The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  Over the western edge of the nest and far below, he could see the white spray of Aryllia’s Tears crashing into the deep blue of the Queenslake; the yellow-orange gaslight of the Countsbluff shining amid red-tiled rooftops; the beaten brown streets of Cliffside and the People’s Plateau, dotted with white where the deepest snowdrifts hadn’t yet melted; the reds and blues and yellows of painted windmill blades and the green terraces of the farming flats against the oily grey of the mist. The duchy stretched in steps all down the slope of the Queensmount like a world built on a giant’s staircase, vibrant even in the dim pre-dawn light. The center of the Nine Peaks. My kingdom. The thought—and the view—brought a rush of vertigo. How is any man supposed to be responsible for all this?

  And Josen answered, Maybe now you can understand how I felt, little brother.

  With a deep breath, Rudol took his place between his father and Carissa, facing east toward the Godspire and away from the daunting view below. Just focus on what’s close at hand. He reined his gaze in, making the nine Windwalker banners around the edge of the nest the outer boundary of his attention. Even they were a mildly unsettling sight, hanging unnaturally limp against their poles—the winds that held them aloft thirty-six days out of every cycle were absent during the three days of the rest. It felt strange—almost dream-like—to be so high in the sky without the sound and pressure of moving air all around him, but Rudol liked the silence.

  He only wished he could have enjoyed it without nine rings of spectators staring at him.

  They were impossible to ignore now; he was out of distractions. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. He’d stood in front of as many men and women before, of course, at tournaments and festivals and the like. He was a prince of the Nine Peaks, and it was expected of him. But he’d never been comfortable with it.

  In the Swamp he could lead knights, and understand what he was leading them toward; if he made a mistake, at least he knew what he’d been trying to accomplish. Above the mist, he didn’t have that. He didn’t know how to be a king, and these people weren’t knights under his command. They didn’t know him, hadn’t trained with him, hadn’t seen him fight—and even if they had, his particular talents were irrelevant here. They had no reason to trust him. They were waiting for him to fail, to prove that he couldn’t replace his brother.

  At least I could stand before them without breaking into a sweat. Josen’s mocking tone was all too familiar, aloud or no. You should really work on that.

  In front of Rudol, Chastor Ren watched with a practiced eye as the hint of light rose along the edges of the Godspire. Finally he gave a small nod and swept his arms upward, holding them toward the sky. “Rise,” the little man said, his normally soft voice entirely supplanted by the commanding tones of an experienced preacher. The congregation stood in a wave, beginning in front of Mulley and surging around the circle of pews. Mulley tilted his face toward the sky, and his congregation did the same.

  “The Sky God is within us always,” Chastor Ren intoned.

  “Let the Spirit of All grant us strength,” the congregation answered.

  “The Sky God is beside us always.”

  “Let the Wind of Grace bless our path.”

  “The Sky God is above us always.”

  “Let the Lord of Eagles judge us true.”

  All sermons and religious ceremonies began with the same prayer to the Sky God’s three aspects. For Rudol it was rote memory, a series of words he could recite almost without hearing them. Today, though, he craned his neck upward and prayed with all the fervor he could muster. If you’re listening, my Lord, give me some sign. I need all the support I can get. His vigil hadn’t left him awestruck by any particular spiritual revelation; if the Lord of Eagles meant to offer wisdom to the king-to-be, he was leaving it until the last moment.

  Still looking up at the sky, Mulley touched two fingers to the eagle’s eye at the brow of his circlet and ended the prayer with a solemn, “Auna Celyn.”

  Rudol touched two fingers to the center of his forehead and joined the congregation in response. “Auna Celyn.”

  Mulley lowered his arms. “Be seated.” When everyone had settled back onto the pews, he turned to the golden bowl atop its pedestal in the center of the dais. One hand dipped into his robe and emerged with a fist-sized eagle’s egg, which he held high for all to see. In a fluid motion he brought the egg down on the bowl’s edge, cracking it, and then squeezed it hard in his fist, crushing the broken shell. White and yolk spilled from between his fingers, draining into the bowl, and he wiped the shattered shell fragments into the mixture.

