King's Folly Read online

  “Or my horse,” Wilek added, feeling childish the moment he had said it.

  They had been unable to see the king so early, so they returned to the Throne Room a half hour before the Rosâr’s Bench to make their case. Father had dismissed all his bootlickers to see his sons, who now stood side by side before the throne.

  “Wilek, your devotion to that woman is unnatural,” Father said. “Stop being content with so little. Build a harem, spread your attentions to many. Choose five women by the end of the week. I want a list of their names.”

  Wilek didn’t want a harem. “But, Father. I’m to marry in a few months. Can this wait until after the wedding?”

  “Absolutely not. Better to have your harem in place before your wife makes her home here. And, Janek, as a sâr of Armania, you can take most anything you want, but you cannot take from me or your brothers without permission. If you do so again, you will face the pole. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Father.” Janek bowed deeply to Wilek. “My most humble apologies if I offended you, brother.”

  Wilek said nothing.

  The muted sound of the trumpet announced the hour of the Rosâr’s Bench.

  “My cue to leave,” Janek said, prancing toward the back door. “Enjoy your time with the people, brother.”

  Wilek glared after him.

  Father raised one kohl eyebrow at Wilek. “Choose new women, my son, and be happy.” Then, to the herald. “Let them in.”

  The doors were opened, and the council filed in. Then the guards let in the patrons, who lined up along the wall to wait their turn to petition the king.

  Wilek half listened to each request, his thoughts still on Lebetta. Should he forgive her right away? No. She had betrayed him. He must not forgive so easily. To appease his father, he would choose a harem. Such an act would frighten Lebetta. Perhaps enough to tell him the truth.

  Charlon

  You must focus!” Mreegan yelled. “Ask the shadir to give power to your runes.”

  Charlon looked up from her mat, where she knelt. She had drunk ahvenrood juice. Could see into the Veil. Could see the shadir. They moved about in blurs of color. Unseen by the men in the tent. Every so often one stopped, stared at her.

  They were formless, yet constantly moving. Boiling masses of colored smoke. Once, she thought she saw three eyes staring at her from a green cloud, but they blinked away.

  “The shadir ignore me.” And the ahvenrood poison was killing her. She could feel it within, destroying.

  “Shadir answer sincere acolytes,” Mreegan said. “Tell them the purpose for the power you seek, which is to serve me and the realm of Magonia.”

  Serve Mreegan? Was that Charlon’s purpose?

  Mreegan’s newt scurried over the furs to Charlon’s altar mat. Its tongue darted out, tasted the leather. Charlon’s runes, she’d drawn them perfectly on the mat. In her own blood. But she was weak. So weak.

  Mreegan loomed over her. “You feel nothing?”

  “Tired. And thirsty.” Poison eating her bones. Formless shadir gloating.

  “Not the slightest surge of cold?”

  Charlon glanced up. “Like when you healed me?”

  Mreegan stalked away, red cloak billowing behind. Her newt darted after her. “That was the power Magon gave me to heal your wounds. You must find a shadir that responds to you. Go again to the altar. Only when you find your shadir can I continue your training. Find it soon, or the poison will kill you.”

  A threat? “You won’t heal me?”

  Mreegan crouched to pick up her newt. “To what purpose? I cannot keep a maiden unable to join with a shadir.”

  Charlon stood, legs trembling. Hobbled out of the red tent. Chastised. Forlorn. From the hilltop she glanced across camp to the altar and the gleaming ruby eyes on Magon’s idol.

  Why did she want this? Not to obey Mreegan’s wishes. Yes, Charlon had been safe here. Eighteen painless days. Plenty of food. As the Fifth Maiden, no man could touch her. Mreegan promised freedom. Charlon knew better. Service as a maiden was another form of slavery. Honorable, true. But Mreegan could not be trusted. If Charlon could not join with a shadir, Mreegan would let her die.

  Father had beat her. Brother had sold her. Men had forced her. Years of pain. Bondage.

  No more.

  Magon had saved her once. Charlon would pray to Magon again. Only at Magon’s altar would she find answers. The shadir. The black spirit that might power her spells.

  Slow steps down the hill to keep from falling. At the bottom she edged down the dirt path. White tents on both sides. People staring. Judging. Knowing she would die next. Knowing deep down she mistrusted Mreegan.

