King's Folly

by Jill Williamson

  Never in his life had he imagined such misery existed. Even with the protection of gloves, Wilek’s hands were blistered from using the pole. The men worked nonstop until all the tubers had been cut, pounded, and milled, their starchy mixture spread on wire screens to dry. When they finished, they hauled buckets of water to each of the maiden’s tents for bathing.

  “What now?” Wilek asked Three after the baths had been delivered.

  “Now we eat,” Three said.

  Thank the gods. Wilek left his gloves behind and followed the men to a tent in the center of camp. The smell of something fried drifted from inside. Three and Four ducked inside, but Wilek’s legs carried him on.

  He looked back. “I cannot stop walking.”

  “You’re being summoned,” Three said from the tent’s doorway. “Be polite. When in doubt, say nothing.”

  Wilek faced forward, wondering where his legs would take him. Charlon’s tent, likely, but he passed by hers and climbed the hill to the red tent.

  The Chieftess.

  A man armed with a shard club held open the flap, and the first thing Wilek noticed on entering was that Charlon was here. And that he felt safer with her close by. She stood on the other side of a throne. Their eyes met, and she glanced down. Shame welled inside him—her shame. What did she regret?

  He tore his gaze from Charlon and inspected his surroundings. It was colder here than in Charlon’s tent. The Chieftess sat upon a fancy throne of woven whitethorn branches. A man stood on one side, fanning her with a fat palm branch—the woman was hot?

  The Chieftess herself was solemn, though attractive like any Magonian woman with her reddish-gray skin and gray eyes. She didn’t look all that impressive for a ruler. Nor did her tent. A mismatch of fur pelts, leather scraps, and straw mats covered the floor. The Chieftess wore versions of the same. Why hadn’t this nomadic woman conquered Armania long ago? A compulsion on the king would have done the trick.

  “Prince Wilek Hadar, welcome,” the Chieftess said in the Kinsman tongue. “Won’t you kneel?”

  He paused, waiting for his knees to bend automatically. When they didn’t, he said, “I prefer to stand.”

  The Chieftess chuckled. “Men are always hard to break,” she said to Charlon. “Royal men are the worst. Brak.”

  His knees slammed onto the straw mat, the weave biting his skin. A white lizard slithered up to him. Its blue tongue shot out and tasted his thigh.

  “You don’t yet believe,” the Chieftess said, “but Magonia will soon rule the Five Realms.”

  All five? Wilek scoffed. “Impossible.”

  “Hâcâh,” the Chieftess said.

  And Wilek could no longer speak. His hands slid off the mat on their own, rubbed the dirt, then spread the dust on his own face. He recalled the Magonian mother doing this after the earthquake and seethed inside. He owed no honor to this witch.

  The lizard scampered toward the throne, climbed the Chieftess’s leg, and settled on her lap. She stroked its back. “Our rule has been prophesied for centuries. Even your priests know this. You are fortunate to have been chosen. The Father will be remembered in our new history”

  Wilek wanted to rail at her, to tell her she was a fool and demand she release him from these insulting spells. But as he couldn’t speak, he could only listen. He tried to raise his head so he could at least glare at the hateful woman, but he couldn’t even do that. His breath puffed out in a frosty cloud, its size the only evidence of his anger.

  “Seems he would rather be elsewhere,” the Chieftess said. “Take him to your tent, Mother. I won’t receive him again until you carry his child.”

  His child, the mad witches. The moment the Chieftess released his body and voice from her hold, Wilek stood and said, “I won’t be an accessory in your war against the Five Realms.”

  “Go before I silence you forever,” the Chieftess commanded.

  Suddenly Wilek was moving out the door and down the cliffside. His legs didn’t stop until he was inside Charlon’s tent. Beside the waiting tub of bathwater, he found a folded kasah, which he used to wipe the dirt off his face.

  Charlon entered the tent. “You’re hungry. Come and let us eat.”

  Wilek was hungry. Desperately so. Thirsty too. And itchy. He scratched the insides of his forearms where a rash had grown. Reluctantly he followed Charlon to the mats surrounding the fire in the center of the tent. A feast awaited, set out in bowls. He wondered which of the men had done this.

