The Reluctant King Read online

The work ceased as all eyes turned to regard the empress.

  “Prince Ferro has recovered,” she said, smiling. “He is awake, though still very ill. I give praise to the goddess Tenma for restoring my magic so that I could grant the boy his life.”

  “What of the emperor?” an Igote guard asked.

  Jazlyn’s eyes instantly glistened with tears. “I know not. Rosârah Thallah took him to the cellar, and I’ve not had a moment to try to break past the defenses she has set up against me. Qoatch, send a servant to the cellar with word of Prince Ferro’s recovery and the arrival of our guests. I set our cooks to work preparing a feast that I am sure the rosârah will not want to miss.”

  Qoatch bowed. “Yes, Great Lady.” And he set off to obey.

  Two hours later, when the castle was fully repaired and all had freshened up, dinner was served in the great hall. Jazlyn had taken the seat of honor and placed King Barthel at her right hand. Qoatch stood behind her, keeping a close watch on the great shadir the king had brought with him.

  Dendron, or so he was called, looked like a stubby tree with skin like dirt, arms like branches, clothing of leaves, and a waterfall of hair that dissipated before hitting the floor. He stood no taller than an average woman and glided along in a puddle of soft mist. Though he appeared unassuming at first glance, such detail in his appearance, right down to his pale, stone eyes, was proof of his immense power.

  He held an air of great importance, as if he considered himself above the physical gratification that obsessed the lives of most shadir. He stood against the back wall like the rest of the servants and did not speak—at least not aloud. Qoatch had no doubt that this creature considered himself superior to everyone in the room. No wonder Gozan had always avoided him.

  Jazlyn and King Barthel were speculating over the giants’ motives—the king had claimed to have had no part in the attack, though Qoatch knew Jazlyn did not believe him. She wanted rule of Rurekau, however, and could not afford to make an enemy of this man, though she would not make herself submissive to him either.

  Rosârah Thallah came running into the great hall. “Your Highness!” The Armanian queen bustled up the center aisle, skirts hiked up and revealing thick ankles. Her footsteps pattered over the wood floor that no longer showed any signs of the morning’s destruction.

  King Barthel’s face broke into a wide smile. “Rosârah Thallah, there you are. I looked for you in the restoration, but it seems you had other responsibilities.”

  That King Barthel had expected to see Rosârah Thallah bothered Qoatch. Both had the ability to mind-speak, so the rosârah had likely known the king would visit.

  The Armanian queen reached the front, stopped, and swept into a shaky curtsy. “I gave the empress the last of my evenroot,” she said, panting. “So that she could fight the giants.”

  “How generous,” the king said. “Empress, are you in need of root?”

  “I have a little,” Jazlyn said, watching him warily. “But the bulk of my supply was taken from me during the voyage across the sea.”

  “A grievous loss,” King Barthel said. “I could spare some of my own if you would be interested in discussing a trade.”

  Jazlyn’s eyes lit with interest. Using it earlier that day had brought about a relapse in both desire and dependency. She craved the return of the power she once wielded, and Qoatch knew that she would ally with this man if she saw a way to do so without giving up her freedom.

  “Ahvenrood in exchange for what?” she asked. “I hope you do not intend to conquer us.”

  “Goodness, no, Empress. I seek allies to my cause, and Rosârah Thallah suggested Rurekau might be willing.”

  So they had spoken ahead of time. Qoatch wished he could communicate with his Great Lady as King Barthel and Rosârah Thallah were likely doing this very moment.

  Jazlyn regarded Rosârah Thallah, who still stood awkwardly on the floor below the high table. “I find that a strange recommendation. Coming from you, Your Highness.”

  “How so, Empress?” Thallah asked.

  “King Barthel, you are an enemy to Armania, with whom we are already allied, and the realm of which Rosârah Thallah’s son has just become king. Why would a mother put herself against her own son?”

  Thallah’s cheek twitched and she glared at Jazlyn. “My son is young and foolish. He no longer heeds my counsel, but I adore him and will do all I can to spare his life.”

  “Interesting,” Jazlyn said. “And what is your cause, King Barthel?”

