The Reluctant King

by Jill Williamson

  “I suppose that would depend upon the circumstances.”

  “I have yet to see proof that this man is stronger than me. Or that he can offer something I don’t already have. I have no reason to ally with him.”

  “What if he were to attack you? Could you stand against him, I wonder?”

  “Most certainly. And without the crutch of ahvenrood.”

  “Ladies,” King Barthel said. “Let us talk as friends.”

  Jazlyn appraised Charlon. “One cannot do magic without ahvenrood.”

  “I can.”

  “She’s lying,” Harton said. “I know my sister well.”

  Finally. Her brother had finally spoken. A thrill pulsed within. Now Charlon would get her revenge. She glared his way. “You know nothing about me, Harton.”

  “I know everything,” her brother said. “She has always been a spoiled child, Empress. Find out what she wants, and you will win her.”

  “I want revenge.” Charlon pushed back her chair. Stood. “Against the one who betrayed this child. Bara gowzal tselem ba olel Charlon.”

  The spell took root. A tether of ice grew between Charlon’s soul and Rurek’s. His gowzal host left her shoulder. Fluttered down the table. Perched on Harton’s trencher. Collapsed into a pool of mud.

  The ladies exclaimed. Chairs pushed back. Eyes fixed in horror. Harton’s as well.

  The mud began to change.

  Every head turned to stare. Even on the dance floor, people stopped to watch.

  The mud swelled. Took form. A little girl appeared. Sitting on her knees on the tabletop. Small with a bush of spiral curls. Wore a knee-length white linen dress. Her gaze scanned those at the table. Locked with Harton’s. Her red eyes widened. Grew cold and wild. She crawled forward. Slid off the table. Stood beside Harton’s chair.

  Charlon’s brother looked pale as he stared at the girl. “What is this? An illusion?” He swiped his hand out, but rather than passing through, it whacked the child’s arm.

  “Oh,” the crowd cried. That any man would strike a child.

  The gowzal within shrieked. The unnatural sound came from the girl’s mouth.

  The crowd drew back. Hundreds of eyes filled with fear.

  “You cannot imagine how many times, brother. Times I have killed you in my dreams.” Charlon walked slowly behind the king and his ladies. Approaching Harton.

  “You always did think too highly of yourself,” he said. “It is a mask, then? One that cannot even speak? This is your great power?” He chuckled.

  The women beside him laughed too.

  Soon they would never laugh at Charlon again. “I will give you one chance to live.”

  “You wish to duel?” Harton asked, eyes merry with the game. “I don’t think you realize how strong I’ve become under King Barthel’s tutelage.”

  “One chance, brother, or you will die.”

  Rosârah Thallah pushed to her feet. “There will be no killing at this table!”

  “Sit down, rosârah,” King Barthel said.

  Harton swallowed. Throat bobbed. He cast a worried look to his master. His king who had just abandoned him to Charlon’s pleasure.

  “Give a heartfelt apology,” she said. “Not to me.” She gestured at the child. “To her.”

  “For what?” Harton asked, eyes narrowed. “It was her turn to suffer. I did what I had to and do not—”

  “You did what you wanted!” Charlon yelled. “What most benefitted you.”

  “So what if I did? Our father died a pauper so that you and our mother could eat sugared berries and wear cloth-of-gold shoes. She took everything from us. From me. It was my turn to take. And her turn to suffer.”

  “She was already dead!”

  “Hurting you was the best I could do to punish her.”

  Something niggled in Charlon’s mind. A memory that fizzled away against the compulsion. She smiled, safe at last from the horrors of the past. “Apologize to the child, Harton,” she said. “Apologize and I will forgive you.”

  “I will never apologize!” He lifted his hand toward Charlon. The child stepped in his way, red eyes blazing.

  “Kabash môwth!” Harton yelled, just as Charlon said, “Harag.”

  In the mystery of this new magic, Harton’s shadir abandoned him. Green light shot from the girl’s eyes. Seared two holes in Harton’s chest. He screamed. Stumbled back. Tripped over his chair. Landed on his knees on the platform. Groped at his tunic.

