The King of Attolia

by Megan Whalen Turner

  But the king caught the expression on the guard’s face and turned his head slowly to look over one shoulder at Teleus. He looked back at his opponent. “Did he tell you to give me an easy match?”

  The confused guard shook his head.

  The king shook his head. “Oh, no, no, that won’t do. I’ll have to make you the same offer I made the captain. Beat me, and the queen won’t reduce the Guard; lose to me, and she’ll cut the ranks in half.”

  The man looked in panic from Teleus to the king.

  “He still wants you to go easy, doesn’t he? That’s what he’s saying behind my back. What are your brothers saying? What does the Guard think?”

  “Pound him!” someone safely anonymous shouted from the back of the crowd.

  The king nodded. “Come on, Damon. I know what you can do. I may be tired, but nothing less than your best is going to be enough.”

  Damon attacked. Laughing, the king retreated. Damon attacked again, and they settled to the business of thrusting and parrying, and if Damon had meant to give the king an easy fight, his intentions were soon swept away as the king leaned in as they closed over the practice swords and whispered something in his ear. No one could hear what he said, but its effect was galvanic.

  Damon was a better swordsman than either Costis or Aris. The king wasn’t using his flashy technique. He parried and attacked carefully and precisely, wasting no energy. He hung back occasionally to catch his breath, and he began to favor his left leg just a little.

  Damon pressed him, but the king always slid away. Then the king attacked with a sequence of moves that forced him back and back, barely parrying as the king swung and swung again and missed.

  “Dammit,” said the king, retreating. “I thought I had you.”

  Damon smiled. “I thought so, too.”

  Eugenides sighed dramatically. “Oh, press on, then,” he said as he raised his sword. He was too tired to press an attack fast enough to touch Damon, but Damon wasn’t good enough to get past the king’s defense. The king began to twit him as the attacks failed. “That didn’t work last time either. Are you going to try it again?” Frustrated, Damon was driven to overextend himself, and the king disarmed him. He stood ruefully as the king tapped him on the head and said, “Done.”

  Sticking his sword under his right arm and pinching it there, Gen used his hand to push the sweat-damp hair off his forehead. Then he walked with Damon toward the wall fountain, trailing the wooden sword so that its point dragged on the ground, bumping along behind him. They had taken no more than a few steps together when a voice called from behind them. The king turned.

  “Laecdomon. Of course. How could I have forgotten you?”

  “I don’t know, Your Majesty. I hope that now that you have remembered me, you won’t forget me again.”

  The guards fell silent. Teleus stepped forward, opened his mouth to speak, but the king shooed him away. Teleus had to content himself with a threatening look, which Laecdomon pretended not to see.

  “Oh, I don’t think I’ll forget you, Laecdomon. I’ll make you the same offer I made your colleagues. Beat me, and I will not reduce the Guard,” said the king. He made a face and lifted the sword crosswise to his mouth and bit down on the blade, leaving both hands free, and swung his arms as if to relieve tired muscles. He spat the sword back into his hand.

  “You’d have a wider smile, Your Majesty, if you did that with a real sword.”

  “It has not escaped my attention that everyone here objects to the way I handle a practice sword. Perhaps you’d like to tell me why?”

  “The essence of the practice sword is to help you acquire the use of the real sword. If you don’t treat it like a real sword, Your Majesty, you thwart its purpose. Here in Attolia,” he said condescendingly, emphasizing Eugenides’s foreignness, “we are taught to treat a practice sword with all the respect of a real weapon, so that no thoughtless mistakes are made.”

  “Oh,” said the king, sounding amused, “in Eddis, we learn to keep track of the weapon we have in our hand.”

  He raised his sword. “Ready?”

  “Ready,” said Laecdomon.

  “Begin.”

  “Captain?” Costis asked, worried.

  Teleus shrugged. “I am not in charge here, Costis. If he chooses to walk into a trap with his eyes wide open, I have no authority to stop him.”

  Anxiously they watched the match.

