“What about me?” Wilek asked.
“They said you would not be chosen by your father. They said Janek was stronger.”
“Who is they?” Wilek asked.
“Rosârah Laviel and Pontiff Rogedoth.”
“I have heard enough,” Father said. “Thallah Orsona, I hereby banish you from the realm of Armania. I will have my guards transport you to Emperor Ulrik’s ship at once.”
Mother staggered to her feet. “You can’t banish me!”
“Guards!” Father yelled.
Trevn stood up at his seat. “Are you certain this is necessary?”
“A woman you cannot trust deserves no place in your household, boy,” Father said.
Trevn knew the man spoke wisely, yet that hardly mattered. “But she is my mother.”
“You will do better to be weaned from her,” Father said. “Sit down.”
Trevn’s face burned as he lowered himself to the chair and watched the guards wrestle his mother from the tent. Father had mistaken his meaning. Trevn did not need to be weaned from his mother. He had been desperate to cut the binds between them for several years now. But that did not mean he never wanted to see her again.
He forced himself to watch as the guards dragged her away. She fought and screamed long after she had gone out of the tent.
Inolah squeezed Trevn’s shoulder. “Ulrik will see that she is well cared for.”
Trevn supposed that was true. But how would the young emperor handle his great-aunt’s interference in his rule of Rurekau? The thought made Trevn smile.
Servants brought in trays of cold fowl, pork, and local fruit, all native to Bakurah Island. The meats were excellent, but Trevn didn’t think the fruit was meant for human consumption. It was yellow, the size of grapes, but had the texture of a green melon and very little flavor.
Before long the representatives from Sarikar and Rurekau arrived, but none from Tenma or Magonia.
After the meal everything shifted. The representatives took seats at the high table. From Rurekau: General Balat and Sheriff Kakeeo. From Armania: Father and Wilek. And from Sarikar: King Loran and his brother Prince Rosbert. The tables on the floor were filled with observers from all three realms. Trevn sat with Oli and Hinck. It was the first time since escaping Everton that Trevn had gotten to speak to Hinck as a friend.
“Why are you here?” Trevn asked. “Shouldn’t you be back on the ship at Janek’s beck and call?”
“The king forbade him to come ashore until the meetings were over,” Hinck said. “So Janek sent me here to be his ears.”
“He keeping you busier than I did?” Trevn asked.
“Ever so much more,” Hinck whispered, “and at the most ridiculous of tasks. I would much rather chase the firebrand of Castle Everton over rooftops than play human candelabra.”
“What?” Oli asked.
“Janek made Fonu, Jayron, and me each hold a lit candle in each hand,” Hinck said. “The last one holding both won a night with Lady Mattenelle.” Hinck held up his hand, baring streaks of long burn scars. “I did not win.”
Oli’s chuckle ended on a happy sigh. “Ah, I miss the things he comes up with . . . but not being the one to suffer through it. It was always great fun unless you were his pawn.”
“I am always his pawn,” Hinck said. “Janek sent me here yesterday to investigate the island and bring back a report. And when I went back with a basket of cuttings of island ferns and flowers, he went mad with fervor and made me row back to the island to dig up one of each and put them in pots in his tent so he could examine them when he arrived later today. I was here all night digging up plants.”
Hinck’s misery relieved Trevn. He had worried his friend might actually be enjoying himself with Janek and wouldn’t want to return to Trevn’s service when all his spying finally came to an end. Apparently not.
Wilek called for attention and opened the session with a summary of the history of Bakurah Island, with its discovery by Captain Livina just over six months ago. As Armanian men had been the first to step foot on the island, Wilek had permitted head explorer Rost Keppel to name an Armanian settlement, which he called Khamesh in honor of the lost Five Realms.
Wilek called forward Master Keppel, a short, stout man with a bush of gray hair atop his head. The explorer explained all that Oli had told Trevn of the land, but in more scientific terms, which Trevn greatly appreciated. Upon further exploration yesterday and well into the dawn hours this morning, Keppel had determined that Bakurah Island could support no more than twenty thousand people.
