Maelstrom Page 11

  Magon had bestowed favor upon Charlon. She was the Mother! She would return to the Vespara a hero. The Magonian people would cheer and worship the goddess on her behalf. And Charlon would teach this child all things. He would become great because she would see to it.

  And someday Charlon would rule them all.

  This knighten from Armania would help her. Revered and valuable to Prince Wilek. He would remain her prisoner. An asset to Magonia. A witness to the child’s heritage.

  As the clouds dumped their water, Sir Kalenek rowed.

  She focused on his long twists of black hair. The wounds and scars—old and new—on his face. The short beard he used to hide them. Charlon had always wondered who had cut him. The worst scar ran straight across his forehead. Turned and crossed over his eye, puckering his eyebrow strangely. It continued down his cheek and into his beard, making a hairless line. Other slashes marred his face. A thick white laceration trailed down the side of his neck and into his shirt. Pity welled. Evidence of so much physical pain likely meant heavier pain within. Did such scars cover the rest of his body too?

  “What happened?” she asked, nodding to his face. “The scars, I mean.”

  His dark eyes glanced at hers. Shifted over her shoulder as his rowing quickened. Charlon quailed within. She had been wrong to ask. Something so deep. Her question must have dragged him away to a hellish past.

  “In the war,” he suddenly answered, pulling the oars. Once. Twice. “I was captured in Magonia and tortured.”

  Ah. She may as well tell him the truth of her own heritage. Perhaps it would make things easier. “I am not Magonian,” she said. “I am from Rurekau.”

  “Because Harton was from Rurekau.” He looked at her now, wounded eyes curious. Victims understood things others could not.

  “My brother sold me to a brothel when I was thirteen,” she said.

  “I heard that,” Kal said.

  “It took years, but I finally escaped. Heard that women were treated better in Magonia. So I went there.”

  His only answer was to row and pant.

  “Magonians don’t treat men any better. Than Rurekans treat women,” she said, choosing each word carefully. Wanting him to hear the threat. “You’ll likely have a difficult time aboard our ship. I will do what I can. To safeguard you. That you are the child’s protector is in your favor. Perhaps no one will harm you.”

  “Perhaps I should kill you and the child and be done with you both,” he said.

  Would he? His aggressive tone made her want to cower. But he did not understand her powers. He would not risk Mielle.

  “If you talk that way aboard our ship, you will not live long.”

  He narrowed his eyes, then glanced over his shoulder. “That ship, there?”

  She regarded the Vespara in the distance. “Yes.” She was almost home. She would see Torol.

  “That’s the Sarikarian vessel you stole from King Jorger,” Sir Kalenek said.

  “A gift,” Charlon said. “Before his heart gave out. You see it flies the Magonian flag now.”

  That silenced the man.

  By the time they reached the hull beneath the pulley lines, a crowd had gathered at the rail above.

  “Send down the lines!” Charlon yelled. “The Mother has returned with the Deliverer!”

  Even with the growing wind and the three decks between her and the people above, the cheer that went up reached her ears. She smiled, elated to hear the Tennish language again after so many months of speaking Kinsman. Her gaze caught Sir Kalenek’s stern one.

  “If you look on me with such distaste, you will quickly earn yourself enemies. I decide your fate upon this ship. I will be your translator. Without me, you will be alone.”

  “I am used to being alone,” he said.

  Their boat was hoisted aloft and they boarded the Vespara.

  A strong male voice cried out, “All hail the Mother!”

  Her people cheered. So many familiar faces! Charlon held her head high as they lauded her return. She tucked the child into one arm and raised the other. “Silence!”

  The people quieted. All eyes on her.

  “This man is Sir Kalenek Veroth of Armania,” she said. “He is my prisoner. No harm shall come to him. No compulsion set upon him. Unless ordered by me. Is that clear?”

  Agreements rose up from the crowd.

  “Where is the Chieftess?” Charlon asked.

  “In her cabin.” Torol’s voice.

  Charlon turned until she saw him step into the circle that had formed around her. The sight of his face filled her with longing.

