. She can see how the death of the boy truly shook my core. Sigourney sees the disgust and hatred, from the guards around me. She understands this hatred well—understands the pain in wanting to be accepted by your own people. Sigourney brings me comfort, in a way. The fact shames me. Maybe Malthe is right. Maybe I have betrayed the islands.

  “Betrayed them,” Sigourney echoes, “by listening to someone who is risking her life to help the revolution?”

  She makes it clear that she didn’t come for a simple pleasure call. Something’s happened. She’s shaken by it. She wants to share what’s happened. She needs me to see.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It would’ve been easy for Sigourney to hide away in her chambers. It’s what she wanted to do, when she was honest with herself. She didn’t want to admit the fear that tortured her every time she left to confront the Fjern. It didn’t help that she had to pretend to be brave and could not allow a crack in her calm veneer. She was constantly watched by her guardsman, Kalle, which created more pressure in her to never allow him to see her weakness. He was already suspicious of her, and it’d become common knowledge that Sigourney had originally arrived on the island as a spy. Lothar Niklasson felt no need to keep this a secret from his subjects. Sigourney felt this was his own form of punishment: publicly branding her a traitor so that no one would trust her, no matter how much she professed she would work for the kongelig and the Fjern in exchange for her life. Kalle followed her everywhere she went, including her chambers at night while she slept. It seemed the islander rarely slept himself. He took his duty of watching her seriously. If she wasn’t careful, he’d be able to easily guess that she could still be working for me and the islands of Hans Lollik Helle as well.

  Kalle followed her from her chambers one morning days ago. She’d been invited to join a morning breakfast with the remaining kongelig and their guests. She was surprised to see the invitation at first, and Sigourney couldn’t help but have a spark of hope that she was finally to be seen and accepted by the very people she hated, the same people she wished to see burn for killing her family and stealing her islands. Even with her hatred of them, she still wanted them to acknowledge that she was their equal—in some cases, their better.

  She was ashamed and embarrassed for this moment of excitement, and after that moment passed, she could see the invitation for what it clearly was: an opportunity for the kongelig to continue humiliating her. The invitation was sent from Gertrude Nørup, whose friend Jytte Solberg would likely be in attendance as well. Sigourney wanted nothing more than to decline. She could only imagine the ways the Fjern would discover to torture her and punish her for being an islander. But she knew that she had to accept. If she didn’t, they would delight in the power they knew they held over her—in the fact that she was so afraid of them that she would not leave her chambers.

  This was also an opportunity to stand among the Fjern and learn secrets that could be helpful to us, to heighten my chances of winning this war. This is what she thinks, so that I will feel this was the one and true reason she agreed to go, but I can still feel her own ambition. She also saw this as an opportunity to further herself. If the insurgency were to fail, and Sigourney somehow managed to survive, she would still need a plan. She couldn’t trust any of the Fjern, but maybe there would be a potential ally at this gathering—or maybe she would learn a secret, not necessarily for the sake of the insurrection, but for the sake of pitting the kongelig against one another. She has a mind for the politics of the Fjern, but it’s a mind that I can’t admire. I’ve never understood or appreciated the backhanded ways of the Fjern: the secrets, the plans to destroy one another while sharing smiles and sugarcane wine. I wonder about my ancestors, the first who must have encountered the Fjern. Did the pale-skinned northerners share with them smiles and promises of alliance and friendship? My people, used to speaking in plain words and truths, would’ve fallen for the lies and tricks so easily. Perhaps it’s a lesson I should learn from them.

  Sigourney changed into a simple white dress. Kalle still would not leave her room. He’d been ordered by Lothar Niklasson to stay at her side, and that’s what he intended to do. He followed her out of the chambers and down the hall and across the courtyard, to the other end of the Herregård Sten, to a wide-open sitting room and parlor where kongelig congregated.

  Gertrude Nørup was the ever-pleasant host. It was not her home, but it was a gathering she hosted on behalf of Lothar Niklasson, in celebration of his achievements. She wore a pretty dress of white that did little for her plain features as she greeted the Fjern who entered, chattering as they sipped wine. Gertrude had tried her best in the decorations of the parlor, flowers of white lining the walls and colorful rugs on the hard stone floor. All of Herregård Sten was covered in unforgiving stone that leaked as though they were beneath grounds in dungeons, and there were few windows to allow sunlight and breeze. The effect was a baking heat that simmered no matter where anyone was in the manor. There was little relief. The windows of the parlor were wide open, begging for a breeze that would not come, and the Fjern stood and whipped paper fans back and forth over their pink and sweating skin.

