King's Folly

by Jill Williamson

  “I do.” Though she knew not what it meant.

  “In this you will soon become Mother.”

  Just as Magon had promised!

  Mreegan drew a small knife from her belt and sliced the end of her middle finger. She pressed it against Charlon’s forehead. Charlon stiffened at the contact. The newt ran down Mreegan’s arm and perched on Charlon’s shoulder. Charlon did not mind its touch.

  “I bless this maiden in her task to fulfill prophecy,” Mreegan yelled. “I send her out to make peace with the Father, to reconcile with him, to conceive, and to birth the Deliverer through which Magonia will become the head of all things.”

  The people burst into a cheer. A chill ran up Charlon’s spine. She smiled, though she still did not understand. How would she fulfill this role?

  When the cheering subsided, Mreegan said, “We must leave Magonia. We will not return. Rise, my children, and celebrate the coming of a new dynasty.”

  The people shot up like birds into the air. Music began, an eerie sound of pipes and harp over a steady, thumping drum. The maidens resumed their altar dance. The shadir continued to swoop and swarm. Occasionally Charlon saw eyes, always in threes, but never a fully formed creature. No sign of Magon.

  “You will need to change your appearance,” Mreegan said. “Men in the father realms are vain about women. Only the most beautiful and voluptuous will capture their notice.”

  Charlon bowed her head, shamed by her smallness. “I am your servant.”

  “Do not disappoint me, Mother,” Mreegan said, taking back her newt.

  “I won’t,” Charlon said. She mustn’t.

  Wilek

  Wilek stepped into the courtyard. The night was warm. He walked the winding path through the queen’s garden, tiny rocks crunching underfoot. Around the bend of the five ironwood trees he saw her. Lebetta. She smiled and ran toward him.

  Three steps and she stumbled, clutched her stomach, moaned.

  Wilek reached her just as she collapsed into his arms. “Etta, what’s wrong?”

  Her body convulsed, slipped. He adjusted his grip and nearly dropped her. Her stomach was covered in blood. It ran down her sides and legs, and seeped into the loose gravel underfoot.

  No longer gravel. Sinksand.

  “I’ve got you,” Wilek said as the sand crawled up their legs. He reached for the drooping branch of an ironwood tree, but a sound from the grove stilled his hand. A rattle, like stones in a leather pouch.

  Not Barthos. Anything but that.

  Up to his waist now, Wilek searched for another way out. The rattling quickly built to a high-pitched, raving cackle.

  He struggled to wade away, but Lebetta slipped again. He pulled her close just as a shadow crossed her face.

  Wilek looked up.

  Barthos loomed overhead, three eyes glittering, teeth a jagged row of fangs that dripped rancid saliva. The god of soil opened its maw, roared, and bit down—

  Wilek gasped awake, sat up in bed, heart pounding inside his chest.

  A dream. A heinous, violent, torturous dream.

  He set his face in his hands and breathed deeply through his nose to try to calm himself. His chest ached. How could she truly be gone? In his half-dazed state, tears came easily. Father would be annoyed. He blinked away his weakness despite the fact that no one was here to witness it.

  Why did he care what Father thought? Ten years was a long time to love someone. He should grieve. Should wear black today. To honor Lebetta.

  A one-syllable laugh burst from his mouth. Wearing blacks for a concubine would infuriate Father.

  So what?

  He shoved fear of his father aside and climbed out of bed. He would wear black today. He owed her that much.

  He reached for the bell cord and stopped. The windows were dark. No need to wake Dendrick. He lit a candlestick in the fireplace and carried it through his dressing room and into his wardrobe. The room was nearly as large as his bedchamber, with walls covered in racks and hooks and shelves and cabinets. He had no idea where anything was, except his weapons in the armory alcove off the wardrobe’s front end. A quick study showed boot and sandal shelves on the far wall and what appeared to be clothing folded on the shelves in between.

  He lit three wall sconces to see better and set about looking for anything black, pulling out the items one by one. The first was a cloak, the second a robe. He tossed both to the floor and kept looking. By the time he found a pair of black trousers halfway down the first wall, the pile of clothing on the floor was ankle deep. The next few items were trousers as well. Dendrick was a meticulous man. Tunics on the other side, perhaps?

