The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  He caught Carissa’s hand as she fussed with his wound. “This can’t happen again. The Peaks can’t take another rebellion.”

  She looked up at him with a scrunched brow. “Of course not, but how can you—”

  “I’m riding the next wind for Goldstone. It is time I spoke with Duke Castar.”

  26. No Way Out

  Shona

  The room was as comfortable as any Shona had slept in: a soft feather bed, a fireplace well-stocked with wood, a plush rug over the cold stone floor. There were shelves of books to read and gas-lamps in every corner to read them by; quills and ink and paper to write with if she chose; a great double-shuttered window that faced west toward the sunset. Three times a day, servants brought her meals fit for a king, with fine wines and decadent desserts. She’d rarely been given such lavish treatment as a guest, even at the Aryllian Keep.

  But none of that mattered, so long as she wasn’t allowed to leave.

  Laying belly-down on the bed, she flipped idly through the pages of a book she hadn’t really looked at for at least an hour. It was near-impossible for her to concentrate on anything but her parents. She hadn’t seen them—or Eian—since they’d arrived at the Goldfort; she had no idea if they were being treated as gently as she was. She prayed that Castar hadn’t harmed them, but she couldn’t pretend to know what he might do anymore. If they have so much as a bruise, I’ll… But that thought made it no further than it had a hundred times before. I can’t even leave this room. What could I possibly do to him?

  She rubbed the heel of her hand against her forehead, tried to make herself think—of a plan, of a way to escape, of anything but how confused and scared her father would be every day he awoke in a locked room that wasn’t his. But nothing came. Finally she pushed herself up from the bed and strode to the window, throwing open both sets of shutters so she could lean out into the cool morning air.

  The streets that wound back and forth down the slope of the Rusted Peak were full, bustling even this early in the day. It was only a few hours past dawn, but Goldstone woke earlier still. Or rather, it never slept. The miners worked irregular shifts, coming and going at all hours, and the shops and stalls of the market stayed open all day and all night to accommodate them. There were always wagons and buggies and coaches speeding up and down the serpentine roads, always people running between districts in search of their next coin. In Goldstone there were always fortunes to be made, or to maintain, or at least to dream of making, and every minute spent sleeping was money lost.

  But no matter how busy the streets, no matter how many hundreds of people passed by below, it did her no good. The Goldfort sat on a rise high above the rest of the duchy; Shona could scream for days and no one would hear. Their ears were too far away, too full of the noise of the city. And if anyone heard, it isn’t as if they’d do anything about it. Castar owns this place. She felt like the sort of storybook damsel she’d always hated, trapped and helpless in her tower, just a prize for some hero to save. Except unlike in the stories, there was no hero coming to rescue her. No, if she was going to be rescued, she’d have to do it herself.

  How, though? There was no way out that she could see. Her door was locked and guarded at all hours, and her room was too high up to escape through the window. How did Josen do it? He could always get in and out so easily. She knew the Aryllian Keep was a maze of hidden passages for him to use—many long forgotten until he’d gone searching for them—but even when he’d visited Greenwall he’d always found a way. More times than she could count, he’d climbed up to her bedroom window to sneak her out, and the sound of his finger tapping at the glass had always made her smile. Here, though, there was near forty feet of sheer stone from her window to the courtyard. She’d considered tying her bedsheets together—that came from the storybooks, too—but they would get her halfway down at most, if the knots held. And she’d never been good at knots.

  It didn’t matter much, anyway. Climbing down would only put her in an enclosed courtyard—it wouldn’t get her past the servants in the halls or the guards at the gates. But she hadn’t come up with anything better yet, and there came a time each day when she found herself leaning out that window, and wondering.

  Behind her, the door creaked open. “Not thinking of jumping, I hope. It wouldn’t end well.”

  “Duke Castar.” Shona took a deep breath before she turned; she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of losing her composure. “I was just admiring the view.”