  The guards around the two men were silent and uncomfortable. There were no heckling comments and no shouts of support for Laecdomon. Everyone knew that there was more at stake than a sparring match, but something in Laecdomon’s attitude discouraged any supporters. For the sake of the Guard, they didn’t want the king to win, but they found it hard to root for Laecdomon either, so they stood silently and watched.

  The king, favoring his left leg, spun on the right foot as Laecdomon circled.

  “Captain,” a nearby lieutenant said in an undertone, “Her Majesty is here.”

  The queen and her attendants had entered the training yard. She was not the only onlooker that had arrived. Most of the court seemed to have gathered. They lined the terrace above the training yard and were gathering on the walls that overlooked it. Costis looked at Teleus in growing apprehension.

  Teleus crossed toward the queen. She was directing servants to place a dais and a chair. As they became aware of her, the men in the Guard opened their circle to give her an unobstructed view. As Teleus approached, she sat in the chair and calmly arranged the folds of her gown. Her attendants gathered behind her. The king’s attendants drifted to flank them. Teleus bent down in order to speak to her quietly.

  Her raised hand forestalled him. She waved Costis to approach.

  “This was your idea?”

  “No, Your Majesty. I mean, yes, I asked the king to spar. I had no idea this would happen.” With an effort he avoided indicting Teleus with a glance.

  “People do frequently seem to be surprised once my husband is involved.”

  “Your Majesty,” said Teleus, “you must stop this.”

  “I? By what authority would I command the king?”

  “He would stop if you asked,” Teleus insisted.

  The queen shook her head.

  “Then I will stop it,” said Teleus, and he turned.

  “Captain.” The queen’s voice was soft, but Teleus turned back, subdued.

  “He’ll be killed,” he warned.

  “We must hope not.”

  “He’s tired. He’s injured. Laecdomon can kill him with one stroke. Let me arrest him before it is too late.”

  “Arrest the king?”

  “Arrest Laecdomon,” Teleus almost snapped, not appreciating the queen’s humor.

  “Arrest him for what? What proof do you have that this is anything but a sparring match?”

  “Let me arrest him, and I will drag the proof out of him.”

  The queen shook her head.

  “Why not?” Teleus asked helplessly.

  “Because the king will not quit, Teleus,” said Ornon as he joined them. “You must have noticed,” he said. “He whines, he complains, he ducks out of the most obvious responsibility. He is vain, petty, and maddening, but he doesn’t ever quit.” Ornon shrugged. “Ever.”

  “He may not quit, but he will lose.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t place my money on it. I’ve seen him suffer setbacks.” Ornon looked at the queen and away. “I have never seen him, in the end, lose. He just persists until he comes out ahead. No match is finished for him until he has won.” Ornon shrugged expressively. “He won’t quit, and he won’t thank you for interfering.”

  There was a shout, and they turned back to the match. As Costis had done, the king was retreating. Laecdomon advanced, striking fast with his sword, driving the king back faster and faster. Finally the king responded. There was a furious interchange, and a sword spun in the air and hit the ground. For a moment there was no way to know whose sword had dropped. Then the two men separated, a
nd everyone could see that Laecdomon was still armed.

  Ruefully the king held up his hand.

  Holding his breath, Costis hoped that it was just a sparring match after all. Laecdomon shook his head. Eugenides smiled.

  “Your Majesty!” Teleus shouted, and indicated the crossbows aimed at Laecdomon. Costis hadn’t seen them come, but they were the obvious solution. The king shook his head.

  “You could default, Your Majesty,” Laecdomon suggested with contempt.

  “I think not,” said the king, covered in sweat and breathing deep with exhaustion. “Though when you are finished, you may have to deal with my queen. You knew that when you started, didn’t you?”

  Laecdomon shrugged carelessly.

  Eugenides shrugged as well. “According to the practice in Eddis, I cannot back up, so I will not here. Strike your best, Laecdomon.”