  Refusing to yield fully to Mreegan? Did that keep the shadir at bay? Did the black spirits sense she would eventually rebel?

  To join with a shadir, one must be true. But Charlon had lied. She didn’t want to serve Mreegan. Charlon wanted freedom. Value. Power. Stature.

  She wanted to be Chieftess.

  Mreegan ruled cruelly. Killed the boys. Killed the maiden who’d speared Charlon. Killed to drive fear. So that none would stand against her. But Mreegan had no power that Magon did not give.

  Magon.

  The goddess of magic could give Charlon power. Charlon would have to bow, though. But Magon had saved her life. For that, Charlon was grateful. If she must serve someone, only a goddess was worthy.

  She reached the altar. Sank onto brittle knees. The poison worked quickly. She must hurry.

  She fell prostrate. Gripped handfuls of sand, rubbed it on her face, and screamed the only name that could save her. “Magon! I will serve only you. I am your servant. Heal me of this poison, and teach me the ways of the mantic. Give me power over runes, over soil and plants and animals, over human flesh and hair and bone, over humors of body, earth, and sea.” She lowered her voice. “If you find me worthy, make me Chieftess someday. I want to rule—not by strength alone, but with compassion. I want to be Mother to your people. Be my master, Magon. Only to you will I bow.”

  The ground chilled. Sand grew stiff with cold. Charlon lifted her head, looked up the Magon pole. Her breath clouded white before her. Hid the idol in fog. A figure in red stepped out of the cloud. Stood before Charlon. Clear and bright with eyes of fire.

  Magon, the goddess of magic.

  “Rise, daughter. I have found you worthy.” Though Magon’s lips moved, the voice came from inside Charlon’s head.

  Charlon stood. Legs now strong. Standing, yet still so small before a goddess.

  “I shall be your power,” Magon said, “but you must tell no one, especially not Mreegan. Tell her you found your shadir. That she is called Eemahlah, which means mother. For as your mother is gone, I shall be a mother to you, so that you, in time, can be Mother to my people.”

  “Thank you, goddess,” Charlon said, her voice but a whisper.

  “Remain loyal to Mreegan until her time ends. Then, and only if I deem you worthy, will I set you up as Chieftess.”

  “I will do as you—”

  In a blink, Magon vanished. Charlon was back on her face in the sand. Lying before the altar. Warmth flooded her body. She had been healed! But deep within, an icy pool waited, ready to be drawn from, ready to provide power.

  She was a mantic. And her shadir was a goddess.

  “Thank you,” she rasped, throat tight with tears. “Thank you.”

  Charlon returned to the red tent a mantic. But Mreegan wanted proof. “Show me,” she’d said. Sent Charlon to gather cuttings and humors. Prepare a spell.

  Very well.

  Charlon asked Thirsty, who Mreegan called Five and everyone else called Torol. He had been kind. Was kind still. Let her pluck a hair from his short mane. Smiled and wished her luck. Expected her to fail. Thought her too new to cast a mold of another human.

  Charlon forgave him.

  She returned to the red tent. Set up her mat and bowl and knife and the hair Torol had given. Knelt down. Took a swallow of ahvenrood juice. Let it
absorb within. When she could see the Veil, she sliced her fingertip with the knife. Blood dripped into the bowl.

  Patience. Let it pool.

  When she had enough, she drew runes in blood on the smooth leather mat. Concentrated on Magon, the runes, the intended result.

  Before she had worked in fear, hoping a shadir would take pity. Now she worked in confidence, knowing Magon would lend the power she needed.

  The cold place in her belly pulsed. Grew. Magon was ready.

  When Charlon finished the last rune, she fell across her mat and spoke her request. “Eemahlah âthâh. Tsamad ani. Ten shel cheber tokef.”

  She sat up and tugged out one of her hairs. “Bara Charlon . . .” She dropped her hair into the bowl. Picked up Thirsty’s hair. “. . . tselem ba Torol.” She dropped his hair into the bowl. She lifted the bowl above her head. Repeated her request. “Ten shel cheber tokef. Bara Charlon tselem ba Torol.”

  Magon chuckled inside Charlon’s head. Charlon could not see her but knew she was near. Icy cold spread slowly. Out from the deep of her stomach, through her veins. She set down the bowl and bowed over the runes. The cold engulfed her, pimpling her skin and frosting her eyelashes. She did not blink, for fear her lashes would stick. She wanted to watch the effects of her first spell. Wanted to see Mreegan’s reaction.

