The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  “I can hardly contain my laughter,” Josen said dryly, looking sidelong at Rudol. “Better him than me. I hope you don’t plan to follow the Knight-King’s example too closely, though, litt—” He stopped himself short, though it was obvious what he’d been about to say. “—Rudol. Didn’t he take the last pilgrimage before he’d even been king a year?”

  Shona caught the annoyed look Rudol gave Josen in response, though it was brief. She could understand why the comment upset him. The first King Josen was still celebrated for his valor, but his life had not been a long or a happy one. Since he’d disappeared into the Swamp with his blood-curse, no royal had served with the Knights of the Storm. Not until Rudol. And he probably doesn’t imagine his service ending in the same way.

  “Oh, that won’t happen to my Rudol,” said Carissa. “He has promised me over and over to be careful. And he is one of the finest swordsmen in the Storm Knights, you know. Duke Castar said so himself.” She beamed at her husband, and Shona was surprised by how readily Rudol smiled back.

  I don’t think I’ve seen him really smile in ten years. She was glad that he had found someone else—when they were younger, she’d always felt a bit guilty over his unreciprocated infatuation with her. Carissa Theo wouldn’t have occurred to her as a good match for him, but he did seem happier. As happy as Rudol ever seems, anyway. Well, good. That makes one out of the three of us.

  “One of the finest I’ve seen,” said Castar. “You never forget a compliment paid your husband, do you, Lady Carissa? You’re a lucky man, Rudol—most men would kill to be so admired.”

  “Very lucky,” Rudol said, a bit gruffly, but he offered Carissa another rare smile.

  “You know, it makes me wonder if it is time I found myself a wife.” Castar looked right at Shona on the word wife, and she tried not to let her distaste show. “It must be nice, having someone to support you when you need it most.” He turned back to Shona’s father. “And on the subject of support, Grantley, you do know that you can rely on Goldstone for whatever is needed to repair the wall, don’t you?”

  How very subtle, Shona thought wryly. I suppose offering to buy me outright would have seemed crass.

  She glanced at her father, ready to interject again, but he gave her a slight shake of his head. “Very generous of you, Lenoden,” he said. “Of course we would welcome the assistance.”

  “Excellent. We can discuss the details later. I would hate for Lady Shona to be put in danger again. Greenwall can hardly spare her, I think. Such beauty would be too greatly missed.”

  Shona almost laughed. She knew what her assets were, and great beauty was not among them. He isn’t fool enough to think that would sway me. No, she suspected he was sending a different message: he knew the true reason Greenwall couldn’t spare her. He knows that Father isn’t well. It wasn’t surprising; Castar had always been a clever man, whatever else he might be, and he had many eyes in Greenwall. Anyone who cared to listen would hear gossip, rumors. But if he is willing to hint so openly… That confidence was what really worried her.

  “You flatter me, Duke Castar,” she said. She hated it, but she had to play along—she couldn’t afford to insult him.

  Josen caught her gaze and rolled his eyes. “Isn’t he just too kind?” he said, a sarcastic edge to his voice. “It seems like every time I see him, he is paying some young woman the most sincere compliments.” He glanced at Castar with that half-amused, half-irritated look on his face that Shona knew all too well.

  Oh, Josen, no. Not now. She might have laughed, if she couldn’t so clearly see the disaster coming. It was more than a little bit ridiculous for Josen Aryllia of all people to accuse anyone of being too free with affection. Spirit of All, have you forgotten that you were flirting with the serving girl just a moment ago?

  Duke Castar narrowed his eyes, but kept his smile. “Well, it is only polite, when a lady has clearly put effort into her appearance.”

  “Of course it is! And you… compliment so many of them, Duke Castar. You must be the most polite man in the kingdom.”

  Rudol clenched his hand into a fist—Shona heard his knuckles crack—and very clearly elbowed his brother under the table. “Josen,” he muttered with a warning in his tone. Everyone in the room heard him—it would have been hard not to, so closely seated—and pretended not to notice.