  “Help me!” he cried to King Barthel, then collapsed. His head passed out of sight. Beneath the edge of the tablecloth.

  Charlon walked toward him. Stopped beside the mask of her child self. Together they looked down. On her brother’s body.

  “All choices have consequences, brother,” she said. “I hope your brief success as a soldier was worth it.”

  His breathing ceased. He was dead.

  Vindication. Freedom. Great satisfaction.

  King Barthel snapped his fingers. “Zenobia, heal him.”

  Charlon’s attention fixed on the mantic woman, who threw herself on the floor at Harton’s side. Began to mumble a spell. Sir Kamran’s mother.

  “No,” Charlon said, lifting her hand. “Atha . . .” Her voice trailed away. Muted. Clogged by an oppressive force. A green mist that had appeared over Harton like a shield. Charlon knew a moment of terror as she came against magic mightier than her own.

  Dendron is here, Rurek said in Charlon’s mind.

  King Barthel’s great. How does it exude so much power?

  By the many mantics who serve it and the ahvenrood they ingest. If you would take more, you would have such power too. What a battle we would have then.

  “Forgive me, Chieftess, but I cannot allow you to relieve me of a loyal mantic,” King Barthel said. “I have so few left. I need every one for my attack against Armania.”

  Charlon turned toward the man. He had said Armania, not Sarikar.

  “I will allow you to speak if you promise to behave,” he said.

  Charlon nodded, desperate to be free, though she mustered up her most hateful scowl. Submitting to this man—to any man—had not been part of her plan.

  She felt her throat clear. “My claim to Harton Sonber was made long before yours,” she said.

  “When Rosâr Trevn is defeated and Armania is in our hands, you may kill him,” King Barthel said. “Until then, he is useful to me.”

  Empress Jazlyn looked upon Charlon with a respectful awe. “How is your magic powered, if not by ahvenrood?” she asked.

  “I did not come to share the secrets of Magosia,” Charlon said. “You invited me here to talk of treaties. Yet you harbored an enemy of Magosia in your ranks. One who tried to kill me. Do you seek a war with me?”

  “Not at all,” the king said. “I had heard that you and Master Harton were siblings, but I did not realize there was discord. Forgive me for bringing him to dinner. I will not allow him in your presence again.”

  This appeased Charlon somewhat. “All my life people have been trying to kill me,” she said. “Staying one step ahead of my enemy. That is what keeps me alive.”

  “Fair enough,” King Barthel said. “The empress and I will not press you about your magic, which is most impressive. Our invitation to join our alliance remains. What say you, Chieftess Charlon of Magosia, shadir-slayer and wielder of powers unexplained. Will you stand with us?”

  “I will not stand against you,” Charlon said, well aware that Harton’s foot had just moved. “For now, that will have to be enough.”

  “You fool!” Charlon yelled, pacing in front of the chair on which Miss Amala cowered. “Do you know what you have done?”

  “I’m sorry,” the girl cried, her cheeks wet with tears. “I told him he should go, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “King Barthel saw how he moved. How he carried you. And now he wants my son as his slave! This is a terrible mess that I must try to clean up before we leave this—”

  A knock on the door.


  “Answer it,” Charlon said.

  The girl jumped up. Scurried toward the door.

  Rosârah Thallah lumbered inside. “May I speak with you privately?” she asked.

  What could she want? “Certainly,” Charlon said, on edge.

  The Armanian queen plodded over to the empty longchair beside Charlon’s and fell onto it. The wood creaked under her weight. She glanced at Amala.

  “Leave us,” Charlon said.

  Amala darted from the room and closed the door behind her.

  Fool girl had better run. “You have something to say, Your Highness?” Charlon asked.

  “I need your assistance, Chieftess.”

  Charlon grew wary. “In what manner?”

  “Mantics.” She bowed her head. Studied her fingers. “As you know, Emperor Ulrik and his brother were ill. The empress healed Prince Ferro, but not Ulrik. She has said she will, yet keeps putting it off. It’s because she seeks to rule this realm herself. And I cannot let that happen. She knows nothing of Rurekan ideals. She cares nothing for our people. She seeks only power and glory for herself.”

