King's Blood

by Jill Williamson

  She stood. Paced across the room to the mirrorglass. Studied the reflection of Lady Zeroah. Tired of wearing this face. Even more weary of the black mourning dress. To honor the death of Princess Nabelle. The color did not make the skinny girl more attractive. Perhaps she was simply too plain. Too plain to tempt Prince Wilek. His concubine had been provocative. Now that Charlon had more ahvenrood, she might risk a small spell to enhance the girl’s figure.

  It would not help. Mreegan was right. Charlon had no hope. No hope of seducing Prince Wilek. Lady Zeroah was too demure. To behave differently would call unwanted attention. Besides, the prince had little time for his betrothed. His father was ill. Too ill to pressure him to marry. With Princess Nabelle gone and Prince Wilek preoccupied with his duties as Heir, the contracted wedding seemed forgotten. That his people came first did not surprise Charlon. Not in the least.

  “Go to Prince Janek instead,” the Chieftess had said. “I imagine he would delight in claiming his brother’s betrothed for his own.”

  No doubt he would. Such a task might prove easier. It mattered not which prince fathered Charlon’s child. So long as he was a Hadar. Yet she abhorred Prince Janek. He was everything she hated in a man.

  The Chieftess had also suggested Charlon wear Mielle’s mask. Approach Prince Trevn. In his youth he might not so easily recognize a trap. And while Charlon would enjoy putting Mielle in a trunk—for a day or two, at least—she was not yet ready to give up on Prince Wilek.

  Lies, her heart said. Charlon simply did not like Chieftess Mreegan telling her what to do.

  The Chieftess was wrong. She would see. Now that Charlon had plenty of ahvenrood. And Magon’s help to use it. Success would come. And once Magon declared Charlon Chieftess of Magonia, Mreegan would be sorry.

  Charlon woke the next morning to the reek from the trunk under her bed. Too strong to ignore another day. A spell would mask the stench for Charlon. But she could not so easily cast such a spell over everyone on board.

  Lady Zeroah must have a bath.

  Charlon moved the trunk out from under her bed. Then she opened it.

  Zeroah lay curled inside. Flinched at the light. Groaned. She was skinnier than ever. Skeletal. Had sores on her face. Two flies crawled over her greasy tangle of hair. Charlon’s heart leapt within. How had flies gotten inside? Help the girl! her heart said. This is wrong.

  Charlon knew it. But not how to stop it. She hastened to free the captive from her prison. Tipped the trunk on its side. Pulled the girl out and removed her gag.

  Now lying on the floor, Zeroah groaned and writhed. Did not stretch her legs. Did not try to stand, just cried for water.

  Charlon poured a cup from the sideboard. Helped the girl sit and drink. Charlon poured a second. Put some cheese and figs on a plate. Carried the trunk out into the corridor. Compelled the nearest maid to clean it without question.

  Went back inside and waited while Zeroah nibbled at the food.

  The girl had fought hard the first two weeks. Lost her fire after. Charlon’s heart ached to look upon her. Charlon had done this. Become the monster she’d always hated.

  “Do not look so sad,” Zeroah rasped. “I have forgiven you.”

  The words shocked. More than a strike to the face.

  The girl kept talking, as if to herself. “He Who Made the World has forgiven me for my selfishness. He answers my prayers even though I deserve no such devotion. Arman is good to me. I want to be good also.”

  “Arman?” This was the name of the father god. Torol believed him a great shadir. Magon said he was nothing but myth.

  A knock at the door. The maid returning with the trunk.

  “Silence,” she whispered to Zeroah, then said through the door. “Leave the trunk there and bring a tub filled with warm water. And tools to clean my hair and nails.” It would be a saltwater bath, unfortunately. But it would greatly reduce Zeroah’s stench.

  “Yes, lady.”

  Charlon waited until the maid’s footsteps padded away. Opened the door and pulled the trunk inside. The wood was moist from cleaning. Smelled fresh. “This is how your god is good?” she asked Zeroah. “By allowing you to be kept? Inside this?”

  Zeroah eyed the trunk warily. “It is his love for you that allows my captivity.”

  A deity love a human? Charlon doubted even Magon loved her. And they were bonded. In shared purpose. “Explain your meaning.”