  Charlon knelt on the mats. Wilek sat across from her, on the other side of the fire. He tore into the food like a starved animal, wolfing down bites, stopping only to itch. It was the first food he had eaten all day. Some kind of roasted bird and chunks of cactus. Bland, but hot.

  “You’ve been poisoned,” Charlon said, pointing to his arms. “The starch from the ahvenrood sometimes gets on your skin. I could heal you, but I won’t.”

  Wilek should be afraid, yet Charlon had no fear for his life, so why should he? “Why not?”

  She smiled, and though she was smaller than Lady Zeroah, he could see that she was older. “That bit won’t kill. And it will be good, for you to see the Veil.”

  Mythical nonsense.

  She sensed his doubt. “The Veil is where we see the spirits. Spirits that allowed me to speak with your woman. Want to know? How she died?”

  Wilek choked on the half-chewed meat in his mouth. He fell into a coughing fit, grabbed a jug of water, and washed it away. He regained his composure and peered at the witch through half-lidded eyes, wary. “If you mean to manipulate me with your lies, don’t bother.”

  “The binding spell grieves you,” Charlon said. “I feel your emotions. Just as you feel mine. I only wish to ease your sorrow.”

  “To ease your own.”

  “Perhaps. Would you rather—?”

  “Just tell me.”

  “You are sure?” she asked. “You might not like it.”

  Wilek wasn’t sure at all. He knew better than to mess with black spirits. But whatever she had to say could be no worse than knowing nothing. “Who killed her?” he asked.

  “Drice. In her perfume bottle.”

  “Who put them there? She must have had some idea.”

  “She did. Wouldn’t tell me. To protect you.”

  “How does that protect me?”

  “The one who left the drice. He was a mantic. Lebetta feared my shadir would tell his. That he would learn she betrayed him. And he would follow through on his threat to kill you.”

  “How did she leave her room that night? Where did she go?”

  “She didn’t say how she left. But she went to speak with Prince Janek. To ask to be his mistress.”

  “What?” Being a mistress would be a demotion from concubine. “What did he tell her?”

  “She was killed before she could see him.”

  Why Janek? “Did she love Janek?”

  “No. But she needed to stay. In the castle. To protect you. Prince Janek was the only way.”

  “Then why did she go to him before?”

  “To punish you. So you would know. What it felt like to share the one you loved.”

  The words struck like a blow to the chest. “So I’m to blame for everything? If I hadn’t banished her she would still be alive.” And if he’d agreed to marry her, she would never have gone to Janek in the first place.

  “Being cast from your favor brought death sooner. But Lebetta had refused to help those who sought to do you harm. Her murderer would have lost patience. At some point. Taken her life anyway.”

  “Who? Who wanted to do me harm? And how? Why not simply kill me and be done with it?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  Silence stretched between them. Wilek scratched his arms and realized he believed every word Charlon had spoken. He felt a fool yet could think of no reason for her to invent such a tale. He felt her sincerity. Her honesty. Now that the words were in his mind, they seemed true. Lebetta had been asked to betray him. She had
refused. And her refusal had ended her life.

  “Can you speak to her again? Can I speak to her?”

  “That would counteract my goal.”

  Because she wanted him to give her a child. Could he negotiate? Agree if she let him speak to Lebetta? Was it worth it?

  Of course not! How could he even consider it?

  Wilek ate his fill, then lay down on his mat in the corner. Exhausted from a day of hard labor, sleep came quickly.

  A dream of Lebetta being sacrificed to Barthos woke him in the middle of the night. He felt ill. Feverish. The rash on his arms burned, and even though he couldn’t see it in the dark, he could feel several raw bumps.

  You’re going to die, a voice taunted in his head.

  That one lies, a lower voice said. Ask my help and I will free you.

  “Who’s there?” Wilek asked, heart racing.

  In a flash of light, a plume of yellow smoke cackled and passed over where he lay.

  A purple fog followed it, curling and smoking in wreaths above his chest. Three dark eyes peeked out from the cloud and blinked at him. You want to be free, don’t you?