  Charlon did not doubt it. “I would rather not get involved in such a matter.”

  “It is much more than that. Any day now Ulrik might die. And if she takes power, I have no doubt she will set out to rule everyone, yourself included. She already seeks to learn the secrets of your new magic. Do you think she will fail?”

  Such a future boded poorly. “She is not the kind of woman who fails,” Charlon said.

  “In the end, you will be counted among the wise, Chieftess. If you were to use your magic to create a duplicate of the emperor, then take his real body with you, I could fake his death here. And you could heal him once you return to your realm.”

  Charlon did not follow. “How does faking his death help anyone?”

  “If you heal him now with King Barthel here, he and Empress Jazlyn will find another way to kill him. Death is the only way to save Ulrik and this realm from their devious plans.”

  “I thought you were on King Barthel’s side.”

  “I am on my own side, Chieftess, as are you.”

  “Yes, but why ask me? We both want our sons to rule Armania. Does not that make us enemies?”

  The woman kneaded her chubby fingers. “It is true that I would like to see Trevn remain king all his life, but he cannot stand against magic. King Barthel will see that Sâr Shanek sits on the throne, I know it. For my loyalty, he has promised to let Trevn live, but he has made no such promise to my great-nephew—nor will he, for Empress Jazlyn’s sake. Ulrik is a dear boy. I cannot bear to see his life cut short because of that conniving woman.”

  Charlon could respect the queen’s position. Besides, Empress Jazlyn had taken too many liberties with all that she had shared with King Barthel that night. The woman deserved to be thwarted in some way. “If I help you, I will never admit it. If word gets out that the emperor is in Magosia, I will say he hid himself in our caravan. Without my knowledge. And if anyone is to take credit for healing him—for faking his death—it must be you.”

  “No one would believe that,” Thallah said. “I have always been a malleant.”

  “Do what you must,” Charlon said, “to make your story believable. Leave me out of it. And you have a deal.”

  The rosârah nodded. “It will be done.”

  “Then take me to the emperor.” Charlon stood. Very much looked forward to Empress Jazlyn’s reaction. When she learned that her husband had made a full recovery.

  Qoatch

  Chieftess Charlon’s swift departure had left the empress in a sour mood. Seeing the woman’s power had unsettled even Qoatch. It was dangerous to try to fight a magic one did not understand, and while the Chieftess seemed to pose no threat at the moment and had somewhat agreed to support them, her assertion that her son should rule Armania and her antagonism toward King Barthel made her a volatile ally.

  Nor could King Barthel be trusted. He claimed to have had nothing to do with the giants’ attack on New Rurekau, but that was a lie. Cherem had learned the truth from some of Rogedoth’s shadir, who had been bragging about their clever king. Jazlyn, who desperately wanted as much ahvenrood as she could get, had reluctantly decided to humor the man. She was worried that the Chieftess’s attack on the mantic Harton might have given King Barthel cause to renege on his promise of a second bottle of root juice, yet when the man entered the great hall at breakfast the next morning with his procession of mantics, servants, and shadir, he was carrying a bottle identical to the first he’d given the empress.

  He climbed the platform, handed the bottle to Qoatch, and bowed deeply to Jazlyn. “Good morning, Empress,” he said. “Thank you for your help in convincing Chieftess Charlon to join our cause. She was much harder to win than I anticipated.”

  “I am uncertain we won her at all,” Jazlyn said. “But her caution is to be admired. What she has accomplished on her own for Magosia—it is no small feat.”

  “She is a most impressive woman,” the king said, pulling out the chair beside Jazlyn. He sat, and his women all took their places on his right, as usual.

  Jazlyn waved Qoatch over. He carried the bottle of root juice reverently and handed it to his Great Lady.

  She worked the cork free, held the mouth of the bottle close, and breathed in. A frown of displeasure. She took a small drink and frowned deeper, her brows low over her eyes. She handed the bottle back to Qoatch.

  “You think me a fool?” Jazlyn said to the king. “This is nothing but water.”

  King Barthel chuckled. “Well, that would be a poor trick now, wouldn’t it?”