  Jytte Solberg stood against the wall, watching the event. She still had a ribbon of lace tied around the scar that wrapped around her neck. Jytte’s gaze would not leave Sigourney once she entered the room. Sigourney noticed this, and she noticed Aksel, too. It seemed he would never pass up an opportunity for a drink. The other Fjern avoided him as he sat on one of the sofas. The Fjern considered Aksel Jannik to be an embarrassment to the kongelig. The Jannik name had never held much respect among the other noble families, but with the death of his beloved Beata Larsen, Aksel had sunken to levels of depravity. He called over an islander holding a tray of wine and downed another glass. Sigourney could sense that he’d seen her and knew that she was here, but he was determined to ignore her. Herre Niklasson himself was there, though he was already thinking of how he could escape. The man had always abhorred social functions like this, where the only purpose was to display wealth and alliances. He believed this gathering silly. He had a war to win. But he could not leave a party being hosted in his own honor, in his own home.

  He saw Sigourney enter along with all the other Fjern. She could sense how he felt an odd sense of relief. She would provide distraction and entertainment from the overwhelming boredom that had begun to settle—and perhaps an opportunity to learn more about the revolution. Sigourney could feel his gaze on her as she entered the room, and she dreaded him approaching her.

  Before Lothar could make his way to her, however, Jytte was already by her side. She offered Sigourney a glass of wine. Sigourney took the glass out of politeness, but she would never be so foolish as to take a sip of anything handed to her by Elskerinde Solberg. Jytte noticed this with some pleasure.

  “It isn’t poisoned.” When Sigourney didn’t respond, she added, “Can’t you see the truth in my mind for yourself?”

  “I’ve been tricked before,” Sigourney said. She hated to admit this. It displayed her weakness: that her kraft isn’t as powerful as she would like everyone to believe, including herself.

  “Yes, that’s what you claim,” Jytte said. Sigourney had told all that she’d been tricked by the islanders, by me and Marieke and Malthe—that she hadn’t had any idea that the insurrection was brewing right in front of her. Though embarrassing to admit, and though it made her seem like a fool, it was the single truth that allo
wed her to live in this den of Fjern, so it was a truth she clung to.

  Sigourney didn’t want to be anywhere near Jytte. Though she would never admit it willingly, she was afraid of the woman—terrified of her kraft. Jytte had the power to control fear. She’d used her ability on Sigourney once before already, and the rising and overwhelming panic had been uncontrollable. Sigourney was sure that if Jytte ever chose to use her power again, especially with Sigourney already in such a state of anxiety, she might choose to take her own life just to escape the fear.

  “You probably won’t believe me when I say this,” Jytte said, “but I admire you, Elskerinde Jannik.”

  “I do believe you,” Sigourney said. The fact was easy for her to feel.

  “Not many would so willingly place themselves into their enemy’s hands.”

  “Is that what you are?” Sigourney asked. “The enemy?”

  “There’s no reason to pretend otherwise. We could form an alliance of some sort, and you would still be my enemy.”

  Sigourney could see another truth then as well: Jytte had made a habit of having dangerous conversations in the open, where anyone could overhear them. She enjoyed the thrill of having these conversations surrounded by others. It made her feel like the master in a room of fools. It was also less likely that anyone would assume that they were discussing potential treason. It would be so much more suspicious if Jytte Solberg sought out Sigourney in the shadows of the gardens at night. If anyone witnessed their secret meeting, Lothar Niklasson would be warned, and the two women would be questioned and executed once the truth was forced from them.

  “Why would we ever have any sort of alliance?” Sigourney asked her.

  The next thought was sent to Sigourney’s mind. Even Jytte would not risk saying the words aloud. It would be better for you if Lothar Niklasson was dead.

  “It would be better for me if all of you were,” Sigourney said with a smile. “Not only Herre Niklasson.”