  With a sneer and perfect form, Laecdomon drew the sword back and swung for the king’s head. Costis was not the only one to cry out, but the blow never landed. Without risk to his fingers from the edgeless weapon, the king grabbed for the blade of the sword, snatching it from the air and from Laecdomon’s surprised grasp. He spun all the way around on his good leg, at the same time shifting his grip to just below the hilt. A heartbeat later the only sound in the stunned silence was the choking gasp as Laecdomon’s breath was forced out of his lungs by the hilt of his own sword driven hard upward under his ribs.

  Laecdomon collapsed like an empty wineskin. The king dropped the sword beside him. It rattled in front of his face.

  “You forgot,” said the king, into the silent air, “that it’s a wooden sword.”

  Somewhere in the pack, a guard cheered, and the rest of the Guard joined him. The courtiers lining the walls began cheering as well. It was all quite deafening, thought Costis, looking up at the women waving their scarves, the open mouths of the aristocrats and soldiers alike.

  Eugenides didn’t respond. He limped slowly over to his own wooden sword and stooped awkwardly to pick it up. Trailing it on the ground behind him, he limped toward the queen, and the courtyard quieted as he approached and was silent again as he dropped to his knees before her and laid the sword across her lap.

  “My Queen,” he said.

  “My King,” she said back.

  Only those closest saw him nod his rueful acceptance.

  He lifted his hand to brush her cheek softly. As the entire court listened breathlessly, he said, “I want my breakfast.”

  The queen’s lips thinned, and she shook her head as she said, “You are incorrigible.”

  “Yes,” the king agreed, “and I have a headache and I want a bath.”

  Teleus stepped forward. “Perhaps His Majesty would like to visit the Guard’s bath. It is closer, and he would be welcome.”

  The king had to consider. “Yes,” he said. “That would be nice. Followed by breakfast.”

  Gravely, Teleus offered a hand to help the king to his feet. The queen smiled at them both. Costis could feel the grin he couldn’t hide spreading across his face. He looked around at everyone smiling and knew why they did: because Eugenides was King of Attolia.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  COSTIS washed himself gently in the tepidarium and limped to the steam room. He climbed to the upper bench and relaxed with a flinch and a sigh against the wooden slats behind him. The king had not arrived. The guards were free to talk as they chose. Costis listened with his eyes closed. His smile faded when he recalled the king’s response when invited to join the guards in their bathhouse. He must have known the offer was an honor since only the guards were admitted here, but Costis had seen the king hesitate.

  The door to the steam room opened, and Costis, seeing the king flanked by Teleus and his lieutenants, understood why. It would be ridiculous to come into a steam room dressed in clothes, or for that matter, wearing a metal cuff and hook on the end of your arm. So Eugenides was as naked as anyone else, but no one else used clothes as a disguise, and none of them was as naked, therefore, as the king.

  He chose Mede coats with the long bell sleeves because no fighting man who’d seen the muscles in the king’s wrist would have underestimated him the way the Attolians had. His other wrist with no hand at the end of it appeared oddly narrow and delicate. Costis tried not to stare and found himself looking instead at the king’s scars. The long line across his belly was an angry red, but there were other marks: ragged tears around his knees and elbows, and lighter shining bands around his ankles that could only be the mark of fetters, as well as the various lines left by edged blows on his chest and arms, and one long one on his thigh. There were also a number of bruises, some newly purple and black and some fading almost to nothing. Costis wondered where they could have come from.

  Costis and the guards beside him shuffled aside to leave space for the king and Teleus on the upper bench, where the steam was hottest. When the king crossed to stand before the empty space, the guards could see that the muscles in his legs jumped with fatigue and his expression, when he looked at the steps up, was daunted. Teleus, already climbing, turned back to offer him a hand. Eugenides accepted the offer, and Teleus hauled him upward and dropped him onto the hot bench.

  The king cursed and sighed as he leaned back. He turned his head toward Costis and explained the bruises easily. “Ornon never hesitates to hit me with a wooden stick,” he said.

  He hadn’t kept in training by doing simple exercises. Moving through the palace as he chose, he must have practiced secretly with the Ambassador from Eddis.