  “I want only what is due me—what is due us all. For too long men and women have ruled unfairly, forcing their morals upon their people. I seek only a world where everyone is free to do as they please. Worship who you like. Marry who you like. A man’s—or woman’s—business is their own, as it should be. King Echad believed that, but his sons . . . no offense to you, rosârah, but they believe otherwise.”

  “Oh, to my own shame I know it,” Thallah said. “You are so wise, Your Highness.”

  This man spun words well and had clearly won Rosârah Thallah’s allegiance.

  “You have gallantly stated your motivation, Your Highness,” Jazlyn said, “but not your end goal. What do you want to achieve?”

  “It is not a matter of wanting, Empress. I will depose King Trevn and Queen Saria and rule both realms as one—as is my right.”

  “Why not Rurekau as well?” Jazlyn asked.

  “I have no legitimate claim over Rurekau, Empress, nor do I seek one. I am of Sarikarian blood, and rule of that realm is clearly due me. My grandson, Janek, should have ruled Armania, but he was murdered. That realm has since fallen into disarray, and I seek only to bring stability to the lost remnant of the Five Realms.”

  “I finally understand,” Jazlyn said. “But yours is a war we want no part of. New Rurekau will not battle beside you, nor will we fight beside Armania or Sarikar. We will stay out of this war, entirely. But if we learn anything that might aid in your cause, we will pass on the information. How much ahvenrood is that worth to you?”

  “Your offer is understandable, Your Eminence, though not what I hoped for,” the king said. “For such a treaty I would give you a bottle of evenroot juice.”

  Jazlyn narrowed her eyes. “What size bottle and what concentration?”

  “A standard. Full strength.”

  She lifted her chin. “For the support I’ve offered, I want two bottles.”

  “I will give you one now, and a second when Chieftess Charlon of Magosia becomes my ally.”

  “What has the Chieftess to do with me?” Jazlyn asked.

  “I need your help in winning her support.”

  “I will try, but I cannot promise to win her. If she refuses, I will keep my first bottle of root juice and you and I will have peace between us.”

  The king inclined his head. “Very well. I ask only that you try, Empress.”

  “Then I accept,” Jazlyn said, turning to look over her shoulder at the servants. “Boy, bring some wine so we might celebrate this union.”

  The boy scurried away.

  “What do you know of Magosia and Chieftess Charlon?” the king asked.

  “We signed a treaty of peace between us,” Jazlyn said. “You should know that right now. I will not betray her, so never ask me to.”

  “I have no intention of doing so.”

  “Good,” Jazlyn said. “The Chieftess is strong in magic. I could not see into the Veil when I was there, but I could feel the hum of shadir in the air. She no doubt leads a swarm of several hundred.”

  “Did you catch the name of her shadir?” he asked.

  “She lied about that. Said it was called Mitsar.”

  “Small one?” The king chuckled, as did the shadir in the Veil who surrounded them.

  “Her shadir helped her kill Magon and Mreegan so that she was able to take power,” Jazlyn said.

  The king’s eyes widened. “Chieftess Charlon killed a great?”

  And behind him, in the Veil, Dendron vanished.
/>   Jazlyn nodded. “Some of her women witnessed the event. She terrifies her people. All but Sir Kalenek, who guards her son, a root child fathered by your grandson Janek Hadar.”

  The king stiffened. “The child lived?”

  “He lives still,” Jazlyn said. “The Chieftess claims he is under two years of age, but he looks to be nearly a man. He is . . . different. Having grown abnormally fast has put him at a disadvantage.”

  “I must meet him,” King Barthel said. “Might we invite the Chieftess to join us here? I could send out a messenger shadir to her today.”

  “Why here, Your Highness?” Jazlyn asked. “We don’t have much room, as you can see, and you must be eager to take your army east toward Sarikar.”

  “Not just yet, Empress. While I am here, there is one more nation I seek an alliance with.”

  “Who is that?” Jazlyn asked.

  “The giants.”

  Jazlyn narrowed her eyes. “The giants you helped us defeat?”

  “No, actually,” the king said. “Those giants looked to me like the Ahj-Yeke, from the forests northeast of the mountains. I seek an alliance with the giants who live to the northwest of here. They have a magic that has made the other giant tribes and the Puru people fear them. I hope to find out how that magic works and use it to aid my cause.”