  “Two, find someone to bring milk and a gut sack to the Chieftess’s cabin so the child can eat,” Charlon said to Nuel. He scurried off to obey. Then she regarded Torol again. “Lead us to Chieftess Mreegan.”

  Torol bowed low, then set off. Charlon followed, admiring the bronze skin of his back and the broad reach of his shoulder blades. He was Four now. Had been promoted after the Omatta had killed Morten. When Charlon became Chieftess, she would make him One.

  Torol led them across the deck to the captain’s cabin, which Mreegan had transformed into her version of her red tent. The painted, black-and-white checkered floor had been covered in furs and mats. Her throne sat against the port wall, her bedding before the stern windows. Kateen stood on Mreegan’s right. On her left, Gullik fanned the Chieftess with a yellowed palm leaf. Gullik had become Five after Torol’s promotion.

  Mreegan watched Charlon carefully, did not rise to greet her. “I thought you dead.”

  “With Magon’s help I have succeeded.” She knelt. For now she must. But in her heart, she knelt only to Magon. “I present to you Shanek DanSâr, a child born of Sâr Janek and myself.”

  “Impossible. I left you nearly three months ago. It takes far longer to bring forth a child.”

  “Not with Magon’s help,” Charlon said.

  Mreegan studied the child. Magon appeared in the Veil and drew her attention. The goddess spoke to the Chieftess. Too low for Charlon to hear.

  Please, Charlon’s heart said. Surely Magon would not betray her.

  The Chieftess laughed, delighted, it seemed. “I told you to try for Janek. If you would have listened to me from the start, you would have succeeded long before now.”

  Charlon bowed her head, as if penitent. “You were wise, Chieftess.” But inside, she wondered. Had the Chieftess ordered her death by asking Charlon to conceive the Deliverer? Had she known mothers of root children died? Had she been using Charlon all along?

  Charlon wished she knew for sure.

  Mreegan jutted her chin toward Sir Kalenek. “And this?”

  “He is Sir Kalenek Veroth of Armania,” Charlon said. “Prince Wilek Hadar named him High Shield over Shanek DanSâr. I have taken him as my prisoner. He will prove useful as an instructor for Shanek on Armanian customs.”

  “Why would our Deliverer care about Armanian customs?” Mreegan asked.

  “If he is to rule all nations,” Charlon said, “he will need to be accepted by the Armanian nobility.”

  “He has magic,” Mreegan said. “That is all he will ever need.”

  He is a witness to the child’s royal blood, Magon said from the Veil. Without him no one will believe he is Sâr Janek’s heir.

  “Very well,” Mreegan said. She switched to the Kinsman language. “Come, Sir Kalenek Veroth. Kneel before me.”

  Sir Kalenek stepped forward. “An emissary does not kneel before a foreign ruler, Chieftess,” he said, surprising Charlon by speaking in rough Tennish. “But I am pleased to bow in deference.” This he did. Gallantly.

  Mreegan grunted her displeasure but let his actions pass. “You speak Tennish. How?”

  “Armanian captains are taught Tennish.”

  “You were a soldier. I thought those scars looked like the work of Magonian yeetta warriors. That you survived is proof of your strength. Very well, Sir Kalenek Veroth, I accept you as Guard One to the Deliverer. As a sign of the coming pe
ace between Mother and Father, I will not place you under a compulsion. But know this—you do not decide this child’s future. Is that clear?”

  “I live to serve.” Sir Kalenek bowed his head. Was that his way of pretending? To comply without swearing to? The Chieftess seemed mollified. So Charlon thought on it no more.

  “Four, find our noble prisoner suitable quarters,” the Chieftess said to Torol. “He will need to be near the Mother’s cabin. Sir Kalenek, do speak up if the arrangements bother you. The safety of the Deliverer is our top concern.”

  Sir Kalenek bowed again and followed Torol from the cabin. Charlon watched them go. Wished Mreegan would dismiss her so she could go with them. It was the first time in her life she preferred the company of men.

  “My First,” Mreegan said, “see that the Armanian is followed at all times. I want to know where he goes and who he talks to.”

  “Yes, Chieftess,” Kateen said.

  Charlon wondered how many shadir the First would set upon Sir Kalenek.