  Sure enough, tunics, tabards, and cloaks filled the shelves on the opposite wall. But he couldn’t find anything solid black. How could that be? The closest was a black tunic that buttoned to the neck and had gold cord stitched around the cuffs, collar, and shoulders.

  It was his best option, but the gold cord bothered him, so he fetched a dagger from his armory and began slicing it off. By the time he had managed to dress himself, the dawn bells had rung and pale light filtered in through his bedchamber windows.

  Wilek opened his chamber door, eager to be seen and set rumors ablaze, to show everyone his pain. Kal and two women stood outside. They broke off their conversation and all three stared.

  Kal bowed curtly. “Good dawning, Your Highness.”

  The women curtsied. Ruzana and Duette, two of the five he appointed to his harem to appease his father. They wore the traditional two-piece gowns of concubines and each had a ruby nose ring. Their dress reminded him of Lebetta and the ache returned.

  “I’m going to the great hall,” he said, passing between Kal and the women.

  Kal followed alongside. “Those women spent the night in the corridor,” he said in a low voice. “They were here before I took the shift from Harton.”

  Wilek sighed and turned around. “Ladies, I must explain. In my chambers is a bell to summon Dendrick. If I need anything, I ring him and he assists me.”

  “But what if you need us?” Ruzana asked.

  “Any of us,” Duette added.

  “I’ll ask Dendrick to fetch you for me,” Wilek said.

  “As you wish, Your Highness.” Ruzana stepped closer, curtsied again. “Please know that we can help in many ways. Fan you or give you massages. All of us are accomplished singers and musicians. We can also dance and recite poetry.”

  As could every concubine in the palace. “Your list of accomplishments are great, indeed. If I have need of you, I’ll send Dendrick.” He spun around and walked away.

  Kal followed in silence until they reached the grand staircase. “Interesting tunic. I’ve never seen threads come out of seams like that. Shall I ask Dendrick to prepare some fresh mourning clothes for tomorrow?”

  “If you think that necessary,” Wilek said.

  “I honestly do, Your Highness.”

  The king was not in the great hall for the morning repast. The royal family rarely was. So Wilek ate alone, garnering all the sympathy he could. Every wide-eyed glance that landed on him lifted his mood. For you, Etta. The people would talk. Rumor would spread. He could hear it now.

  The First Arm mourns his concubine!

  Surely not!

  I saw him myself, dressed all in black.

  For a concubine?

  Can you believe it?

  It’s unheard of.

  He really did love her.

  He had. He still did.

  Servants brought him trays of food and he ate slowly, eyes focused on the table Lebetta would have been sitting at.

  Halfway through his meal, Dendrick approached and bowed low.

  “Do you need something?” Wilek asked.

  “Good dawning, Your Highness. I’m sorry I missed dressing you this morning. You should have awakened me.”

  “I managed on my own.”

  “Yes, I see that, sir.” Dendrick’s throat bobbed. “A summons has arrived from your father. I’m afraid he w
ishes to discuss your attire.”

  Word traveled fast. Wilek fought back a smile. “The king awake so early?”

  “The prophet Yohthehreth, I believe, saw you and went to the rosâr. Might I, um, groom your jacket before the meeting? Perhaps tidy your hair?”

  Wilek had not thought to groom his hair. “Thank you, Dendrick. You always strive to help me look my best. But I am making a point this morning. It is the only way my father will hear me.”

  “Of course, Your Highness.”

  “I’ll make sure he knows you opposed my decision.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness.”

  Kal and Dendrick waited outside the king’s bedchamber. Wilek entered and found his father sitting in his rollchair, eating breakfast at a table before his fireplace. The room smelled strongly of the vapor bath Father’s attendants were preparing and the scented garlands prescribed for the king’s ailments.

  “Good dawning, Father.” Wilek gave a low bow, much deeper than custom required.

  “What’s this nonsense you’re wearing?” Father snapped as he bit into a hard-cooked egg, which crumbled bits of dried yolk into his pointed beard.

