King's Folly

by Jill Williamson

The boat lifted past a small, round window, but Grayson had been too slow to see inside. They were already halfway up!

  Grayson smiled and looked over the side, watching the water drizzle into the sea below. Something moved under the dinghy. It looked like a foot. Grayson frowned, turned around to get a better look, and saw two hands holding tight to the end of the boat. He leaned over the side and met a man’s dark gaze. The man was holding on to the back of the dinghy.

  Grayson gasped and leaned back, out of the man’s sight. “Sir Kalenek,” he said softly.

  One of the oarsmen said something to Sir Kalenek, who laughed.

  “Sir Kalenek,” Grayson said a little louder.

  The man still did not hear.

  They were over halfway up the side of the ship. Grayson stood up and took a step, but the wiggling of the boat made him lose his balance and he fell onto the middle bench, where Onika was sitting.

  “Stay seated, Grayson,” Sir Kalenek said. “We’re almost to the top.”

  As Sir Kalenek looked his way, Grayson pointed to the back of the boat, but the man went back to his conversation with the oarsmen.

  “Stay close to us on this ship, Grayson,” Onika said. “I am not yet ready to be parted from you.”

  “Onika, there is a man who—”

  The boat stopped, and Sir Kalenek and an oarsman climbed over the side.

  “Sir Kalenek!” Grayson yelled.

  “Patience, Grayson,” he said.

  “But . . .” He glanced back to the hands. Still there.

  The men helped Onika climb over the railing. Rustian crouched and jumped up.

  The second oarsman glanced at Grayson. “Come on, boy.”

  Grayson motioned to the side of the boat and mouthed the words “Man down there” just as the man crawled up and over. Grayson stumbled back from the stranger and tripped on an inner rib of the boat. He fell hard on his backside and cried out.

  Another man climbed over the front end. He shoved the oarsman out of the boat. Grayson heard the man scream, then a splash. The two men inside the dinghy held knives to the ropes on each end.

  “Cut!” the first yelled.

  They sawed against the ropes, and the boat jerked and twisted.

  “Sir Kalenek!” Grayson called.

  The first oarsman looked over the ship’s railing and down into the dinghy. “Hey!”

  Sir Kalenek appeared next, reached for Grayson. “Stand up! Grab my hand. Hurry!”

  Grayson stretched his hand toward Sir Kalenek, but the boat fell. His stomach twisted and he screamed.

  Sir Kalenek, still reaching out, yelled, “No!”

  The boat crashed into the water, knocking the back of Grayson’s head against one of the ribs.

  The thieves grabbed the oars and began rowing.

  “Get out of the boat, Grayson!” Sir Kalenek’s voice, from somewhere above.

  Grayson wanted to obey, but he couldn’t swim. Sir Kalenek had saved him when he fell in the floodwaters. Would he do it again? Grayson looked over the side and into the dark and cloudy water. Too scary. He glanced up at the king’s ship. A group of soldiers were tussling with Sir Kalenek, trying to hold him back, as if he wanted to jump in to rescue Grayson. That made Grayson feel good.

  Onika stood to the right of the fighting men. It looked like she was watching Grayson, which was silly—she was blind. Still, he lifted his hand and waved just as the dinghy floated under the pier.

  The darkness frightened him. He wanted to ask the men where they were going, but he remained silent, afraid that if they remembered he was there, they would throw him over.

  They rowed under the pier for a very long time. When they came out again, the sun made Grayson wince. People started jumping into the boat. Someone stepped on him. He squeezed under the center bench and hugged his knees to his chest, trying to be smaller, but he’d grown so much in the past few months that it was much harder to do than it used to be.

  People kept coming. Squished against Grayson. Men, women, children. How many could this dinghy hold? Grayson peeked out from under the bench and tried to count them but lost his way when he came to fifteen on a girl he had counted already.

  “Everyone sit still or you’ll sink us!” a man yelled.

  But people kept shifting, trying to make more room. Finally the dinghy moved away from the shore, out into the open sea. The people were all talking at once. Grayson clapped his hands over his ears. He was shaking. He was scared. How would he get to the king’s boat now? How would he ever see Jhorn again? Or Onika? He gasped. How would he protect Onika if he wasn’t there? Burk would find her. Even though Sir Kalenek had left Burk on the Rurekan boat, he would find Onika, just like she said would happen. And Grayson wouldn’t be there to stop him.