  “No need to pretend, Shona,” said Castar, pushing the door firmly closed behind him. “I would be disappointed if you weren’t looking for some way out, given the circumstances.” He looked her up and down, and rubbed a knuckle against his bearded cheek. “Which is why I’ve come. Now that you’ve had some time to think, I hoped we might discuss how to resolve this situation in a way that… benefits all involved.”

  Shona raised an eyebrow. “Does that include my parents? Eian?”

  “Of course. I hope you’ll believe me when I tell you they are very comfortable, and entirely unharmed.”

  “Hope all you want. I like proof better.”

  “You’ll have it soon enough, if you’re willing to listen to what I have to say.”

  I don’t have much choice, do I? Shona glared at him, but nodded her head. “Fine. Talk.”

  “We both know why you’re here, so I won’t insult you with lies: you know that Eroh comes from the Swamp. I think you knew as soon as you saw him, and if not then, you spent some time with him after the ceremony, or so Cer Roden tells me. And unlike most of the fools that govern the duchies, you are smart enough to use that information to hurt me. There are already those who believe Josen found the boy first, and when I had Marcas Tammen investigate some of these rumors, he found the friend of the wife of some gossip’s third cousin who claimed you were heard discussing the matter with Duke Dasson.” Castar quirked an eyebrow upward. “Can you imagine my surprise?”

  “You must have expected there would be talk,” said Shona. “It would have spread with or without me, I’m sure.” True, but she still felt a hint of satisfaction. She didn’t let it show.

  “But perhaps not as quickly, or as thoroughly. Still, I suppose you’re right. You shouldn’t blame yourself for the assault on Prince Rudol and his wife.”

  Shona narrowed her eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “Ah, yes. I suppose you couldn’t have heard.” Castar gave her a smug half-smile. “Josen has many supporters in the Plateaus, and they are none too pleased with Rudol just now. A certain… overzealous faction arranged to ambush him in the street three days past.”

  “What?” Hard as she tried, she couldn’t keep the shock from her voice. “Is he… are they…”

  “Alive? Yes, and relatively uninjured. Three Royal Swords were killed, but they dispersed the mob, and captured the man behind the attack.”

  Wind of Grace, thank you for that. Three dead Swords was bad enough—she’d never have forgiven herself if Rudol had been hurt. Shona had no way of knowing what effect her conversation with Dasson might have had on the situation, but she couldn’t help feeling responsible. Have I done anything since Josen disappeared that hasn’t put someone else I care about in danger? There was more to this story, though. There had to be. Castar wouldn’t have come just to taunt her. “Why are you telling me about this?”

  “Because it seems to have given Rudol some new resolve,” said Castar. “He is on his way here; his basket should land in the next few hours. I expect he’ll want some assurance that I don’t seek to steal his father’s throne.”

  “I’m sure he will. What does that have to do with me?” Shona asked, though she suspected she already knew.

  “He trusts you. I need you to help convince him of my good intentions.”

  “Lie to him, you mean? Even if I was willing, he wouldn’t listen. He isn’t particularly happy with me of late.”

  “He values your opinion more than you think, Shona. And I only ne
ed you to be present, really. All anyone knows for certain is that you and your family are currently my guests—trying to hide you would just raise questions. If he asks, you will tell him that we are arranging further aid for Greenwall. Repairing the wall and whatnot. Nothing that Rudol or the king need worry about.”

  Shona glanced back toward the window and sighed. I wish I’d jumped. “And if I try to warn him, who knows what will happen to my parents. Is that about the shape of things?”

  Castar spread his hands. “There is that, certainly, but I dislike it as much as you do. I would prefer a more amicable arrangement. We don’t need to be enemies, Shona. The offer I made you before still stands. Be my wife—my queen, if all goes well—and together we will see Greenwall thrive like it never has before.”

  Shona let out a sharp, angry laugh before she could stop herself. “As simple as that, is it? All I need do is betray my king and my oldest friend for the man who holds my family hostage.”