  Charlon’s dainty, feminine hands swelled. Skin darkened to a reddish brown. Black hairs sprouted on the backs of her fingers and up her arms. Shoulders, chest, and waist widened. The fabric of her tunic tore down her back. Her skirt’s waistband cut into her sides. The stench of man sweat covered her. Limbs and spine lengthened. No pain in the growth. Just a good stretch.

  When warmth embraced her again, she looked to Mreegan’s throne.

  Three had stopped fanning his palm branch. He stared, eyes wide, lips curled. Impressed. “Truly you are blessed by the goddess to have mastered such a spell so quickly,” he said.

  “My shadir is powerful,” Charlon replied, though her voice was male and gruff. Torol’s voice. “Magon has blessed me greatly.” This half-truth should please Mreegan and pacify Three, but Charlon meant it as praise to her goddess, whom she could already feel within, healing her of the ahvenrood poison.

  Mreegan stared, expression bland. She stroked the sleeping newt on her lap. “Leave us,” she said to Three.

  He swallowed and set down his palm. Glanced once more at Charlon as he left.

  When they were alone, Mreegan spoke. “You were arrogant to cast a mold as your first spell. Your shadir could have punished you for asking too much too fast.”

  Magon would never hurt Charlon. “How long does it last?” So strange, to have a man’s voice!

  “With only one hair each, only a few hours. For the magic to last longer, the offering must be greater. A small lock of hair will give you a full day. A finger or toe can get you several weeks. If you wish your subject no harm, a steady offering of blood will also work.”

  “What if my subject is dead?”

  Mreegan raised one eyebrow. “Dead molds are difficult. You must appeal to your shadir, offer something of value in trade, and change your runes and spell, of course. You need much more practice before attempting something so ambitious.”

  Charlon bowed to her. Not to Mreegan, really. She bowed before Magon, spoke words to the goddess. “Thank you. I would never have learned without your excellent teaching.”

  “What name did your shadir give?” Mreegan asked.

  “Eemahlah,” Charlon said.

  “The mother.” Mreegan pursed her lips in thought, waved her hand. “Dismissed.”

  Charlon gathered her tools and left the red tent, still looking like Thirsty. Outside, a cluster of men and women stood on the hill, staring.

  Someone whistled sharply. Two men pushed Torol out of the crowd. He stood alone, facing her. Facing himself. Cheeks flushed crimson.

  “You look good in foxtails, Torol,” Nuel yelled. The crowd chuckled.

  Charlon was still wearing her dress. The bodice had torn up the back, and the skirt had ridden up high and tight across her—his waist.

  Torol fell to his knees, rubbed his hands in the dirt, and wiped it on his face. “The goddess has blessed you. Forgive my doubt.”

  “I already have.” Charlon walked past, chin held high, careful to touch no one.

  Everyone stared. She had shown strength. She had impressed them.

  Still, so embarrassing to wear a man’s skin and walk in it. She liked the strength and size of his body. But her own smallness no longer mattered. With Magon’s help, she would never be weak again.

  Mielle

  The King’s Guards led Lady Zeroah and Mielle to the private dining room on the second floor of Castle Everton. It was a spacious room with walls paneled in royal-blue silk piped with stripes of gold. A large iron fireplace divided the end wall. The floor was polished stone with a huge silk rug featuring Nesher the sunbird covering much of it.

  A long stone table in the center of the room was set for four, two on each side, with bronze bowls clustered in the center. A candelabra hung overhead, filled with dozens of thin taper candles. The light reflected off the bronze dishes, making everything gleam.

  Zeroah’s guards remained outside, while a bowl boy seated them on the fireplace side of the table. The chairs were wickerwork and cushioned in blue-and-gold brocade. Mielle eyed the empty chair across the table. Prince Trevn would sit there. She tried to recall if he looked anything like Wilek. She had barely seen him the first time and had been too embarrassed to take much notice the second.

  Since her first day in Zeroah’s service, Mielle had done all she could to ease Zeroah’s jitters around Prince Wilek. Tonight it was Mielle’s turn to be nervous. Prince Trevn had winked at her. Twice. She had told no one, of course. Surely he had meant nothing by it. Flara had said that Prince Trevn was known as the Explorer Prince. That he was full of mischief and climbed the castle walls like a squirrel. Having seen him atop their carriage, Mielle did not doubt it.