  Why had this happened? Why hadn’t Grayson been smart enough to get out of the boat? Who cared if men were trying to steal it? No wonder Grayson annoyed everyone so much. Right now he annoyed himself.

  Wilek

  Wilek was surprised how clear the road was. People stood clustered in the ditches, yelling and shoving each other, but not one entered the street. He and Harton rode easily, skirting several fall-ins, cracks, and crumbled buildings. By the time they reached the harbor, however, the crowd converged upon them as if suddenly remembering they wanted to leave too.

  Wilek and Harton had to draw their swords to keep people out of their way. Eventually they reached the wall of guards keeping the commoners from the gangplank to the king’s ship.

  “Make way for the Heir,” Harton yelled. “Sâr Wilek is here.”

  When the guards saw that Harton’s words were true, they moved aside and let them both ride their horses right over the gangplank and onto the deck.

  Wilek left Foxaro there and made his way to the quarterdeck, where he found Admiral Vendal. “How does the register look, Admiral? Are we all on board?”

  “It’s been a nightmare to count the commoners, Your Highness,” the admiral said. “Rosârah Brelenah insisted we let another five dozen people board. I’m sure we’re past maximum capacity. Also, I’m sorry to say that the prisoners never arrived.”

  Wilek stiffened in alarm. “Pontiff Rogedoth?”

  “He and the other four.” The admiral shook his head. “No one knows what became of their carriage.”

  Sands! What did it mean to have Rogedoth out there, free? “Anything else?”

  “As to the royal family, the Mother Rosârah has not yet arrived, and—”

  “The Mother Rosârah is dead,” Wilek said, fighting the rush of emotion that came over him at speaking those words.

  “Oh,” the admiral said. “I’m sorry to hear that, Your Highness. I always admired her.”

  “I interrupted you,” Wilek said. “Who else is still missing?”

  “Sâr Trevn has not yet boarded.”

  Wilek groaned. Where are you, Trevn? “Did anyone see him?”

  “A guard saw him enter the castle with the Earl of Dacre and the Duke of Canden.”

  Wilek nodded, dismayed at the thought of leaving Trevn behind, Oli and Hinckdan too. “We’ll wait a bit longer.” On the pier, the mob fought the guards. Some tried to climb the dock lines, but the guards pushed them off into the sea. “Is there room for commoners aboard the other ships?”

  “I cannot say,” Admiral Vendal said. “If I send a runner to another ship, he’ll likely never make it, let alone return with an answer. Perhaps once we put out to sea, we could send skiffs back and forth to determine whether there is any more space. To the Rurekan ships as well.”

  “What Rurekan ships?” Wilek asked.

  “A fleet came in this midday from Rurekau. Sir Kalenek Veroth boarded with some passengers just moments ago.”

  Kal! “Take me to him.”

  The admiral ordered a sailor to do so. Wilek, eager to see his High Shield, followed along with Harton. They found Kal’s cabin guarded by two armed men.

  “What’s this?” Wilek asked. “Is my High Shield a prisoner?”
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br />   “He attacked several sailors,” a guard said.

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Some commoners hijacked his dinghy with a boy inside.”

  A boy? “Let me in.”

  The guards opened the door. Wilek entered, only to be tackled to the floor. A short struggle followed. Guards pulled off Wilek’s attacker. It was Kal.

  Kal’s eyes gained recognition. Anger melted into heavy sorrow. He fell to his knees and hung his head. “I have failed you, Your Highness.”

  “On the contrary. I received your message from Master Heln. We are evacuating the city, as you suggested.”

  “I lost the boy. He was important. They have kept me here, where I could not give chase.”

  “Who is lost? What boy?”

  “His name is Grayson. Thieves stole the dinghy we came over in with the boy still inside. If anyone finds out what he is . . . our enemies could use him against us.”

  What enemies? It was unlike Kal to behave with such defeat. “Let us go to the quarterdeck. If commoners stole a dinghy, they will fill it with people and try to board a ship. We will watch for it.”