  “I am only holding them as long as it is necessary—you could so easily set them free. You call it betrayal, but can what is best for the kingdom really be treason? Should we allow tradition rather than suitability to choose our kings? My people are happy, Shona. Happy and healthy and prosperous. Whatever you think of me, you must admit that there are few men in the Peaks who would rule half so well.” Castar looked her hard in the eye. “Can you honestly tell me that you think Rudol Aryllia is one of them? That he would bear the weight of a crown gracefully or happily?”

  Shona had known Rudol for too long to believe that. He would be miserable. And the Peaks would suffer for it. He would do his duty when he was called upon to do it, like he always did, but a king needed more than grudging acceptance of the role. A king needed patience and canniness that Rudol just didn’t have.

  “That is hardly the point,” she protested. “You can’t just decide—”

  “Isn’t it exactly the point? Rudol will never sit the throne comfortably. Both he and the Peaks will be better off if he doesn’t have to. He will stand firm while Gerod lives, but that will not be long. When his father is gone, he will listen to the people begging him to relinquish the crown to me. It will take a gentle touch, but he will listen, and when it is done, he will be happier for it.” Castar took a step closer, and reached out to clasp her shoulder. “I am asking you to help me because I think you know what I’m saying is true. A peaceful resolution is so close, and yet a single wrong word in Rudol’s ear now could mean war. I suspect I would win, but I have no desire to see blood spilled for nothing. Help me to ensure that doesn’t happen, Shona.”

  God Above, he can be persuasive. He asks me to help him stop a war he invited, and somehow it sounds reasonable. The problem was that he was right about more than she wanted him to be right about. Lenoden Castar would be as good a king as Gerod in many ways, and very likely a better one than Rudol. He made sure there was no other choice when he murdered Josen. I promised he’d pay for that. Now, though, she didn’t know if that was worth the blood that would have to be spilled to make it happen. And then there is Eroh. If he is from the Swamp, that might mean there is a chance to mend the divide between his people and ours. She was fairly certain Josen had died for that chance. But is it worth risking a war? How many lives would that cost? Lord of Eagles, what am I supposed to do?

  Out of instinct as much as anything, she tried to object. “I can’t—”

  Castar raised a hand to stop her. “Don’t decide yet. Take some time. I will send for you when Rudol arrives. I suggest you consider what is really best for the Peaks, and for Greenwall. And for your mother and father, of course.” He turned, pulled the door open. “I’m sure you will make the right decision.”

  And then the door closed behind him, and locked, and Shona was alone again.

  Lenoden

  Lenoden lounged behind his desk, glancing over the missive from Sunhome.

  …always had a close relationship with your family, and I can forsee no situation that would change that, for any reason. Whatever the appearance of the last Windwalker means for the Nine Peaks, Goldstone and Sunhome must stand united…

  Yurell Finegrove had never been a subtle man, but he’d outdone himself, this time—it was only by a very narrow margin that he’d avoided the overt suggestion of treason. He might as well have just said it. Easier to write “remember me when you take the crown” than to dance around the issue.

  But Lenoden didn’t need subtlety from Finegrove or the rest, just obedience. And it seemed he had it, for the most part. Dasson was already well in hand, and had assured Benedern that Harthey of Seastair would do as he was told. Of the dukes whose support Lenoden was relying on, only Anden Perce of Orimscourt had yet to offer some sign of allegiance. And of course, the situation in the Plateaus had developed in a direction he hadn’t forseen—he’d known Josen was popular there, but he hadn’t expected such fervent supporters. Still, enough had gone the way it was supposed to that a riot or two in the Plateaus didn’t concern him greatly.

  Perce could be a problem, though. The man had studied at Orim’s Tower before his father died, and he was perhaps too proud of his education. He won’t be eager to fall in line behind anyone he sees as less intelligent than himself. But Orimscourt had a long history of debt to the Castars, and it had the same weakness as any outer duchy—it relied on Goldstone for goods and trade from the inner. If Lenoden’s generosity flagged just a tad… He’s smart enough to understand that, I think.