  Wilek looked down at himself and feigned surprise. “You dislike it?”

  “It looks as if you took it off a dead man in the Sink.”

  “I confess, I found it myself in the middle of the night. It is difficult to see with only a candle. Dendrick begged me to change, but I wanted to look as shabby as I feel.”

  “You know full well that mourning is for family.”

  “Lebetta was family to me. She was my wife in every way but the law.”

  The king growled. “Wives are for bearing children. She did none of that, did she? In ten years, not one pregnancy.”

  “I will mourn her, Father.”

  “You will not! The mere suggestion is preposterous.”

  The fact that she had mattered to Wilek should have been reason enough, but the king was not a compassionate man. “I loved her. I want to honor her memory. I must.”

  Father glared at him, face oily and tense. “Fine,” he barked. “Take the day to wear your blacks. Tomorrow this ends.”

  One day would not be enough. “I want the full five months for Lebetta.”

  The king’s nostrils flared as he glared at Wilek. “Five days.”

  “Five weeks.”

  “Fifteen days.”

  Wilek set his chin. Lebetta deserved the full five months and nothing less. But if he pushed, he might find himself spending the night in the dungeon. Then who would see his blacks? Fifteen days was long enough for word to spread and people to know how he felt. “Fifteen days. Thank you, Father.”

  “Now get out of my sight. And have Dendrick find you something more suitable. I won’t have my son looking like a commoner, even if he does look like a fool.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Wilek strode from the aromatic bedchamber with as much pomp as the king entering the great hall. Kal and Dendrick were standing right where he left them.

  “Well?” Kal asked.

  “He gave me fifteen days.”

  Kal nodded his approval. “Well done.”

  Wilek had wanted more. “She deserves the full five months.”

  “Finding her killer will honor her more,” Kal said. “Come with me to question the Magonian women.”

  “Forgive me, Your Highness,” Dendrick said. “Might we change you first? You will look more foreboding in your official blacks.”

  “I would have put them on if I could have found them, Dendrick.” But Wilek had made his point with the king. He saw no reason to refuse. “Lead on.”

  Dendrick’s tense expression faded some. “Also, Your Highness, you had planned to invite Lady Zeroah to dine with you in the great hall from now on. Last night after you departed, I took the liberty of passing on that invitation. She accepted.”

  The last thing Wilek wanted at the moment was to spend time with a child so utterly opposite of Lebetta in every way, but he supposed he must.

  “I hope I did not overstep,” Dendrick said.

  “Not at all,” Wilek said. “Your doing so likely mended my rude departure. Thank you for thinking of it.” Dinner was hours away. He could worry about Lady Zeroah then. “Now, find me my blacks, Dendrick. I have a murderer to catch.”

  Trevn

  After breaking his fast, Trevn left his chambers with his wax tablet and rune sketch. Cadoc, his new shield, was waiting outside. The man was shorter and younger than most guards, but his muscular arms and near dozen braids bound in a warrior’s tail were warning enough. And while Trevn loathed having a shield, he did like the way his hunting horn insignia looked on Cadoc’s tabard. It was the first time anyone had worn the mark. Trevn himself was not allowed to wear it until his ageday.

  “Your Highness,” Cadoc said in his slow, measured voice. “How are you this morning?”

  “Slightly bitter to see you as always.” Trevn started down the hall to the main staircase, trying to decide whether or not he wanted to make Cadoc run today. So far he had been unable to lose the man.

  “Trevn!”

  He turned. Hinck was sprinting toward them. Trevn had only seen his backman move this fast when he was trying to keep up on the roofs.

  Hinck reached him and dragged him by the arm several paces away from Cadoc. He stuffed a scrap of parchment into Trevn’s hand. No, it was paper. In Armania, correspondence on such a medium was as rare as the trees it came from.

  “From Miss Mielle.” Hinck raised his eyebrows.

  “For me?”

  “She certainly wouldn’t write to me, now would she?”

  Thinking of Miss Mielle made Trevn’s mouth go dry. Why would she write? Demanding his solution to the orphans’ plight, no doubt. “Did you read it?”