  “Bring me the child,” Mreegan said.

  Charlon came forward and placed the bundle in her arms.

  Mreegan grunted as she situated the child awkwardly on her lap. “He seems too large for one so new. When was he born?”

  “Today,” Charlon said.

  “Today?” She looked Charlon over. “Yet you are walking around as if nothing pains you. How did you birth this child and live?”

  “Magon healed me,” Charlon said.

  Mreegan turned to regard Magon in the Veil, but the goddess did not deny Charlon’s claim. Mreegan’s focus fixed back on the child. “Why does he look so strange?”

  “The root makes him grow faster but does not poison him,” Charlon said. “His dappled skin marks him as a root child.”

  Mreegan cackled. “Praise to you, Magon, for bringing this about. We shall all see prophecy fulfilled. To hold the Deliverer in my arms is a great honor.”

  “Excuse me, Chieftess,” Gullik said, stepping forward and kneeling.

  Mreegan did not take her eyes off Shanek. “What do you want?”

  “The Mother mentioned the child’s skin as a mark of a root child. I thought you should know that there is a young man aboard this ship with skin like that.”

  Mreegan’s full attention fell upon Gullik. “How long have you known this?”

  “Several weeks, Chieftess. He is one of the apprentices Nuel hired.”

  “Fool! Bring him to me at once.”

  Gullik stood, hesitating.

  “Why are you still here?” Mreegan asked.

  “The young man . . . He is a slippery one. I am not certain I can bring him here.”

  “You are clever, Gullik. Find a way.”

  “Yes, Chieftess.”

  As Gullik hurried from the cabin, Shanek began to cry. Mreegan held out the child to Charlon. “Take him.”

  Charlon rushed forward to claim the boy. “Could there be another root child?”

  “They are rare,” Mreegan said. “Most women know better than to take root while pregnant.”

  Mreegan had known!

  Charlon settled onto Mreegan’s bed of furs. Nuel had brought a bucket of milk and a gut sack, so Charlon set about feeding the child as she stewed over Mreegan’s deception.

  Eventually the door opened again, and Gullik’s voice carried inside. “The feast is in here,” he said.

  A young man barely of age entered. He had brown skin, nothing like Shanek’s. “Can’t wait to eat. I’m starved,” he said, slowing as his gaze took in the room. “Hey . . .”

  Mreegan stood. “You!”

  The young man vanished, bringing a gasp from those in the cabin. To escape in such a way . . . he must be a mantic!

  A shimmer in the Veil caught her attention. Why, he had not vanished after all. He had only entered the Veil. Was creeping toward the exit. But where was his shadir? Charlon had never seen anyone move like that without a shadir present. How had he—?

  “Atsar!” Mreegan yelled.

  The young man stopped, arms and legs now stilled in full stride.

  “Ra’ah,” Mreegan said.

  The man cried out as he faded into view. His skin no longer looked brown but dappled gray.

  Gullik was right! Here stood another root child—root man. Fully grown.

  Mreegan crossed the room and circled to the front of her captive. “You are the mantic I saw on the deck the day the pirates attacked,” she said. “What is your name?”

  “Grayson.”

  “How came you to this boat?”

  “Got hired in Odarka.”

  “How old are you, Grayson?” Mreegan asked.

  He opened his mouth to answer, then sucked in a long breath and held it.

  “You do not know?”

  “I’m an orphan.”

  “You must have some idea of the years you’ve lived.”

  “Seventeen?”

  “I think you to be closer to ten.”

  “Ten!” Grayson snorted. “I’m not ten, that’s for sure.”

  Charlon agreed. This man could not be ten years old. Strange that Mreegan would suggest it.

  “You look well past seventeen,” Mreegan said, “but you behave much younger. I think you are of the same ilk as this infant boy.” She gestured to the child in Charlon’s lap.

  “What’s ilk mean?” Grayson asked.

  “It means I think you are a root child,” Mreegan said.

  Grayson flinched at the title. “Never heard of roots having children.”

  Mreegan persisted. “Do you have magical abilities, Grayson?”

  “If I did, why would I clean decks?”

  But he had walked in the Veil without a shadir. Charlon had seen it.