  A knuckle rapped lightly at the door once, then again—Lenoden recognized Marcas Tammen’s discreet knock instantly. “Bring her in,” he said.

  Tammen pushed the door open and led Shona into the study. “Prince Rudol’s basket arrived a short time ago, Your Grace. His carriage is at the gates now. His wife is with him.”

  “Thank you, Marcas. Leave us. Oh, and fetch the records of any loans Orimscourt has yet to repay. I’ll want to look at them when I’m done with Rudol.”

  Tammen bowed his head. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Lenoden waited for Tammen to close the door behind him, and then gestured Shona toward a chair in front of his desk. “Please, sit.”

  Shona stalked to the chair and lowered herself into it. She didn’t speak, just scowled at him and waited with her arms crossed.

  “Let me show you something that might affect your decision.” Lenoden slid Finegrove’s missive across the desk toward her, smiling slightly.

  Shona didn’t uncross her arms to take the letter, but she glanced down, and her eyes flicked back and forth over the page. Finally she looked back up, still scowling—but now there was something deeper in her eyes.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Must we keep revisiting questions I have already answered? I would be the better—”

  “No,” she said. “Not the reason you want people to believe. Not some high-minded calling to serve the greater good. The real reason.”

  Lenoden felt his smile falter. He leaned forward in his chair. “Because, Shona, I will not die like my father, fighting another man’s wars for him. Because I will not live my life praying that what is mine will not be taken from me at the whim of a lesser man. Because, yes, I would be the better king, and that should matter. Shouldn’t you of all people understand that?”

  “You and I are not alike, Castar. Maybe I’ve felt that way before, but this isn’t the way to change it.”

  “How else? Nothing ever changes unless someone makes it change, and right now I have the support to do just that.” He tapped Finegrove’s letter once more. “This is not the only one, of course. I have something like it from every outer duchy that doesn’t belong to the Plateaus, and you already know that Skysreach is with me.” No need to let her know about Perce; that will be resolved soon enough. “You must see that there is only one reasonable path here. Have you made your choice?”

  She glared at him for a long moment, and then let out her breath in a sigh. “If you can call it a choice at all, I suppose I have.”

/>   “You’ll work with me, then.”

  “I’ll do what you’re forcing me to do, for now. Don’t pretend we’re partners in this.”

  Lenoden waved a dismissive hand. “As you will. At this moment, the important thing is that you help keep Rudol appeased. You will know when I need you to speak and what I need you to say—otherwise, don’t interfere. When we’re done, I’ll take you to see your parents, and Gryston. You’ll have to convince them to cooperate, if necessary. Rudol may wish to see them, though I will try to avoid that.”

  Shona’s lips made a tight line; she barely inclined her head to acknowledge his instructions.

  Lenoden appraised her for a moment, then nodded. She doesn’t like it, but she’ll do as I ask. As she says, what choice is there? “Good,” he said. “He will be here shortly. Do try to look a touch less unhappy when he comes in.”

  They sat in silence for several minutes before Tammen knocked at the door again. Lenoden rose at the sound, and after a moment’s hesitation, Shona did as well. A minor show of respect for the king’s son, really—propriety would have had Lenoden meet him at the basket launch. But Rudol wouldn’t see it that way. The boy had always held him in high esteem, and keeping that sheen of awe intact would be useful, here.

  “Enter,” Lenoden called, giving Shona a last stern glance.

  Tammen pushed open the door and held it for Rudol and Carissa. Rudol entered first, moving stiffly and favoring his left side. He nodded a greeting at Lenoden; when his eyes found Shona, he stopped short. Carissa prodded him from behind, and he lurched into motion again, pulling out a chair for her.

  Lenoden welcomed them with a smile and a shallow bow. “Prince Rudol, Lady Carissa. I hope you’ll forgive me for my failure to meet you at the baskets. I’ve been busy.” When they had both seated themselves, he gestured for Shona to sit as well, and then relaxed back into his own chair, stretching his legs out beneath his desk.