  “Don’t be misled, Costis,” said the king. “The beginning exercises are always important.”

  Flushing, Costis looked away. Across the room, someone bolder than Costis asked, “Did we give you all of those scars?”

  The king opened his eyes and looked down at himself as if considering the scars for the first time. “I thought it was only the dogs that bit me, Phokis. Was it you, too?”

  “No, Your Majesty,” Phokis said hastily, and his mates laughed at him.

  “Thank gods I don’t have to hold that against you,” said the king. “Nor the permanent decorations around my ankles and my wrist. Those came courtesy of Sounis.” He held up his hand to look at the white patches that ringed it. “They were a nicely matched set, too, but that’s ruined now.” His evident lack of any distress about the result of his encounter with the queen left the guards gaping.

  “This could have been one of you, though,” said Eugenides, running his finger along a short white ridge near the hollow of his shoulder. He looked at Teleus. “Was it?”

  The captain shook his head.

  “You transferred him? Are you worried about my taste in revenge?”

  “Should I be?” Teleus asked bluntly.

  “Not for that,” said the king. “On the other hand, if you give me another morning like this one, I’ll have you all packed up in chains and sold on the Peninsula as gladiators.”

  There was more laughter. “No more mornings like this one, Your Majesty,” Teleus promised. “I admit that I find them painful myself.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. If I’d known that all I needed to do was hit you very hard with a stick, I would have done it months ago.”

  Teleus responded thoughtfully. “I would like to think there was more to this morning than getting hit in the neck with a practice sword.” He looked gravely at the king. “It isn’t an easy thing to give your loyalty to someone you don’t know, especially when that person chooses to reveal nothing of himself.”

  He met Eugenides’s eye, and this time it was the king who looked away.

  He looked back to say, “For what was done, and not well done, I apologize, Teleus.”

  “No matter, Your Majesty. You are revealed at last.”

  The king looked down at his nakedness and back at the captain. “Was that a joke?” he asked.

  “It does happen, on occasion. Do you know what you will do with Laecdomon?”

  “Let him go,” said the king.r />
  “Some might think you are too merciful,” Teleus said.

  “But you don’t.”

  Teleus shook his head. “He will go to Erondites and the baron will kill him.”

  The king agreed. “Erondites can’t risk a connection between himself and a known traitor, and he will be afraid of whatever tales Laecdomon could tell. When Laecdomon is found dead in a ditch, everyone will see how Erondites rewards those who serve him.”

  “And if he doesn’t suffer the ultimate penalty at Erondites’s hand?” Teleus asked.

  “Then I am still satisfied to let him go. If he disgraced himself, it was because I offered him the opportunity; if you tease a dog, it bites.”

  “Men are not dogs.” Teleus leaned to give Costis a severe look. “A man should control himself.”

  “Easy for you to say, Captain.”

  “Not so easy, Your Majesty,” Teleus assured him, “but I never hit you in the face.”

  “That’s true enough,” Eugenides agreed, without a glimmer of a smile. “But, then, I never meant you to.”

  He waited. When Teleus’s eyes widened, Eugenides confirmed what the captain had guessed.

  “I wasn’t baiting you,” said the king. “I was baiting Costis.”

  Costis sat back, dumbfounded. The loss of temper that had changed his life, the appointment to lieutenant. They hadn’t been accident or caprice. “You made the notes on the Mede language,” Costis accused the king, realizing that the small letters, though neatly formed, had shown the telltale shake of a man writing with his left hand.

  “You sent them to me.”

  “I did,” the king admitted.

  “Why?”

  “Your accent was terrible,” said the king, in Mede, his accent perfect. “It’s much better now.”

  “Why?” Costis asked again, demanding more. Teleus crossed his arms, silently seconding the request.

  “Sometimes, if you want to change a man’s mind, you change the mind of the man next to him first.” Eugenides waved toward Costis, but he was talking to Teleus. “Archimedes said that if you gave him a lever long enough, he could move the world. I needed to move the Guard. I needed to move you.”