This statement did not produce much reaction. It seemed that word had already spread throughout those present.
“Thank you, Master Keppel,” Wilek said. “The Wisean Council of Armania has discussed this matter fully. Our survivors far outnumber what this island can support. Therefore it is our recommendation that each realm leave its own settlement here while the rest of the fleet searches for more land.”
“Searches where?” Prince Rosbert asked.
“That is something we must discuss,” Wilek said.
“Why not let Rurekau have the island?” General Balat asked. “We have under twenty thousand people.”
Wilek sifted through some scrolls on the table before him. “It’s my understanding, General Balat, that Rurekau has over twenty-three thousand when the Tennish refugees are included. Do you plan to shift the refugees to another realm’s ships?”
“No,” Sheriff Kakeeo said. “We cannot do that.”
“If we each leave a settlement here,” Wilek said, “we each have reason to return.”
And what no one seemed willing to say aloud was that, should the rest of them perish, each realm would have survivors to carry on the ways of their people.
“Whom would we leave behind in this settlement?” General Balat asked.
“That would be up to each realm to determine,” Wilek said. “Armania has found a volunteer to lead our settlement should this council choose that option. Lord Faxon and his family, formerly of Fogstone, would stay here, along with as many families that wish to join them, the number of which is dependent upon the decisions of the other two realms here today.”
“Sarikar is prepared to leave a settlement here,” King Loran said. “My cousin Prince Naten has volunteered to remain, along with his extended family.”
Prince Naten was the younger brother of Rosârah Brelenah, Father’s first wife and Wilek’s mother. Prince Naten and his wife had three grown children, each married with children of their own. They were a much more noble offering to Bakurah Island than Armania had made.
The discussion went on, and it was finally agreed upon that General Balat would return to the Baretam and inquire as to whether or not Emperor Ulrik wished to leave a settlement. His answer would determine the number of people each realm could leave behind.
Then came the discussion of which direction to sail next.
“We must sail north,” Father said, “with Nivanreh’s Eye at our backs. The god of travel will guide us to land.”
“Your god of travel is no more than the Southern Star to us,” King Loran said. “Our priests feel we should travel northwest.”
“The prophetess Onika agrees,” Wilek said.
“Who says we must remain together?” General Balat asked. “Perhaps we should all go our separate ways.”
“To what end?” King Loran asked. “We have contracted our children in marriage for centuries. Rosâr Echad’s Heir and my niece are to marry soon. Would I never see Zeroah again?”
“We now have Bakurah Island as a base,” General Balat said. “We could cover more sea if we split up.”
This debate went on another hour. No one could agree on what to do. Father was set on traveling north by the southern pole star Nivanreh’s Eye. King Loran wished to stay close to Armania, but he wanted to sail northwest as his priests felt the God was leading them. General Balat and Sheriff Kakeeo were divided. The general wanted to go their own way, but Kakeeo insisted the Emperor would want
to stay with the group.
In the end King Loran submitted to following Armania north for a time, and the Rurekans planned to return to the Baretam to ascertain Emperor Ulrik’s will in the matter.
The meeting began to disperse. Oli took off without a word. Hinck had to return to the Seffynaw and let Janek know he could now come to the island. Trevn lingered, undecided what to do with himself. He desperately wanted to do a little exploring and mapping but felt he needed Wilek’s permission to stay since he had brought no tent or staff of his own. Up ahead his brother moved slowly toward the exit with Inolah, Sir Kalenek, and Harton, so Trevn started after them.
Outside, as the line of people moved through a narrow path in the grass, the wind carried the smell of flowers and something sharp and bitter. Trevn imagined some sort of leafy plant or cactus, though this island seemed void of cacti. It was much greener than any place he’d been. The trees grew close, their narrow trunks limber and bobbing in the wind, leaves rustling.
A shout drew his gaze back to his surroundings. Up ahead bronze clashed. Trevn could not see past Harton. From behind him guards charged by, cutting new paths through the tall grass and drawing their blades as they circled Wilek. Servants and commoners scattered, some screaming as they fled whatever confrontation lay ahead.