  “It is time, Prince Rudol. Kneel and accept the Sky God’s blessings.” Beckoning, Chastor Ren grasped the bowl in both hands and faced east once more.

  Rudol didn’t move. He wanted to, but now that the moment was here, he couldn’t. A pair of invisible shackles fastened around his ankles, holding him fast. They want me, not you, Josen said in the silence, and Rudol didn’t know how to deny it. You were never supposed to be their king.

  And then Carissa touched his arm, and when he turned his head, she was looking up at him with absolute faith in her eyes. “You can do this,” she mouthed.

  The shackles fell away. She wanted me. No one else ever had, but she was enough. Rudol nodded, inhaled, and stepped forward.

  Even as he began to move, the first rays of morning light peeked over the crest of the mountain, brightening the sky in a pale blue halo around the Godspire’s summit. Mulley had judged the time perfectly. Silhouetted against the dawn-light, Rudol could see an eagle circling higher up the peak—he didn’t like to entertain superstition, but on Aryll’s Rest, of all times, it felt right to call that a good omen of some kind. Stepping around the pedestal, Rudol knelt before the chastor, both of them facing the rising sun.

  As the first light washed over Rudol’s face, he heard the chastor cry in the Highspeech, “Ren Agere, sea e brelyn auren ve hare Aryllia!” And then again, translated into the common tongue, “God of the Skies, cast your golden light upon Aryllia’s heir!”

  Chastor Ren lowered his hand and, with two wet fingers, drew a line of warm, slippery fluid on Rudol’s right cheek. Sharp fragments of shell bit into his skin, but Rudol didn’t flinch.

  “Spirit of All, fill your child with the life and strength he will need to undertake this burden. Bless him with a long rule, good health, and a righteous soul.”

  Another line of shell and egg across the left cheek, and then, “Wind of Grace, bring peace and prosperity to your child and his people. Bless them with good fortune, favorable winds, and bountiful harvests.”

  Even without looking, Rudol could feel Mulley turn, offering the bowl to King Gerod. The final mark upon the center of the forehead, signifying the blessing of the Lord of Eagles, could come from no one else.

  “Only a king can name his heir,” said Mulley. “Your Majesty.”

  A long silence, broken by a single, halting footstep. And then the coughing began.

  Something’s wrong. Rudol looked over his shoulder; his father was gripping the pedestal at the center of the dais, fighting to hold himself upright. The king’s shoulders were slumped and his head was down. His back and chest convulsed with deep, barking coughs.

  Carissa stood beside Gerod, one hand on his back. “Your Majesty, are you… can I help?”

  Rudol stood, ignoring the gasps and whispers of the crowd, and raced to his father’s side. “Father, can you speak?”

  There was no answer, just more coughing.

  The king’s legs failed beneath him, and he started to slide down the pedestal. Rudol grabbed him, tried to hold him upright. “Lean on me, Father. It’s going to be fine.”

  Gerod looked up at Rudol, his sunken eyes wide with panic. “I… can’t…” The words dissolved into a wet cough; Rudol felt spittle spray his face.

  Carissa gasped, covering her mouth with one hand. “Rudol!”

  Rudol touched a hand to his cheek, and his fingers came back red. Blood. G
erod coughed again, spots of crimson flecking his lips; his eyes rolled back in his head, and his body went limp. Cradling him in one arm, Rudol gripped his father’s shoulder and shook him, gently at first, and then more frantically. “Father? Father!”

  “Lord of Eagles preserve us,” whispered Chastor Ren, kneeling at the king’s side. “Is he… does he live?”

  The nest was silent now, watching with held breath, waiting for an answer. But Rudol didn’t have one. Looking upon his father’s slackened face, a bitter laugh welled up in his throat, and he fought to swallow it down.

  You did ask for a sign, didn’t you, little brother?

  And then he couldn’t hold it in anymore. Atop the Royal Eyrie under the first light of Aryll’s Rest, Rudol Aryllia laughed until he cried.