  He lies! the yellow one shrieked, flashing past again. You don’t need his help. Kill the woman and you’ll be free.

  Kill Charlon?

  Her words came back to him then. Was this the Veil?

  Terror fell like a net. “Go away!” Wilek yelled. “You have no power over me!”

  The purple one vanished, but the yellow continued to circle his torso. It passed over him, disappeared into the ground on one side, came up on his other side, and passed over him again.

  Charlon woke and whispered words in a language he didn’t understand. The yellow spirit vanished, as did the fierce itching on his arms. They felt smooth again. He began to slip back toward sleep.

  Before losing himself to the night, a single and clear thought came to him. Charlon had made a mistake in casting a soul-binding spell. Roya had abused him that afternoon at the cistern. The compulsion spell could force him to do anything. Yet Charlon, who wanted his child, had not forced him to sleep with her. Their soul-bound connection made her merciful toward him.

  He must find a way to exploit that mercy and escape.

  Trevn

  What is the Lahavôtesh? Some would say it is freedom. A sect of the Rôb faith founded by Prince Mergest III, the Lahavôtesh serves as a popular outlet for Sarikarians who find the rules and pious lifestyle of the Armanite faith oppressive. Followers meet in each other’s homes, often in secret, as King Ormarr opposes all that deviates from the Book of Arman. The king has recently disinherited his eldest son and deposed him as heir, claiming the Lahavôtesh is a cult that is causing dissention for the realm of Sarikar. Prince Mergest and his followers disagree. They defend their sect as being superior to Armanite, insisting that the Lahavôtesh focuses on peace, love, and forgiveness compared to Armanite’s punitive legalism.

  —Father Lamis, high priest of Armanite, House Pitney 507

  My study of the Lahavôtesh sect has brought forth a revelation. I have spent the last six years learning ancient Armanian, and my recent fluency has led me to a translation. The word tesh means “followers.” La is an article meaning “the.” And havôt means “powerful shadir.” This group is not a sect of the Rôb faith but one of Kabar, the faith of the mother realms. Followers beware.

  —Father Lamis, high priest of Armanite, House Pitney 513

  This was the research Father Tomek had left for Trevn in his old classroom. He found the scrolls underneath the clay tablets that spoke of the Five Woes, just as Father Tomek said he would.

  Growing up in Sarikar, Trevn had heard the stories about how Prince Jorger had been made Heir after his older brother’s disinheritance. Trevn’s tutors had always been Armanian and had only taught him House Pitney’s political history. Trevn had never known the reason behind Prince Mergest’s fall until this very moment.

  Could it be coincidence that the Kabaran sect used as its insignia the very rune combination Lady Lebetta had drawn in blood as she lay dying? Trevn thought not. Which would mean the Lahavôtesh were active in Armania. Were Cousin Eudora or Lilou Caridod part of this sect?

  Trevn still was not sure, nor was he certain how to find out.

  “My pardon, Your Highness,” Cadoc said.

  Trevn glanced up. His shield was standing in the doorway. “Yes?”

  “Your father has summoned you.”

  “Again?” Trevn wanted to scream. In Wilek’s absence, Janek had become Father’s number one, which made Trevn number two, which meant more meetings than ever before. This was the third time in the same day! “Very well. First I must visit my mother’s apartment.”

  Once the documents Father Tomek had left for Trevn were safely stored away in the secret room in his mother’s apartment, Trevn set out to meet his father.

  He arrived at the royal apartment and found his mother, the king, and Princess Nabelle waiting in Father’s office. Dread seized him like a cloud of steam.

  “Sit, Trevn,” Father said. “We must discuss an important matter.”

  Trevn sat.

  “It is tradition for Armanian and Sarikarian royalty to intermarry,” Father said. “Keeps our interests mutual. With Wilek gone, everyone is a bit concerned. Right, Princess?”

  “Indeed,” Princess Nabelle said. “The people of Sarikar have been anticipating my daughter’s wedding to Sâr Wilek for a decade. Even more so after what happened with Sâr Janek and Princess Nolia.”