  Hinck bowed low, sweeping his arm dramatically to the side. “I am but a humble backman.”

  He had read it. “What does it say?”

  Hinck straightened. “Read it yourself, fool. It is one sentence long.”

  Trevn glanced at Cadoc, who was watching them, then unfolded the paper and read.

  Sâr Trevn,

  Would you be so kind as to meet me in the queen’s garden in the quarter hour before first sleep?

  With reverence and gratitude,

  Mielle Allard

  She wanted to meet. Why? He had never before received a note from a girl—a woman. Miss Mielle was of age. “How did you get this?”

  “A maid from Fairsight Manor handed it to me when I was leaving the practice field this morning. I told her correspondence should go through Beal, but she said this was unofficial and asked me to pass it to you.”

  Unofficial. “What does that mean?”

  Hinck shrugged. “Who cares? A pretty woman wants to meet you in the garden. Go and thank Mikreh.”

  “You think her pretty?”

  “More of a lioness, like Cetheria in human form. Give her a sword and I’d kneel for fear she’d cut off my head.”

  “It would be your arm,” Trevn said, “she’s quite clumsy. You think I should go?”

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  “Forgotten my disaster with Shessy Wallington already?”

  “Miss Mielle isn’t Shessy, Trev. But if you don’t trust her, don’t go.”

  Trevn nodded and shoved the paper underneath the lid of his wax tablet.

  “What are you going to do?” Hinck asked.

  “I guess we’ll both find out later. Father Tomek will be waiting.” He walked toward the stairwell, feeling somehow more alive. Cadoc shadowed him, which somewhat dampened the thrill of having a pretty woman ask to meet him.

  She was pretty, he decided. Not only for the reasons Hinck said. Trevn had enjoyed talking to her. She was smarter than any girl he knew. Liked to climb. Hated rules and injustice. And when she smiled, it somehow pinned him to his chair.

  What could she want from him? The mere thought that she might be looking to take advantage of his position made h
im queasy. He actually slowed a little to catch his breath.

  Surely she wasn’t like Shessy.

  He wavered back and forth all the way to the classroom. Father Tomek had yet to arrive. Trevn sat at his desk and pulled out Miss Mielle’s note. Read it again, wondering.

  Father Tomek strolled into the room and up to his desk. “Good morning, Sâr Trevn.”

  Trevn shoved the note under his tablet and traded it for one of the rune sketches he had copied late last night.

  “Father, did you hear what happened to the Honored Lady Lebetta?”

  “Who?”

  “Wilek’s concubine. They found her in the courtyard last night, eaten by drice.” He carried his drawing to his tutor’s desk. “She drew this in her own blood. Do you know what it means?”

  “Gracious me, what a terrible thing.” Father Tomek took the drawing and frowned as he studied it. “Mantic runes?”

  “We think so, but Wilek cannot find anyone to translate them.”

  “Yes, well, that’s unsurprising. I might be able to help, but I’ll need to consult some old scrolls. May I borrow this?”

  “You may keep it. I have another copy.”

  “How wise. You’d make an excellent scribe if you didn’t have to be a priest.”

  “Won’t I make an excellent priest too?”

  Tomek twisted his lips. “That remains to be seen. Now take your seat. Today’s discussion is on the Mythos of The Hand, which is . . . ?”

  “The basis for most religions in the Five Realms.” Trevn grabbed a sheet of velum from the cabinet where he’d left it to dry yesterday and returned to his desk.

  “Why is the hand a sacred symbol?”

  “Because the hand of Arman created the world, so the hand is revered. Plus, a hand has five fingers, which is why many believe the number five is providential.”

  “Very good. Which is the oldest religion in the Five Realms?”

  “Armanite,” Trevn said. “Most believe that Arman created the world and rules as father over it. Armanites believe Arman is the only god.”

  “How does that differ from the Rôb and Sheresh faiths?”

  “Rôb believes in multiple gods. Most followers choose five to follow devotedly. Sheresh believes that man is above all—that even the gods serve man.”