  “And what do these northern giants call themselves?” Jazlyn asked.

  “Jiir-Yeke,” the king said. “The bird makers.”

  Charlon

  Did you see that?” Charlon twisted to regard the real, flesh-and-blood Sir Kalenek. He sat on the ground behind her. Beside the cold campfire. Mashing root into a stone bowl.

  He glanced at the illusions of himself. Then quickly went back to his work. “Can’t you practice duplicating someone else?”

  Charlon turned back to the two illusions of Sir Kalenek standing before her. Both were dark and brooding. Except for red eyes. “I prefer you to any other. Though I wish I could master the eyes. Can you tell them apart?”

  Sir Kalenek sighed and again looked up from his work. “They are different somehow?”

  “I’ve used only one gowzal to make them. The Kalenek on the right is a mask. The one on the left is an illusion. Powered by the magic in the first gowzal.”

  Sir Kalenek grunted. “They look identical.”

  Charlon pointed to the mask of Sir Kalenek. Commanded the gowzal inside. “Râbab.” She felt the power strain. A third Sir Kalenek flickered into sight. Stood on the other side of the mask. The illusion warped, fizzled. Maintaining a second illusion proved too much for the single gowzal. It screeched through the mask of Sir Kalenek’s mouth. Collapsed into a pool of mud.

  Both illusions vanished instantly.

  “Thank you,” Sir Kalenek said.

  Charlon did not appreciate his sarcasm. “I cannot hold two illusions of the same mask,” she said. “And I have no idea how to transform the eyes.”

  “Use the right magic words?” Sir Kalenek suggested.

  Such ignorance angered Charlon. As if he hadn’t seen. Seen her try such a thing weeks ago. She needed her son. At least he would appreciate all she had accomplished. “Where is Shanek? I summoned him over an hour ago.”

  “Haven’t you noticed? He no longer responds to a summons.”

  Dismay crept into her heart. She hadn’t noticed. “Why not?”

  “Because he finds every person dull in comparison to his new companion, and Shanek DanSâr will always choose what he enjoys best.”

  “He must practice.”

  “He has his own magic, Charlon. He does not care to learn yours.”

  She spun around. Located the great shadir, who stood watch from the Veil. “Do you know where he is, Rurek?”

  He is in Miss Amala’s tent.

  Charlon ground her teeth. Hated that Sir Kalenek had been right again. “Tell Shanek to come instantly. Or I will not teach him to use the birds.”

  Very well. Rurek vanished.

  Charlon regarded the three remaining shadir in the tent—Nwari, Caph, and Okda—all slights that had possessed the gowzals. The birds had hopped close to Sir Kalenek, who often exuded enough anger to thrill the creatures. Charlon had selected these three from Magon’s swarm. Wanted to build trust with those who were not Rurek’s minions. They seemed to like living inside the birds. Rurek had said Dominion was the greatest prize for a shadir. Apparently it needn’t be Dominion of a human.

  Since none were paying attention and Rurek was gone, Charlon quickly moved three more jars of magical ahvenrood powder. Out of her trunk and into the bottom of an empty basket. She covered them with a pile of burlap. Sacks Sir Kalenek used to pack root tubers from the field. As per their plan, Sir Kalenek would bury Charlon’s old root in the field. When next he went down to harvest more of the new root with Shanek. As long as the boy saw no shadir nearby. Only Sir Kalenek, Shanek, and Charlon knew. Knew where it was being hidden. A few more trips. And all would be stashed away.

  Kateen and Astaa had already come begging for more. Claimed they’d run out. Charlon had told them she had no more to give. She was glad Mreegan’s newt had died in the winter cold. Now no one would be able to find what she’d hidden.

  Her mantic maidens were grieving. The loss of their way of life fell hard. Rightly so. Charlon found it difficult to do many things by hand. Things she had relied upon magic for. But it was more important to save the magical ahvenrood. Once she was with child, she wouldn’t be able to take any. But it would be waiting. When her child was born. Ready to help her take the crown of Armania for Shanek.