  “Duke Castar’s manners are always appreciated,” said Shona, feigning ignorance of the conversation’s subtext. She tried to get Josen’s attention again, but he was still fixated on Castar. This isn’t the time for misplaced chivalry, you idiot. That compulsion to always play the hero had seemed charming to her once, she remembered—but she couldn’t quite remember why.

  “I’m sure they are, at the time,” Josen said. “Though I wonder how all those ladies feel when they realize he won’t be back to flatter them again.”

  Duke Castar’s annoyance was palpable, but he kept his temper. “I couldn’t say, Prince Josen,” he said, his voice level and controlled. “I don’t think politeness is ever unwelcome, but you raise an interesting point about the consequences of the things we say. Something for both of us to think about.”

  Shona could tell by the look on Josen’s face that he wasn’t done, and she repressed a sigh. She wondered if he had even noticed the threat in Castar’s words, though it probably wouldn’t have stopped him if he had. It would spur him on more, if anything. If I don’t end this, Josen certainly won’t. She tapped her foot against her father’s leg under the table, and coughed into her hand. She’d expected to need the signal for a different kind of emergency, but it would do for this too.

  The screech of her father’s chair against the floor interrupted the conversation. “I’m afraid I must excuse myself,” he said, rising to his feet. “It grows late, and I am not as young as I once was.”

  The duchess immediately stood and took her husband’s arm. “Prince Josen, Prince Rudol, it has been a pleasure to dine with you, as always,” she said. “And an honor as well, to have you here in Greenwall.”

  The duke smiled at his wife. “As always, Vera’s manners put mine to shame, but you may all trust that I feel the same way. Lenoden, I will send the foreman to talk to you about the wall tomorrow.” Shona made a note to bring that up with Thorm Ollet—her father might not remember, and in any case he would leave it to her to see it done.

  “Of course, Grantley. Thank you for the fine meal.” If Castar was taken aback by the abruptness of the departure, he hid it well, and asked no questions as his hosts exited the room.

  “I’ll see everyone out,” said Shona, getting to her feet with the others and ringing the silver tableside bell to let the kitchen girls know they were done.

  Josen and Castar were already waiting to follow her; Rudol offered Carissa his arm as she gathered her skirts and heaved herself and her massive frilled dress out of her chair. When they were ready, Shona led the party to the manor’s front door, ushering them out and resisting the urge to shudder when Castar kissed her hand in farewell. When the goodbyes were done and the guests were on their way to their waiting carriages, she heaved a sigh of relief.

  That was… not as bad as it might have been, she thought, pushing the door closed.

  A boot snuck in the doorway, catching between door and frame, and she heard a too-familiar voice say, “Ouch.”

  Damn it. “What do you want, Josen?”

  He pushed his way in and closed the door behind him. “I forgot my coat.”

  She raised an eyebrow and gestured at the overcoat he wore. “I can look, but I think you might be over-warm with two.”

  He grinned. “Caught in my own web of deceit. I just wanted to see how you were, really. Eian showed me the bodies of those Deeplings”—he grimaced as he said the word—“and I know I wouldn’t want to be attacked by one.”

  “I don’t need you to watch out for me, Josen,” Shona said, helpless to stop the hint of annoyance creeping into her voice.