“Not me!” Wilek yelled. “To the king!” And all but two of the guards scampered away, allowing Trevn a clear look at his brother.
He saw nothing suspicious. What was all the fuss about?
“Ho, up!” Sir Kalenek yelled, his dark eyes scowling through the press of bodies. “Protect the Heir!”
Battle cries rose, a trilling sound that made Trevn want to climb a tree to get a better view.
Suddenly part of the crowd was moving back toward them, men with leather masks and swords in hand. Trevn backed up a step, uncertain what to do. His arm brushed against someone, and he sprang to the side. It was only Empress Inolah.
“They seek to kill Wilek,” she said.
Trevn looked back and saw the truth of that. The attackers ran toward the men protecting Wilek. Beyond, another group had swarmed the guards around the king.
Sir Kalenek, Harton, and the two remaining guards had drawn their weapons and put their backs to Wilek. Inside their circle of protection, Wilek drew his own blade. Trevn had not worn his sword—didn’t even know where it was. He’d last seen it on the floor of his royal cabin.
Harton turned to face Trevn, blade raised. He scowled and waved Trevn back.
“Get the woman out of here,” Harton said as the first attacker engaged Sir Kalenek. “Find a place to hide!”
Trevn turned toward Inolah. “We must go,” he told his sister, thinking they might run through the grass as the servants had or return to the meeting tent and perhaps sit under one of the tables. Behind them blades clashed, men grunted, leather armor creaked.
“No,” Inolah said. “We stay back and wait for a weapon.”
What? Trevn glanced back to the melee in time to see Sir Kalenek finish off the first attacker. The man fell into the grass with a mournful scream. Sir Kalenek yelled and passed his sword to his left hand, anguish twisting his scars further. Had he been struck?
Inolah swooped down upon the dying man and pulled the sword from his hand. He fought her, his other hand holding his entrails, which were spilling out from a slash in his side.
Inolah won the tug-of-war and swung the sword across the calves of one of Sir Kalenek’s attackers. The man fell. One of his comrades turned to face Inolah, and the empress leapt forward to meet the attack, sword trimming a wedge in the tall grass as she swung.
Trevn pushed aside his awe and ran toward Inolah’s first victim. He pried the man’s stiff fingers off his sword and claimed it as his own. Tentatively he inched toward the fray, quickly determined that there were too many attackers, and realized he didn’t know how to help.
Sir Kalenek cradled his right arm to his side as he fought. “Ho, up! Squad! To me!” he cried. “Where is everyone?”
A blade arced toward Trevn’s head. He ducked but lost his footing and fell onto a blanket of trampled grass. Cadoc’s words from his arms lessons screamed in his head: “Stay on your feet!”
A blade stabbed down toward Trevn and he rolled just before it plunged into the grassy soil. Trevn kicked the man in the gut. His attacker stumbled back, losing his hold on his sword. Trevn grabbed the grip of the pinned sword and used it as leverage to jump back to his feet. His attacker pulled a dagger from his belt, but before he could use it, Trevn rammed his blade into the man’s stomach, screaming as he did.
The sword went in more easily than he would have expected. The man’s dark eyes stared out of his mask, wide with shock. Then they both turned their gazes to the sword in his belly.
Trevn should pull it out. Right?
He tried, finding it harder than expected. The man collapsed before Trevn could finish the task. With him on the ground, it took both hands to remove the sword. Trevn stood holding it, dazed, eyes fixed on the bloody tang.
He had killed a man.
The fight hemmed him in on all sides. Inolah called Trevn’s name, snapping him out of his stupor just before another man engaged him in battle. Trevn fought on, plagued by the clash within him—elation at having defended himself and the horror that a man was dead because of him. Too much happening at once. Shouts tore out around him. Blades clanked. More yelling drifted from afar.
Then someone called a retreat and Trevn’s attacker turned and fled. They were giving up! Reinforcements must have arrived.
That quickly, the battle was over. Wilek, Sir Kalenek, Harton, and the two guards stood alone. A few paces away Trevn crouched back to back with Inolah. He released a pent-up breath, thankful they had all survived.