  The bowl boy returned. “May I present Wilek-Sâr, the First Arm of Armania.”

  Lady Zeroah pushed back her chair and stood. Mielle hurriedly copied her. She felt massive in a bright orange-and-green silk dress beside petite Zeroah in her elegant gold gown.

  Wilek entered, resplendent in a blue tunic with gold accents. Mielle complimented herself on how well the gold dress she had chosen for Zeroah matched his ensemble.

  Zeroah curtsied deeply to Wilek, and, again, Mielle copied her. She caught sight of Kal out in the hallway. No sign of Prince Trevn.

  Mielle’s heart sank, figuring he had decided not to come, but then she heard the sound of distant footsteps, pounding nearer, running. Wilek and Zeroah turned to the doorway, all three of them ensnared by the commotion.

  A gangly boy bounded into the room and slowed to a dramatic stop, cheeks flushed maroon. He panted and grinned, lifted one hand in a casual wave. “Hello,” he said, his voice low and pleasant.

  “Lady Zeroah and Miss Mielle, I present my brother Trevn,” Wilek said.

  Prince Trevn Hadar was a hand taller than his brother and all arms and legs. Both princes had dark brown skin, brown eyes, and black hair, but that was where the similarities ended. Wilek’s hair had been cornrowed into five warrior’s braids that were bound at the nape of his neck. His features were narrow, his eyes and mouth small. He stood with stately posture, his tunic and trousers crisp and smooth.

  Trevn’s hair was shorter, perhaps chin-length. It was tied back high on his head and poofed out like a rabbit’s tail. He had a long neck that seemed longer with such short hair. His face was round, as were his nose, cheeks, and eyes. Even his ears were round, and they stuck out a bit too far on the sides of his head. He wore a dark blue tunic with gold buttons and black trousers. His clothes were wrinkled. The top two buttons on his tunic weren’t fastened. In fact, the top button was missing altogether, a loose thread the only sign it had ever existed.

  “Pleased to see you again, S�
�r Trevn,” Zeroah said.

  “Indeed, lady,” he said. “Strange that we lived so long in each other’s realms.”

  “But no longer,” Zeroah said. “We both call Everton home now.”

  He nodded and glanced at Mielle.

  A jab to her side made her jump. Caught staring! Zeroah shot her a wide-eyed glare and bobbed her knees a little.

  The curtsy! Mielle’s cheeks flamed. She curtsied to Prince Trevn, trying not to dip as low as she had for Wilek. She wobbled. Oh, tuhsh. What must he think of her?

  She could speak now, since both had spoken. Right? “Pleased to meet you, Sâr Trevn.” She added another curtsy, hoping it made up for the lateness of her first.

  Trevn chuckled, and she glanced at Zeroah. Had she done something wrong?

  “Shall we sit?” Wilek suggested, and as they took their seats, she watched Trevn looking around.

  “I’ve never eaten in here. In fact, I didn’t even know this room existed before tonight.”

  “But don’t they call you the Explorer Prince?” Mielle asked. “I’d have thought you would’ve inspected every room of the castle by now.”

  He smirked, which made his ears stick out more. “Dining rooms are only interesting when they’re full.”

  “Full of people or full of food?”

  “Yes.”

  Mielle laughed. “So, if you hadn’t been invited here tonight, you might have come anyway, drawn by the sound of people’s voices and the smells of food?”

  “That’s doubtful. I prefer my chambers at night.”

  “Really? Why? I would think you—”

  “Miss Mielle.”

  Zeroah’s scolding tone turned Mielle’s head. “Yes, lady?”

  “You must not badger the sâr with questions,” Zeroah said softly.

  Mielle blinked, confused. Hadn’t that been the plan? Both princes were watching her now. “Forgive me, Your Highnesses, if I did something improper,” she said. “I’ve never been to a private dinner before.”

  Trevn laughed deeply and slouched in his chair, tipped it back on two legs, and held the table with his thumb and two fingers. “Think nothing of it, Miss Mielle. It’s nice to talk to someone who isn’t all rules and perfect manners. In fact . . .” His chair fell forward and clumped against the floor. “I hereby abolish all rules for this evening. We shall each say whatever we want without fear of giving offense.”