  Charlon sat upon her throne and admired Sir Kalenek’s muscled arms. Arms pounding ahvenrood tubers to mush. She grew fonder of the man with each passing day. It gnawed at her that his affection for her was compelled. She longed to matter to him. Without magic.

  Rurek appeared then. Brought with him a chill that made her shiver. Shanek says he will come soon.

  Anger flashed over Charlon. Her son lacked respect. “Rurek tells me Shanek says he will come,” Charlon said aloud for Sir Kalenek’s benefit. “Likely after I remind him twice more.”

  “Ah, the blitheness of youth,” Sir Kalenek said, smiling.

  “Do you approve of their friendship?”

  “Would it matter either way?”

  “You could say something to her.”

  “Amala has not listened to me for years,” Sir Kalenek said. “She is not about to start now.”

  “I don’t like them together.” Shanek should remain single. So he could marry a princess once he took the throne.

  “Get used to it,” Sir Kalenek said. “She sees him as her hero.”

  For killing Sir Kamran. “And he will not part with her near worship of him.”

  “It is not worship, Charlon. She respects and admires his abilities while everyone else in Magosia sees him as a monstrosity. Can you blame the boy for loving her? She is the only person who is not afraid of him. Even you and I are wary.”

  Because he was so unpredictable. Had his own dark magic none of them understood. Had killed twice. Charlon quavered and rubbed her arms. Just thinking about the power that boy had within made her nervous.

  “You are cold,” Kalenek said. “About time I lit the fire, I suppose.”

  “No,” she said, perking up. “Allow me.” She enjoyed practicing this new trick. She pointed to one of the gowzals. “Sabab bay êsh.”

  The bird collapsed. Turned into green light. Revealed hardly any of the black mud. The slights within the gowzals were getting better at this. Faster.

  Once the creature had fully transformed, Charlon pointed. To the ash wood within the circle of stones. “Yaqad chatab.”

  The green orb sailed across the tent. Landed in the fire pit. Yellow flames flared up and the green glow faded. The gowzal screeched. A black muddy blob slithered over the rocks. Pooled on the dirt floor. Slowly transformed back into feathers and fur.

  “Now that I find impressive,” Sir Kalenek said. “That’s similar to what
Shanek can do, though he doesn’t need the gowzals.”

  Charlon found Shanek’s magic eerily similar to the new magic. She rather enjoyed its power. Though the limitations were frustrating. She could make masks of anyone. Without the need of hair, blood, or bone. Yet she could not disguise herself. Unless, perhaps, she took a shadir within. And that she would not do.

  She could create masks of substances. Turn the gowzal into fire or a spear or a gust of black smoke. These types of masks performed the physical characteristics of their object. Fire burned. Spears stabbed. Smoke obscured or blew things about. Masks of humans stood or sat still. She could make them move. Though she could not make them speak or match their eyes. Eyes that always remained red.

  She could also conjure illusions of a source mask. As she had just done with Sir Kalenek. Illusions had no substance. They were transparent like shadir in the Veil. Charlon could not cast compulsions or soul-bindings or move objects. Still, the possibilities offered plenty of hope.

  She would remain in power here. She had taught the magic to no one but Shanek. Sir Kalenek had watched all along, of course. But he had no ambition to wield. For that Charlon was grateful. They all simply had to get used to this new way of life.

  Shanek walked into the red tent on foot. This was a surprise. The boy usually appeared out of thin air. Movement behind him revealed his motives. He’d brought Miss Amala along.

  “Do you need something, Shanek?” Charlon asked.

  “I’m to learn birds,” he said. It often made her skin crawl how much he resembled Sâr Janek. But for that strange, dapple-gray skin.

  “You, yes,” Charlon said. “But I did not invite Miss Amala.”

  “Amala wants to learn,” Shanek said, taking hold of the girl’s hand.

  Fire kindled inside Charlon. She fought to conceal her rage. Shanek never responded well to anger. “I haven’t even shown this new skill to my maidens. Why would I teach this girl?”

  “I want it,” Shanek said.

  Fool boy. “I need time to consider this,” Charlon said. “Leave us for today, Miss Amala. I will give you my answer soon.”

  Shanek’s brow wrinkled. “What do I do?” he whispered.