  “I’m sorry, I just thought—” />
  “No you didn’t. That’s the problem. You don’t think. You see something you don’t like, and you leap in blindly.” Shona shook her head ruefully. “You know, I used to love that about you. The way you’d always stand up for me, without even thinking about it. When the other children didn’t want me to play Windwalkers with them, it was always ‘Shona should be Aryllia, she knows about laws and things’. That always made me feel so… important.” She’d always liked Elica Braveheart better, really—courageous and determined, dauntless in the face of impossible odds—but at the time, she hadn’t cared much that he’d never gotten the Windwalker right. Looking back, she wondered if that should have told her something essential about Josen, something she wished she’d realized sooner. “But I’m not a little girl anymore. I can speak for myself. If I’d needed your help tonight with Castar, I would have asked for it.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re defending him,” Josen said. “God Above, he was looking at you like the winner’s purse at one of his swordsmanship tourneys. You know he wants to get Greenwall through you, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do! Do you think I’m an idiot?” She rubbed at her forehead with her palm and exhaled through her nose. Not so loud. Don’t make a scene. “I know exactly what he wants.” She kept her voice low and even, with some effort. “Why do you think I invited him here? I need his help to fix the wall. If he wants something from me, all the better to get it done. Every person in Greenwall is depending on me to keep them safe, and you put that in jeopardy when you attacked him. He annoyed you, so you embarrassed him, and never mind who has to deal with the consquences. Don’t pretend you did it for me. That was about you, and no one else.” Maybe it always was, even when we were young. Maybe I just couldn’t see it.

  At least he had the grace to look contrite. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” He looked down and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry for a lot of things. Add this to the list, I suppose—as if you needed any more reason to hate me.”

  Shona sighed. Her irritation seeped out of her, replaced with a deep weariness. “I don’t hate you, Josen. It was never that. You just… didn’t love me like I loved you.” You loved me the same way you love all of them. Just for a night, because you needed someone to hold onto. She didn’t like to think about that night; it had meant too much to her, once. And she wasn’t going to mention it if he didn’t. That was an unspoken agreement she had no interest in breaking.

  “I really never meant to hurt you, Shona. My father—”

  She interrupted him. “It’s not that you hurt me, either. I’m not angry about that, not anymore. It’s the way you did it. Do you think I want to marry a man who doesn’t want me? For the two of us, it’s probably better that it didn’t happen. But what about for everyone else? Our marriage would have served a purpose, and of all the ways you could have stopped it… If you’d just said something to me before the last possible moment, it could all have been swept away quietly. You made it into a public humiliation. Every day that my father and yours keep that grievance alive, Greenwall suffers. I know you didn’t consider that before you ran away. You never think about the damage until it’s already done. I believe that you’re sorry, but apologies don’t change anything.”

  Josen opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I understand,” he said after a moment, and he almost sounded like he did. “I suppose I should just go. I’d apologize for bothering you, but…” He shrugged and gave her a weak half-grin.

  Shona didn’t answer, though she let herself smile, just a bit, as he turned and pulled the door open.

  “Greenwall is lucky to have you, you know,” Josen said without looking back. “And so is your father.”

  Even without seeing his face, she knew what he meant. “How did you know?”

  He did half-turn to face her, then, one hand resting against the doorframe. “If he was well, I’d have merited at least a veiled insult or two. I’ve never met anyone with a sharper tongue, and he wouldn’t have been merciful to a man who hurt his daughter.”

  She wasn’t surprised, really. Josen was like that, sometimes—just when she’d decided he was totally oblivious, he would say something oddly perceptive. “Josen, you can’t tell your father. Kaleb’s Law…”

  “Says that a woman can’t inherit the throne. It doesn’t mention the duchies. No one has ever tried to stop my grandmother from governing Whitelake.”

  Shona shook her head. “It isn’t the same. I don’t have a Windwalker name or blood ties to your family, and Greenwall is an inner duchy, not an outer. The law might not require a duke over a duchess, but your father will. He would love to have our fields fully under his control, and no one is going to fight him.” Not after what he did to Deoma Luthas and Jeneth Berial. In the wake of the Outer Duchy Rebellion, standing against Kaleb’s Law wasn’t particularly popular among the highborn or the low.

  “That I can believe. He does love control.” Josen drummed his fingers against the doorframe, then nodded. “I’ll keep my mouth shut, of course. For once. I owe you… well, much more than that, but it’s probably the best I can do.” For the briefest moment, there was something in his eyes that she recognized, something broken. Another fragment of memory from the night they’d spent together came to her, as strong as if it had happened yesterday: the edge of a cliff with stars bright overhead, and a desperation in his eyes much deeper than this.