  “The One God does not control his people. He gives us freedom to live how we wish. Sometimes our choices hurt others. You might not count yourself among his faithful, but Arman loves you, even though you deny him.”

  A strange accusation. “I have never denied this name.”

  “You have never called upon it either.”

  “Why should I? He has never shown himself to me.” Like Magon had.

  “Did you not see him unleash his wrath upon the Five Realms for ignoring his decrees? How he saved a remnant of followers loyal to him? Have you not noticed how he has saved his servant Sâr Wilek time and again from your plotting?”

  “Enough!” Charlon compelled Zeroah to silence. Yet her mind raced with echoes of their conversation. There was more she wanted to ask. But she did not want Zeroah to think her interested in her god. Magon was all Charlon needed. She would save her questions for Magon.

  The bath came. Charlon compelled the maid to enter, bathe Zeroah. The woman’s shock over seeing two Zeroahs, one appearing frail and mute, did not worry Charlon. She would forget everything. The moment she left the cabin.

  The maid coddled Zeroah. Fussed over every sore. Scrubbed the girl’s hair thoroughly. Then lifted her out, wrapped her in a robe, and clipped her fingernails and toenails to perfection. All the while crooning or humming. As if Zeroah were a wounded bird.

  Such kindness made Charlon long to be treated so. She had been too afraid. To allow anyone to groom or bathe her. Such touching seemed wrong somehow. Unnecessary. Yet this woman’s actions and joy as she served Zeroah contradicted any wrongness.

  When the maid finished, Charlon told her to put Zeroah back. Into the trunk. The maid balked, refused. But Charlon could not do it. So she compelled the maid to obey.

  Finally Zeroah was back inside. Hidden away. Weeping silently. Waves of guilt overcame. Charlon placed a sleeping spell on the girl. To relieve them both.

  The maid stowed the trunk discreetly beneath the bed. Charlon erased the maid’s memory. Sent her, stupidly, on her way. All forgotten.

  But not Charlon. She remembered all. The mere knowledge of Zeroah inside the trunk made Charlon want to leave. She purged out the ahvenrood poison. Once she was well, she took a sip of root juice and locked the door behind her. Set out for the stern deck.

  The sun had not been up for long. Charlon looked into the Veil. Shadir were rare on board the Seffynaw. But she found one slight. Watched it swirl around the legs of a sailor. A sailor hauling ropes across the deck.

  Magon, I need your help. I do not wish to fail you.

  Magon appeared beside her then. Looked identical to Mreegan. Had given her likeness to the Chieftess.

  Why is my servant sad? the great shadir asked.

  As the pair circled the deck, Charlon told her all that had happened. Of Zeroah’s praises for her god. Of Chieftess Mreegan’s assertion that Charlon had failed.

  They walked as if they were two friends taking a stroll. Charlon took care not to trod upon anyone. Magon, transparent and invisible to all eyes but Charlon’s, simply floated through anyone in her path.

  Do not fear, Magon told her. My plans are certain and will not fail.

  Relief washed over Charlon. All things were possible with Magon at her side.

  Inolah

  As always, Empress Inolah of Rurekau found Master Jhorn on the Baretam’s foredeck. The legless man had fashioned a red cushion with straps that he slung over his back, except when he wanted to sit down. He was seated on the cushion now, looking out through the rail’s rungs at the surrounding ships of the fleet. Hi
s beard hid his mouth from view, but the expression of his eyes and the slant of his brows gave voice to the pain he would not speak of. She knew he missed his charges, Miss Onika and the boy Grayson.

  “May I join you, Master Jhorn?” Inolah asked.

  The man looked up in surprise. “Of course, Empress. You are very welcome, though the deck is wet here, so I do not recommend you stand too close to the rail.”

  “I have brought a stool.” Inolah motioned to the guardsman behind her, who stepped forward and set the stool beside Jhorn and his cushion. Inolah settled down, instantly relieved to be off her feet. “I do not go anywhere these days without a place to sit.”

  “I cannot blame you for that,” Jhorn said. “Will the child come soon?”

  “Another two months or so, I suspect. Are you well, Master Jhorn? Do you need anything?”

  “Only more patience, I’m afraid.”