  21. Retreat

  Zerill

  Zerill wondered what her sister would have thought, watching Azra spar. The girl’s footwork was still clumsy, but she had her mother’s speed and eye for weakness. You’d be proud, I think, Azlin. You’d make her practice everything she got wrong for hours, but you’d be proud.

  And Zerill was too. Proud, and sad. Azra was a thoughtful, solemn girl; hardly a born fighter. Anyone could be trained—had to be, to survive outside the Kinhome—but the more she learned, the closer she came to joining the fight against the highlanders. To joining Azlin among the ancestors before her time. Grandmother Nevris aside, the Abandoned did not often live to know their grandchildren.

  Korv gave clipped advice to the fighters in the loudspeech, and granted his daughter no particular favor over the other girl. “Ula, keep weapon up. Azra, wider feet, better balance.”

  Azra and her opponent fought in a circle defined only by the ring of watchers surrounding it, a flat patch of earth not far from the Kinhome’s central knoll. Absent the voices of Kinmeet, there was no sound but Korv’s instructions and weapons clashing; in the silence of the Swamp, the short bursts of noise split the air like thunder, far louder in Zerill’s ears than they had any right to be.

  She had better reason than just the noise to feel uncomfortable, though. Around the circle, as many eyes were watching her as the sparring. No decision had yet been reached in the first two days of Kinmeet, and there would be more debate still when they reconvened that evening, but many of the Abandoned had already made up their minds. And not in her favor. Their scrutiny was hard to ignore, a constant distraction as she tried to focus on her niece’s fight.

  Azra dodged a swing of Ula’s club and stepped inside the other girl’s reach. Swinging low with her spear haft, she took Ula’s feet out from under her. Ula barely caught herself, half-propped up on her club, completely open to Azra’s next strike.

  Taking care not to do any real harm, Azra tapped her blunted spearhead against her opponent’s shoulder, claiming the victory. Ula signed her surrender, pushed herself to her feet, and rejoined the other youths waiting their turn. Azra propped her spear over her shoulder and waited for the next challenger.

  Korv hefted his heavy warclub in one hand and pointed it at a thickset Lighteye boy, motioning for him to enter the circle. When both fighters were ready, he signed for them to begin.

  It was Azra’s third fight in a row—she’d won the first two, against a young Heartspear boy and then Ula. Enough for her to boast about later. She would fight until she lost, but most didn’t make even two victories. Exhaustion and pain counted as much as skill, and new challengers entered the circle fresh and unbruised. She was unlikely to last another round.

  Zerill realized that she was almost hoping for her niece to lose, and she felt mildly guilty about it. But she had little time. The Makers had planned a sacrifice before the Kinmeet reconvened for the evening; she would have to relieve Verik of guard duty before then. Usually she would have gone with him—the Makers needed spears for their bloodletting, and that meant an escort of warriors—but she trusted no one else with Prince Josen. If Verik went, she had to stay. That was why she hadn’t had the chance to speak with her niece before now: she couldn’t leave Josen alone for long, and Azra hadn’t come to see her. She wasn’t certain that Azra wanted to see her.

  She glanced at Korv. He was busy with Ula, explaining the mistakes she’d made with quick signs and demonstrative gestures. Zerill waited until Ula had rejoined the other youths before approaching.

  Korv saw her coming and half-turned to greet her, watching the fight out of the side of his eye. Resting his two-handed warclub on one broad shoulder, he signed a greeting with his free right hand.

  Zerill. I hoped you’d come.

  Zerill nodded and glanced sidelong at her niece. How is Azra? She knows about… Her hand fell still; she didn’t want to finish the question.

  Azlin? She knows.

  How is she?

  Hard to say. She throws herself into training. She wants to fight.

  Zerill watched Azra bat aside a stroke of her opponent’s blunted axe. There was a fierceness in the girl’s features she hadn’t seen there before, but she recognized it—the same anger Azlin had always borne after the highlanders had killed their father.