  Kal stood, expression eager. “You’ll let me out?”

  “Of course. Let’s see if we can find this boy.”

  Kal nodded. “Thank you, Your Highness. We must hurry.”

  Trevn

  Trevn stood with Hinck, Cadoc, and Oli on the corner where Procession Way met the Sink road. The path to the docks was crammed with debris and people.

  Oli lifted his sword. “We’ll have to fight our way through.”

  Trevn pressed his hand to his abdomen. “We would never make it. I have a better way.” He walked toward the bakery. Its windows had been smashed; it looked to be abandoned. He opened the door and went inside. Empty. Even the food shelves had been cleared out.

  “You know a shortcut?” Oli asked.

  “Indeed I do,” Trevn said.

  Hinck groaned. “Not the roofs.”

  “It’s the fastest way. By far.”

  “Last time, at least,” Hinck said. “It will take years to build enough roofs for you to run wherever we land.”

  “What do you mean run?” Oli asked.

  Cadoc chuckled. “You’ll see.”

  “Put away that sword, Your Grace,” Trevn said. “You will need that hand.”

  Trevn led the way out the back of the bakery and up the ladder. His wounds hurt with each rung. The rooftops were delightedly vacant. He instantly started running, which hurt his gut. He pressed one hand tight against the cut and ran anyway, clutching the map tube tightly to his side with his other hand.

  They ran. It was the same path Trevn had taken dozens of times before, but this time he didn’t much enjoy it. His mind dwelled on Beal’s words about his mother, and he wondered where Mielle might be. He almost didn’t see the missing chandler’s shop and barely stopped in time, his feet skidding over crumbled masonry. A peek at the street showed that the building had collapsed into rubble.

  Five Woes! Trevn took in the destruction and backtracked to the butcher’s shop behind the Lazy Man’s Inn. He had to stop before reaching the leatherworks to catch his breath. He doubted he could make the jump with his wounds. Below, the streets were chaos, people packed together like wheat in a sheaf.

  Cadoc reached him. “Are you well?”

  “I’ll live,” Trevn said. “We could have jumped here if someone hadn’t stabbed me.”

  “I said I was sorry, Your Ungratefulness,” Hinck said. “Guess we go my way today.” Hinck led them to the rear of the leatherworks, down the half ladder to the roof of the weaver’s, and on from there.

  Another tremor came, and they stopped to wait it out. Across the street a tenement crumbled. People on the ground screamed and scattered, but with the street so packed, they only trampled each other. Trevn looked away as the chunks of stone from the building crushed the crowd. On the other side of the temple, an angry throng of people swarmed the pier. Leagues inland much of the city was burning.

  They climbed down to one of the lower roofs that edged the harbor, approaching from the south. Trevn’s feet had barely touched ground when a familiar voice yelled his name.

  “Sâr Trevn!”

  A filthy, blood-spattered man staggered toward them. Who was that? He was wearing part of a guard’s uniform—no tabard, belt, or sword. Boots were gone too. Yet he wore a woman’s ribbon tied in his hair like he’d just won a match at tournament.

  Cadoc drew his sword and moved to engage.

  The man lifted his hands above his head. “Cadoc, no! It’s me, Novan Heln.”

  Cadoc lowered his sword. “Five Woes, man, what happened to you?”

  Novan shook his head, eyes hollow and distant as he studied the mob. “We’re all going to die, aren’t we?” His voice cracked.

  “Not on my watch,” Cadoc said.

  Trevn took a deep breath and considered the mob. “We’re going to have to fight our way through.”

  “You mean we are,” Oli said. “Not you.”

  “Exactly.” Trevn grinned. “I seem to have forgotten a sword.”

  “Mine was taken,” Novan said. “But I will stand behind you, Your Highness.”

  “Very well,” Trevn said. “Let us board the ship.”

  Oli, Cadoc, and Hinck waved their bloodied swords to clear a path. Novan shoved aside anyone who came near, and they slowly made their way across the harbor toward the gangplank of the Seffynaw.

  “It’s the sâr!” someone yelled.