  “I am sorry Ulrik has not included you in his meetings.”

  Master Jhorn waved his hand as if scaring off a fly. “I am no one to him. I am no one to anybody, which is how I like it. Onika and Grayson are safer that way. I only wish I were with them, but I must trust them to Arman now.”

  Inolah liked this strange man. After having lived so long in a realm where men made themselves gods, to hear the God’s name spoken from the lips of any man . . . She felt peaceful in his presence, which was strange considering he had lost his legs by such violent means. But peace came from knowing Arman—such peace had helped her survive years of an abusive marriage and great loneliness.

  “I fear I am losing my children,” Inolah said. “Ulrik has chosen advisors too like his father. And he keeps Ferro with him always, even when inappropriate for one so young.”

  “You must give him space and time to make his own mistakes,” Jhorn said. “Only in hindsight will he see how true you have been.”

  Perhaps. “Unless he remains blinded.”

  “Trust him to Arman, lady. You taught him well.”

  She wanted to trust Ulrik to Arman. She really did. “I fear he has turned his back on the God. His father taught him the opposite of all my training. It is no surprise that he is confused.”

  “Confusion is a natural part of life,” Jhorn said. “Now that he is grown, you can teach more by your silent example than by use of your voice.”

  Inolah sighed. “Stop telling him what to do? Is that what you mean?”

  Jhorn winked. “Your words, lady, not mine.”

  She supposed he was right. How hard, though, for a mother to stand by in silence and watch her son destroy himself and his nation.

  Enough sorrow. She needed a change in topic. “How is Master Burk?” she asked, remembering how much Kal mistrusted the headstrong young man. “I hope he has stayed out of mischief.”

  “Young Burk has shaved his head and joined the Igote.”

  “Has he? I would think the obedience required of a military man would disagree with his pride.”

  “As did I,” Jhorn said, “but it seems to be a fair price to pay for the power it gives him over everyone else. The Igote uniform demands respect, whether or not the man wearing it is worthy. Young Burk has found a way to have respect without having to earn it.”

  Now that did sound like him. A Rurekan male, through and through.

  A page approached and bowed deeply.

  “What is it?” Inolah asked.

  “Emperor Ulrik requests your presence at a council meeting in his private dining hall.”

  “Now?” Council meetings were usually held in the mornings.

  “Yes, lady. I am to bid you to come at once.”

  Inolah nodded and turned back to face Jhorn. “I apologize that our visit was cut short today. I will think more about being a silent example.”

  Jhorn pushed himself up onto his stumps and bowed. “I am honored, Empress.”

  Inolah stifled a groan as she sat down to dinner in Ulrik’s private dining room. These days she felt hungry and full at all times, her ankles were as thick as her knees, and her back ached constantly. She had not been so uncomfortable this early in her previous pregnancies. The older she got, the harder childbearing became. Thankfully she would never be pregnant again.

  From her place at the foot of the long, narrow table, she could see everyone well. Two musicians seated in the corner of the room played soft music on lyre and harp. How odd. At the head of the table, Inolah’s eldest son, Ulrik, the recently appointed Emperor of Rurekau, sat upon his throne. He had taken to dressing as his father had: no shirt, bare chest inked in henna tracings, tan trousers embroidered in gold thread, black boots, and a floor-length cape of gold velvet. As per Rurekan tradition, his head was shaved and the tracing that covered his scalp dripped down around both eyes like a mask of tattoos. Unlike his father, Ulrik never took off the heavy ceremonial crown—despite there being lighter ones for everyday use. He also wore a single gold chain around his neck as the symbol of his office.

  She could not believe he was just shy of seventeen.

  His little brother, Ferro, sat on his right. Recently turned nine years old, Ferro was a smaller mirror image of Ulrik, right down to the velvet cape, except he wore a gold circlet and a sleeveless white shirt. On Ferro’s right sat General Balat in his brown-and-gold Igote uniform, beside him Sheriff Kakeeo. Across from those two men, Ulrik’s High Shield, Sir Iamot, and Ulrik’s onesent, Taleeb, occupied the other side of the table. All of them, including Ferro, had shaved heads and henna tracings, but none so elaborate as Ulrik’s.