  I’m sorry, Korv, Zerill signed. I could have saved her. I should have—

  Korv cut her off with a raised hand. Do not apologize, Zerill. You did not kill her. The highlanders did. And it is not me you should worry over. I admired Azlin very much, but she and I only came together out of duty. You know that. She saved my life, and too many others to count, but this loss belongs to you and Azra more than anyone else. I mourn for the two of you as much as for her.

  Zerill didn’t think he would be so willing to mourn for her if he knew she’d saved the man who had killed Azlin, but she couldn’t tell him that. I don’t know if I was any closer to her than you were, she signed, trying to deflect his sympathy another way. She was Grandmother of the Lighteyes before she was my sister. I miss her, but… maybe I always have, even when she was still here.

  She was always your sister, even when she was grandmother. Korv’s mouth curled up at the corner. No one else could frustrate her so much. She tried to keep you out of harm’s way, and you never let her. She did care about you, Zerill.

  Even right before she’d died, Azlin had still tried to send her away. To keep her safe. Remembering that, it was hard to make herself smile back at Korv, but she did.

  Thank you, she signed. For that, and for intervening in the Kinmeet.

  Korv’s brow creased, and his fingers started to move, but something caught his eye and his gaze shifted back toward the fight. “Not back, Teven! Forward. Never give ground.”

  The heavy Lighteye boy sidestepped a jab of Azra’s spear and advanced. Azra tried to retreat a step, but her balance was off and she stumbled; an instant later, Teven’s axe was pressed against her neck. Azra relaxed her guard and signed her surrender, then moved away to make space for the next challenger.

  Korv motioned another boy forward, but Zerill didn’t pay the next fight much attention. Azra threw her training spear onto the pile of weapons at the circle’s edge and then strode toward Zerill and Korv.

  You fought well, Zerill signed at her niece.

  Azra didn’t answer. Tense with frustration, she stood before her father and signed, What did I do wrong?

  Korv appraised his daughter with a stern eye—he was a teacher here, not a father. You have your mother’s instincts, but you must work on balance. You are so hasty to strike when you see an opening that you sacrifice your stance. And then, for a moment, his face softened. But there is no shame in losing your third fight—most do.

  Azra shook her head and ground one heel into the earth. I need to do better if I’m… I need to do better. A young woman’s impatience, but she looked older than Zerill remembered. She’d grown, even since the last time they’d spoken. Her cheeks were sharper, more defined; hints of a grown woman’s face, though at fourteen years old she was less than a year into adulthood. Again, Zerill was struck by her resemblance to Azlin—the wide forehead and sharp chin, the yellow-white hair, th
e same intensity in her eyes.

  Zerill touched her shoulder and signed, Azlin once told me she never made three wins in a row. She didn’t know what was going through the girl’s head, but she could guess. Azra had idolized her mother. You have nothing to prove.

  I’m not trying to be her. Azra frowned, and her shoulders dropped, just slightly. I know I can’t… be what she was. But I can’t stay here either, waiting to be told someone else is dead. The next time one of you goes west, I want to go with you.

  Zerill wanted to tell her that she wasn’t old enough, but it wouldn’t help. It wasn’t even true. Fourteen was old enough to join hunts in the west. All three kins encouraged their young to spend their first years after coming of age in relative safety—ideally forming the birth-pacts needed to keep the kins strong—but Azra was old enough to fight if she so chose.

  The only thing Zerill could think that might stop her was the truth.

  You can’t keep us safe, Azra, she signed. Too blunt, perhaps, but it was all the answer she had. We all want to protect the people we care about, but we can’t. Not like this. I hate that I watched them kill my sister, and every day I tell myself I should have stopped it, but the truth… the truth is that until this war ends, we’re all just waiting to die on a highlander’s sword. One more spear won’t change anything.

  So it’s true then? Azra’s jaw clenched. That you saved one of them? That you want to stop fighting?

  If we can, Zerill signed. I don’t see a better way.

  Everyone is talking about you. They say the highlanders will never end their war, that you’re insane to bring one here. Azra’s face made it a question, not an accusation—the knit of her brow was more confused than angry.

  Korv gave his daughter a stern look. Enough, Azra. Zerill is your aunt and Grandmother of the Lighteyes. You will respect her.