  “Taste it,” Jazlyn said. “Confirm this treachery for yourself.”

  King Barthel snatched the bottle away. He took a swig and his face twisted into a mask of rage. “I have been betrayed!” He whirled about and glared at the ladies seated beside him.

  “You?” Jazlyn asked. “I am the one without the ahvenrood.”

  “You shall have what was promised you,” the king said, “as long as I have it to give.”

  “And if you don’t?”

  “Then we have a much bigger problem than one stolen bottle.”

  “That is the only problem that concerns me,” Jazlyn said.

  “What does it mean?” Lady Mattenelle asked.

  The king thrust the bottle at Lady Zenobia. “That one of my mantics has betrayed me,” he said. “Someone must have refilled their bottle from my store and replaced it with water.”

  “None of us would dare,” Lady Zenobia said. “Nor would we have need. You have always provided for us.”

  “None of you would dare. But those I left behind, I left for good reason.” King Barthel stood and stalked away, descending the steps at the end of the platform.

  Lady Zenobia stood and pressed her hands against the tabletop. “Where are you going?”

  “To check my stores,” the king said. “I must know how much has been tampered with.”

  A motion from Lady Zenobia, and the women and servants hurried after their king. Jazlyn followed, so Qoatch went as well. The group made it as far as the courtyard and were weaving through a scattered crowd of commoners and servants working there, when Rosârah Thallah scuttled out from the stairwell, screaming.

  “He’s dead! Gods have mercy on his soul, Ulrik is dead!” She lumbered to a halt before the king, who had stopped and was watching her with interest. Rosârah Thallah pointed a finger at Jazlyn. “You did this, witch. You could have healed him this past week, but you did not. You reclaimed your beauty but had no time for healing your husband. That is proof of your allegiance to none but yourself.”

  The people in the courtyard murmured their agreement.

  Someone yelled, “You let him die, Empress. After all he did for you.”

  In two heartbeats, Jazlyn’s startled expression darkened to anger. “You dare imply he sacrificed for me? He kept me captive for months aboard his ship. He made me his prisoner here until I had no choice but
to marry. Me! A Tennish priestess.”

  The servants drew back, creating an empty space around the empress.

  “I knew you hated him,” Thallah said, folding her stubby arms. “Admit you poisoned the emperor and his brother.”

  “I admit no such thing,” Jazlyn said.

  “Did not you just confess to all how much you disdained your husband?” the rosârah asked.

  “No matter how we felt about each other, Ulrik’s death is a grievous loss to Rurekau and to our children, who now must grow up without a father.”

  Rosârah Thallah sputtered. “Grievous loss, indeed. Everyone knows you care nothing for the family unit of the father realms. Spare us your lying tongue, Empress. We have seen the truth of you, and your words will not change our minds.”

  Several emotions passed over Jazlyn’s face, as if she were struggling with what to say. She took hold of her long skirt, swept in a half circle, and dropped to her knees before King Barthel. “Your Highness! My shadir does not have enough power to bring back the dead, but surely you, with the assistance of your great, Dendron, could restore life to the emperor.” She grabbed the hem of the king’s cloak. “Please say you will save my husband.”

  A stillness followed. Everyone in the courtyard stared at the empress. A horse whinnied in the distant bailey, the only sound beyond Rosârah Thallah’s labored breath.

  “Someone has tampered with my evenroot,” the king finally said. “I must find out how much damage has been done. If someone has sabotaged my supply . . . Do you understand what that would mean? And healing the dead—no, I must see to my root first, before I make any promises. Forgive me.” The king turned away and departed the castle, his retinue in his wake.

  Rosârah Thallah glared after the king. Qoatch hurried forward and helped his Great Lady stand.

  “Perhaps it was only one bottle,” Jazlyn said, eyes pleading as she looked on the witnesses present. “When he discovers all is well, he will come back.”

  “He will not come back,” Rosârah Thallah said. “It is in his best interest that Rurekau have no emperor.”

  “You imply he wanted Ulrik to die?” Jazlyn asked.

  “We are much easier to use with no ruler.”