Wilek walked out from the center of his guards to the man Trevn had killed. He crouched and used his bloodied sword to slice off one of the man’s hair twists that stuck out from under his mask.
Wilek held it out to Trevn. “This kill was yours, my brother.”
It was an ancient Armanian tradition for a warrior to take a lock of hair from every kill. Some still did, and threaded them into their own hair twists like trophies. More often these days the practice was done only in ritual, and only for a man’s first kill.
Trevn had always felt the tradition barbaric, but having lived through such an attack . . . having survived it . . . He reached out slowly and took the hair twist from Wilek, chilled and conflicted by the feel of the coarse hair between his fingers and thumb. He met Wilek’s eyes, then saw movement behind his brother. A man had risen from the dead, dagger in his fist. Trevn extended his hand and yelled, “Look out!”
Sir Kalenek pushed Wilek aside and twisted to meet the assailant, shoulder first. The impact of their bodies knocking together pushed them both to the ground. The other guards converged on the assailant, giving him no chance at a second attempt.
Trevn was relieved to see Wilek unharmed. Sir Kalenek lay moaning in the bloody, trampled grass. He lifted his head to look at his wound. Trevn extended his hand.
Sir Kalenek grabbed it awkwardly with his left. “Help me sit.”
Trevn pulled the man upright. “He got you?”
“Under my arm.” Sir Kalenek used his left hand to lift his right elbow up under his chin. He grimaced. “Pull something off one of the dead men . . .” He swayed. “To stop the blood flow.” His eyes lost focus, and he collapsed.
Charlon
Charlon stood at the railing on the foredeck, studying the island. Still stunned the Chieftess had abandoned her. Left her to deal with this alone. Magon had wanted them to work together. But Mreegan had become impatient. Such behavior was shameful. That Mreegan would walk away from the great shadir’s plans.
She was not worthy to lead Magonia.
But perhaps this division was necessary. A step that brought Charlon closer to becoming Chieftess. When Charlon succeeded, Mreegan would be sorry. Would regret having doubted Charlon.
Wile
k had gone ashore. Without a word to his betrothed. Charlon knew the land was important to everyone’s survival. She still found his devotion to his betrothed pathetic. He hadn’t spoken to Charlon in three days.
What to do? Magon had been cryptic of late. Answered all of Charlon’s questions with proverbs and encouragements. Keep trying, Magon had said. Have faith in me. But Charlon didn’t want to try anymore. Didn’t want to have faith. Didn’t know what she wanted.
To sit inside her tent with Torol. Yes, that would do.
Only she had no tent now that they were at sea. And Torol was on the Magonian ship. With Mreegan. Jealousy surged within, but she calmed herself. She must focus.
But why? What if Mreegan and Magon were wrong about the Deliverer? Maybe the prophecy no longer applied now that there was no land to subdue. What would be the point? Of ruling a fleet of ships with no harbor?
Still. She needed the title of Chieftess. Then no one could hurt her again. And all would respect her. She would be powerful. Yet rule with wisdom and compassion.
But not until she succeeded in her quest.
Perhaps on the island Prince Wilek would be more relaxed. Now that they’d found land, there might be a celebration. With dancing and drink. She couldn’t risk being absent. The one night he went looking for a woman’s company.
Charlon started back to her cabin. She would pack her second black dress. Go ashore. The distance from ship to land was much closer than Fairsight Manor had been to Castle Everton. She should have no trouble maintaining Lady Zeroah’s mask. She would have to leave the girl in the trunk for a few days, though. She pushed the guilt aside. She had no choice.
She prepared quickly. Instructed some servants to carry her things to the boat fall. Bid they erect her tent beside Prince Wilek’s. Once they’d gone, she hid the bronze canister of ahvenrood in a cupboard and set a spell over the corridor outside her door.
Anyone who came looking for this cabin would forget why.
The boat ride to the island was tedious, as was trudging through the sand and tall grass to reach her tent, which, when she arrived, was not yet assembled. A valid enough reason to visit Prince Wilek. Then she discovered the distance. Her tent was being set up far from his. In an entirely separate clearing.
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