  And then he said, “Goodnight, Shona,” and released the door. It swung closed behind him as he strode down the front steps.

  Shona stood there for a few moments after the door swung closed. She felt strange, a bit lightheaded, curiously empty. She hadn’t spoken to Josen for so long, and that conversation… it had felt like an ending. She didn’t know how to feel about that. He won’t even stay until Aryll’s Rest—that was just because the purge was supposed to be later. He’ll be in the Swamp by turn’s end, now.

  And as much as she wanted to ignore it, she had seen a look like that in his eyes once before. The one he wore today was only a weak echo of that pain, not nearly so frightening, but still it took her back to that night at the cliff’s edge.

  The night his mother had died.

  She wrenched the door open. “Josen, wait!”

  Josen wasn’t yet halfway down the walk to the outer gate, and he pivoted at the sound of her voice.

  “Castar is leading the purge,” Shona said. “You’re going to be under his command in the Swamp, and you embarrassed him tonight.”

  “What can he do, stab me?” Josen started to grin, but the look on her face stopped it halfway. “I hate to be the one to say it, but I’m the king’s son. Castar is ambitious, not stupid. He wouldn’t dare let something happen to me”

  “He is more cunning than you think he is, and there are other ways to hurt you than with a sword. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid. Watch him, and be careful.”

  “He can’t—”

  “Just promise!”

  He shrugged. “I promise, then.” The look on her face must have told him that it hadn’t been enough, because he stood a little straighter for his next attempt. “I give you my word, Shona. Really.”

  “Good. Keep it.” Before he could say anything more, she slammed the door and leaned her back against it, taking a few deep breaths to slow her quickened heartbeat.

  If this had been an ending for them, she could live with it. Embrace it, even. Enough of her life had been defined by Josen already, more than enough. But for everything he’d meant to her in the past—for the skinny young girl he’d rescued, a long time ago—she’d owed him the warning. Because between that look in his eyes and all the dangers that waited for him in the Swamp, she’d come to realize something:

  She might never see Josen Aryllia again.

  10. The Purge

  Josen

  Josen had expected the Swamp to be awful, and it was.

  He’d been slogging beneath the mist with the Knights of the Storm for four days now, through mud and clinging
vines and darkness, and each day had been worse than the one before. Today was no exception. It was quiet, eerily so, and what noises he did hear were foreign and terrifying; he froze where he stood at every keen or croak, and held his breath until it passed. The knights made little of the sounds—“the longmouths are hungry today,” they’d say, or “nothing but boggards” when Josen heard chittering high in the treetops—but every time, it was hard to make himself breathe again. And when he did, every breath reminded him of where he was. The air was cold and stagnant and stank of rot, but worst of all, it was wet. Moisture coated his lungs and beaded on his skin and dripped down into his boots; he might as well have been naked for all that his layers of leather and chain and thick Storm Knight surcoat did to keep the damp and chill at bay.

  It was as awful as he had expected, and worse.

  But he hadn’t expected beauty. And it was beautiful; as beautiful as it was awful.

  Even at the height of day, only a ghostly suggestion of what used to be sunlight made it through the mist and the thick ceiling of leaves overhead, but the Swamp was alive with its own faint witchlight. The light itself was alive. Everywhere Josen looked something glowed, nearby or in the distance, and all of it, impossibly, came from living things. Here a spider traced the glittering lines of its web between two trees; there a lichen twisted around a rock in veins of pale green luminescence. He had always imagined the Swamp would be thick with fog, but the oily miasma he’d seen so many times from above ended at the treetops. Beneath the canopy, the air was clear enough that he could see strange things glowing in the darkness for what seemed like miles. What mist drifted this low coalesced in solitary tendrils that danced and spiralled in the air, sparkling in the reflected gleam of a passing lightfly swarm or a marsh-toad’s shining eyes. None of it was enough to show the way without the squires’ lanterns, not even close, but the brightness was all the more striking so outmatched by the dark—islands of light glimmering in defiance of a black ocean.