  The crowd surged around them. Someone grabbed Trevn’s hair, another his arm. His feet left the ground. Sands, they were going to kill him! He hugged the map tube tightly.

  Novan charged Trevn’s attackers like a bull, knocking them away. Hinck grabbed Trevn, and the crowd went for Novan instead. Novan punched one man in the face, kicked another. Trevn snagged the guard’s arm and dragged him through the press of bodies. Cadoc lunged into their wake, sword darting out and scaring back the mob.

  When the guards at the gangplank saw Trevn, a small cheer went up.

  “We’ve been waiting for you,” one of them said.

  Trevn’s men ushered him onto the ship, where Mielle embraced him.

  Trevn gave the Book of Arman to Mielle and asked her to hide it in her cabin for the time being, knowing that he would need to find a better place. At some point he would also need to convince Wilek to read it.

  Cadoc dragged Trevn to the physician, and once he’d had his wounds dressed, he evaded his mother by sneaking up to the stern deck. He wasn’t ready to deal with the woman yet. Wasn’t sure how or what to say. Still didn’t understand Beal’s words. He would ask Wilek’s advice later. For now, Wilek was busy.

  Trevn sat cross-legged at the center of the stern rail, squished between the bodies of commoners who had drawn lot numbers. People covered the deck, sitting side by side, some with children on their laps. No part of the stern deck was visible.

  The Seffynaw had set sail moments ago. Trevn stared at the carnage that was Everton, both horrific and majestic. The maps he had pored over for so many years, drawn and redrawn—they were relics now. The cataclysmic earthquakes had riven the city into shards. The southern coastline had crumbled all the way to Echo Crack, which now looked more like a gorge. Debris filled the water. Animals and people too, the latter holding on to anything: doors, barrels, the occasional straw roof. People capsized smaller crafts, fighting each other to get inside. Behind them on shore, houses crumbled or sank beneath the ground. Despite it being so early, the tide had risen. Trevn thought back to his demonstration on the beach. It was happening. As the ground collapsed, the water rolled in to fill the holes.

  Trevn saw a man push another from a skiff. The first man struggled in the water, clearly panicked and unable to swim. Up he came, then down again. Up and down, until he no longer came up.

  Trevn closed his eyes. Let them go quickly, Arman, with little or no pain. Forgive us for not making room for more.

 
He couldn’t bear to watch more death but felt that his people—those left behind—deserved to be remembered. So he forced himself to watch until the ship carried them out of sight. He didn’t have his grow lens with him, so he said one last prayer for the people of Everton, Armania, and the Five Realms. May Arman have mercy on their souls.

  Trevn got up and walked carefully through the seated crowd. Cadoc, who’d positioned himself near the stairs, walked with him down to the quarterdeck. There they found Wilek and Kal at the port rail, each peering through grow lenses at the other ships.

  “There!” Kal yelled. “That’s the dinghy, headed for that merchant ship.” He pointed to a ship ahead on their right.

  “Looks Sarikarian,” Trevn said.

  “Can we mark it somehow?” Kal asked. “I need to go over there and find him.”

  “Patience,” Wilek said, peering again through his lens. “The Wanderer. We only need remember that name, Kal.”

  Kal nodded. “The Wanderer.”

  Trevn left them and headed toward the main deck, Cadoc following in silence. They wove between people, climbed up to the foredeck, and walked all the way to the bowsprit. Down the steps and into the nose of the ship. Some younger boys were already there, looking over the rail at the figurehead of Thalassa, goddess of the sea. Trevn stood behind them and gazed into the distance ahead. He had always wanted to know what was out there.

  Now he would get his chance.

  Not the End.

  A Note From the Author

  Thanks for reading King’s Folly, the first book in THE KINSMAN CHRONICLES. Continue the adventures of Wilek and Trevn in King’s Blood.

  This book was a challenge for two reasons: its scope and the darkness of its storyworld. I spent a lot of time researching the kings of the Old Testament and the world in which they lived. And while THE KINSMAN CHRONICLES does not directly parallel any story in the Bible, I wanted to capture the darkness and superstitions of that ancient world and show how those things continually led God’s chosen people astray.

  I’m excited to lead the Armanians back to He Who Made the World during the course of this series.