  Trevn didn’t like where this conversation was headed or the smile on his mother’s face. “Lady Zeroah greatly admires my brother Wilek,” he said carefully. “They will make a fine match.”

  “Wilek might be dead,” Father said.

  The man may as well have punched Trevn in the gut. “He is not dead, Father.”

  The king raised his hand. “Hear me out. He might be. If so, we are left with no pending marriage treaties with Sarikar. King Jorger informed me that should Lady Zeroah be cast aside, he will cease free trade between our realms and demand payment in full on all our debts. We have plenty of debts to Sarikar we cannot pay, my son. If we cannot pay, King Jorger can declare war.”

  War. The word shocked Trevn. “He wouldn’t do that.”

  “Oh, he would love an excuse to cut off our sinful, Rôbish heads,” Father said, practically scowling at Princess Nabelle. “Now, I think our army would stand a fair chance against him, but I’d rather it didn’t come to that. You see where this is going, don’t you?”

  He certainly did. “You want me to marry Lady Zeroah.” The words came out whispered and strange, like someone else had said them.

  “I love the idea,” Mother said.

  Father glared at her, then said to Trevn, “Janek offered, but they don’t match in fives. You and Lady Zeroah are the same age. I see Mikreh’s favor in that.”

  “No,” Trevn said.

  Father glared at him. “You think I give you a choice?”

  “I won’t take my brother’s bride,” Trevn said.

  “Fools die from lack of judgment,” Mother snapped. “Sâr Wilek is likely dead!”

  “You don’t know that,” Trevn snapped back. He took a deep breath and tried to be reasonable. “It’s only been a couple months since he left. Assuming the worst is irrational. Lady Zeroah turns sixteen in, what, eight months? If Wilek is still missing then, I will marry her to keep peace between our realms. But I see no reason to panic until we know for certain.”

  The room fell silent but for Mother’s sudden weeping.

  “I suppose we can wait until then,” Father said. “Princess Nabelle, what say you?”

  “It is a fair compromise,” Princess Nabelle said. “I doubt my father would object to waiting eight more months, as long as we sign an agreement.”

  “Fine. I’ll have the papers drawn up,” Father said, ready to move on to the next thing. “Trevn, you will come here and sign them with Lady Zeroah. Tomorrow, an hour before midday. Is tha
t convenient, Princess?”

  She nodded.

  “Tomorrow, then, Trevn,” Father said. “Dismissed.”

  Trevn returned to his chambers in a daze, Cadoc at his side. When they arrived, they found Hinck outside the door, arguing with a priest in blue robes. It was Zithel Lau, the medial priest of Rôb who had playacted as Dendron in Magon’s Betrayal.

  “What’s this?” Trevn asked.

  “He said he had permission to search your room,” Hinck said.

  “I’ve been sent to retrieve your apprentice copy of the Holy Book, Your Highness,” Lau said.

  The words instantly set Trevn on edge. “Sent by whom?”

  “Pontiff Rogedoth.”

  “Leave,” Trevn said. “If the Pontiff wants to speak to me, he may set up an appointment in the usual manner. I am a Prince of Armania. I will not be treated like a commoner.”

  “The Pontiff won’t be pleased,” Lau said. “The church is the highest authority in the realm. Above even the rosâr.”

  “Is that a fact?” Trevn asked. “Let us go to my father now so you can give him this news.”

  The priest paled.

  “No? If you are unwilling to speak to the rosâr, this conversation is over. If I catch you near my chambers again, I will have you sent to the pole. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” As Lau scurried away, Trevn caught sight of a silver ankle cuff on his leg.

  “Lau!” he called out.

  The man turned back, bowed. “Yes, Your Highness?”

  “Your ankle cuff. Do all medial priests wear one?”

  Lau looked down at his foot, lifting his robes until the cuff showed. “No, Your Highness. This was a gift from the Pontiff when I took my vows. He gives each of his acolytes something unique.”

  Trevn faked a smile. “How thoughtful.”

  Lau nodded, bowed, then fled.

  Trevn watched him go, seething. He had to do something, quickly. “Hinck, summon two guards to watch my door.” He started for the grand stairs. “Cadoc, with me.”