  “Where did you learn to speak Tennish?” Mreegan asked.

  “My parents taught me.”

  “Before they died and orphaned you? Is that what you mean?”

  “Right. Exactly.”

  “I think you’re telling me falsehoods, Grayson. To prove what you are, you will be imprisoned. My shadir will watch over you. And when you walk through the Veil to escape my prison hold, the shadir will tell me that you have done so, proving my point.” Mreegan walked back to her throne. “When you are willing to show me your magic, tell a guard and he will bring you to me.” She sat down and crossed one leg over the other. “Until then, Grayson, enjoy the rats.”

  “This ship is full of rats,” he said. “I’m not afraid of them.”

  “I’m sure you’re very brave. Five, take him to the hold. Carach.”

  The spell holding Grayson in place lifted. He stumbled to catch his balance. Gullik grabbed his arm and hauled him toward the door.

  “Does this mean I don’t have to work?” Grayson asked as he was dragged out. “Is anyone going to bring me food? And what if I get seasick from . . .” His voice faded away.

  “My First,” Mreegan said, “douse his meal with ahvenrood. No more than one spoonful. I want to see if it affects his growth. My guess is not only will he grow, he will not be sick from the poison or require purging to any shadir. If I am proved correct in this, we will know how to proceed with our Deliverer.”

  How fortuitous. Better for Mreegan to test her theories on another than to risk Shanek. “If he can walk in the Veil, how can you be certain he will remain in his cell?” Charlon asked.

  “I’m not certain at all,” Mreegan said. “But he is a child, and I have frightened him. I think he will stay put to prove to me he has no magic. But he does. We all saw that much.”

  Shanek began to cry. Charlon tried to feed him, but he turned his head each time she placed the gut sack in his mouth.

  “Can you not silence him?” Mreegan asked.

  “He is not hungry,” Charlon said. “What else could he want?”

  “You are Mother. Take him away and figure it out.”

  Eager to leave, Charlon picked up the boy. Carried him from the Chieftess’s cabin. The movement seemed to appease the boy, and he s
topped crying. The seas were still rough. She took small steps to keep from falling. At her cabin she supervised the alterations. A carpenter had constructed a cradle from the bottom half of a wooden trunk. It was merely a hand’s breath longer than Shanek. He would not fit in it for long.

  When the child finally slept, Charlon sent all but Torol away. She had missed him. Showed her feelings the only way she knew how. The compulsion she had placed upon herself allowed her to touch and feel without fear or shame. It did not stop the insistent warnings in the back of her mind. But Charlon trusted Torol. He had always been kind. Kind even when the women abused him.

  Home, her heart said as she and Torol reunited.

  After a time, Charlon and Torol lay in each other’s arms, feeling the ship roll as the sea continued to toss the Vespara.

  Torol kissed her temple. “I revere you, Mother. You have done what no one thought possible. Even the Chieftess stands in awe of you. The child means so much to Magonia. And when he steps forward to claim the throne of Armania, there will be no end to your glory.”

  That much was true. Torol saw what Mreegan would not. Better even, he saw Charlon’s potential. “Prince Wilek will rule Armania first,” Charlon said. “Then Prince Janek.”

  “But if Prince Wilek could be killed,” Torol said, “Prince Janek would take his place. That would put Shanek one step away from being Heir to the throne of Armania.”

  The idea both thrilled and horrified Charlon. That Shanek might rule had been prophesied. The fruition of all she had been working toward. Yet she had never considered that the child could grow quickly. That he might rule soon.

  Her former bond with the eldest prince had allowed her to see. See into his heart. Prince Wilek had no evil within. No ambition other than to serve his people well. Such was the same reason Charlon wanted to be Chieftess. He did not deserve death for Magonia’s gain.

  Yet Torol’s plan had merit.

  “Whatever Magon deems prudent is what I must do.”

  “You are wise to ask the goddess,” Torol said.

  Charlon was wise. And in that moment she realized something awful. She loved this man. Loved him completely. It was Torol she dreamed about each night as she went to sleep, Torol she thought of when her imagination ran away, Torol’s face she had pictured when she had gone to Prince Janek.