  The only empty chair at the table was the one on Ulrik’s left, across from Ferro. This Ulrik had set aside for Priestess Jazlyn, High Queen of Tenma.

  The priestess had been High Queen for as many days as Ulrik had been emperor, and the woman had taken to her new authority with as much—or more—vigor as Ulrik had his. Inolah should have listened when Kal had warned her about Ulrik’s unhealthy interest in the priestess. With so many women to fawn over him, Inolah had been certain he would forget the Great Lady once he was crowned. But he had not. Quite the opposite, in fact. During the many weeks they had traveled aboard the ship from Jeruka to Everton, her son had become completely obsessed with the Tennish queen. She, of course, had spurned all his advances, whether he invited her to dine, dance, or simply walk the ship in his company. Her answer had always been no.

  Tennish women didn’t marry and viewed romance as a weakness. Men were slaves in Tenma, so it was no surprise that the woman had no interest in Ulrik. But the young emperor thought so highly of himself that Tennish customs were no barrier to his desires. He pursued the priestess as relentlessly as she denied him. Inolah worried that when his patience finally wore thin, he would respond in anger and the mantic woman would destroy him with her magic as she had his father.

  The musicians ended one song and began another—a slow love song, Inolah realized in a sudden rush. While the High Queen wanted nothing to do with Ulrik romantically, she insisted upon attending his council meetings and having her say where her people were concerned—no matter that they were no more than twenty of the five hundred sixty-three souls on board the Baretam. Apparently this dinner “meeting” was yet another step in Ulrik’s continuing plan to woo the woman. Inolah had to admit her son was persistent.

  The door opened, and Qoatch, Jazlyn’s handsome eunuch, held it open as his Great Lady entered the room. The High Queen was dressed as always in an elaborate white gown and pearl-studded gold diadem. She looked no more than twenty, had a perfect figure, flawless dark brown skin, wide gray eyes, full lips, and coils of jet-black hair that fell past her waist. Inolah felt herself dim in comparison and glanced at her own thick wrists, bulging stomach, fat arms . . . Stop it, Nolah, she chastised herself. Mantics could look however they liked, and Inolah had no doubt that magic had enhanced a face and body that perfect.

  The High Queen stopped just behind Ulrik and her shrewd gray eyes took in the arrangements. “What’s this?” she asked.

  Ulrik pushed back his chair
and stood, bowed deeply to her. “High Queen, welcome. I have been so busy of late that I must combine business with dinner. I do apologize if this inconveniences you. If you have not yet eaten, you are most welcome to partake of our meal.”

  “I am not hungry.”

  Disappointment that only a mother could see flashed in his eyes, yet he masked it well as he sat down and drank from his goblet. “Do sit, Great Lady. We were just about to begin.”

  Jazlyn eyed him warily, then jerked her chin at the eunuch, who jumped to pull out her chair. Servants entered, carrying covered trays and pitchers. The aroma made Inolah’s stomach growl, yet she did not think she could eat one bite.

  Once everything had been laid out on the table and all the wine poured, Ulrik began the meeting. “Lead us in our discussion, General Balat,” he said, picking up a wedge of melon that was long past ripe. “What grievous problems faced us this day?”

  “I’m afraid there are pirates among the fleet, Your Eminence,” Balat said.

  “Pirates!” Ulrik seemed offended by the very idea. “What makes you say such a thing?”

  “A ship was taken,” Balat said. “The Noohrez. It was a midsize fishing vessel carrying one hundred thirteen souls. The pirates came at dusk, just after the crew had pulled in the nets, catching them off guard.”

  “Did they kill the crew?” the shield, Iamot, asked.

  “Seven fighting men were killed,” Balat said. “Another twenty-one were thrown overboard and are suspected to have drowned. The pirates made the men choose whether to sail as crew or work as fishermen. Any able-bodied man who refused was put overboard. The Noohrez’s own crew sailed her away, directed by a few dozen pirates left behind to oversee things. A few hours later the pirates lowered a dinghy with a handful of women and children.”

  “Why?” Ulrik asked. “Were they causing trouble?”

  “They say not. There were other women and children left aboard, and I’ve spoken to each of the survivors. The women weren’t ugly or diseased, so I cannot discern why they were put out of the ship.”