King's Blood Page 16

  Wilek wove his way behind Harton through several dozen onlookers and three layers of guardsmen, finally stepping onto the packed sand of the beach where two half circles had formed: one of Armanian guards wearing blue and brown, one of Omatta nomads clad in shades of black and gray. A middle-aged man with twisted locks of brown hair and a wispy beard and mustache stood at the center of the visitors. Randmuir Khal. His son, Meelo, stood beside him, lips still melted away by the spell Charlon had cast.

  “Rand,” Wilek said, nodding politely. “It’s good to see you.”

  But Rand’s eyes were on Inolah. “Expecting a child, I see? Congratulations.”

  “This is my sister Inolah, Empress of Rurekau,” Wilek said.

  Rand snorted. “Well, don’t you all give yourselves a lot of fancy titles? Claimed this island for Armania, have you?”

  “All of the Five Realms will share this land,” Wilek said, “but there is not enough room for everyone in the fleet. We are setting up a colony of twenty thousand people. The rest of us will sail on in search of more land.”

  “Any reason the Omatta can’t come ashore?” Rand asked. “We’re most of us Armanian.”

  Wilek was more concerned about them being mercenaries and outlaws than he was by their mixed nationalities. “That depends on what you want,” he said. “You and your armed men don’t look very friendly.”

  “Came to talk to you. Where is my mother, Wil?”

  Every face in the crowd turned toward Wilek. “I sent a message by bird that—”

  “I got your message,” Rand snapped. “What did you do with her body?”

  “To leave her on board was impossible,” Wilek said, feeling terrible. “I had no way of knowing whether you had received my message, if you had even joined the fleet.”

  Meelo growled and Rand put his arm around the man. “Just tell us what was done.”

  “We had a last rites ceremony for her on the Seffynaw,” Wilek said. “We wrapped her body for shipping and set her out in a death boat.”

  “My mother in a death boat?” Rand yelled. “I thought royal spawn were educated about the world. Magonians must be burned on an altar to their goddess, Wil. You have doomed my mother to the Lowerworld.”

  A hundred accusing stares locked onto Wilek. “Forgive me, Rand. You are Armanian. I assumed your mother was as well.”

  “I carried your pathetic soul-bound body out of captivity, and this is how you repay me? Tell me you found her killer, at least.”

  “It was a mantic,” Wilek said. “But we have not yet apprehended the culprit.”

  “And all these people are following your ship? Letting you lead them? You who can’t even find one woman’s killer?”

  Such taunting made Wilek remember how helpless he had felt when he had been seeking out Lebetta’s killer. He whispered to Rayim, “Maybe we should bring him inside my tent.”

  Rayim shook his head. “I’ll not let him anywhere near you, not in his state. Perhaps a change of subject will help.” He raised his voice. “Tell me, old friend. You wouldn’t know anything about pirates harassing this fleet, would you?”

  “It’s not us, if that’s what you think,” Rand said. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “And if I think it’s your daughter?” Rayim asked. “What did you tell me Zahara’s ship was called again? Taradok, right?”

  A grin. “I never told you what her ship was called, and for good reason. You want to know her business, you’ll have to ask her.” Rand pushed through his men, walking back toward the sea. “Come on, men. It’s clear we’re not welcome here.”

  “I am sorry about your mother,” Wilek called after him. “She was a hero to us all.”

  Rand turned back, his eyes a narrow glare. He pointed at Wilek. “Don’t. You used her like you royals use everyone else.”

  “To do what was necessary to save the realm,” Wilek said.

  “Maybe. Or maybe it was only to save yourself.”

  A noise woke Wilek. Panic seized him that Rand had returned to take revenge for the death of his mother, until a bird squawked and lighted on the roof of his tent, shaking the canvas. Wilek watched the bird’s shadow for several deep breaths, then sat up and faced the darkness of night, frustration flooding him. Ever since Charlon had abducted him, he slept far too lightly. Now he would be wide awake for hours. Perhaps he should ring for a sleeping drought.

  “Your Highness,” a woman said in a low voice.

  Wilek jumped, reached under his pillow for the dagger he had kept there since the abduction. It was missing. He glanced at the bell hanging above his bed. Should he reach for it? Or yell for the guards?

  “Don’t call the guards. I am not here to harm you.” The black silhouette of a woman stepped into the orange glow from his fire pit, holding up his dagger. She laid it gently on the foot of his bed. “It is Lady Pia, answering your summons.”

  Oh. Janek’s concubine, dressed all in black. Relief engulfed him. Two nights ago he had sent the woman a message with Gran’s password. How had she gotten past the guards? “Shall I light a candle?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “It is imperative that no one ever see us together. I will never stay long. First, you should know that I have, for four years now, served your father as a Knife. The king has not made use of me in almost a year, but should he call upon me, I will come to you for direction.”

  Wilek stared at the slight woman, shocked. She was a royal assassin?

  “Second, Sâr Janek still wants to be Heir of Armania and someday rule, but he is not currently working directly against you. He seeks evenroot more than anything and has found Teaka’s newt Errp. He plans to use it to search the ship for Teaka’s supply of evenroot, hoping, in the process, to catch Teaka’s killer and impress you and your father.”

  Janek actually wanted to do something useful? “How did he get the newt?”

  “That matters not. The rosâr will likely grant him permission to search, and when you learn of it, I urge you to let him take this path. It will keep him occupied from more destructive mischief. I shall keep you informed of everything he finds.”

  “Thank you,” Wilek said, awed by Gran’s gift.

  “I have one more item,” Lady Pia said. “It is grave.”

  “Continue.”

  “There is a rumor spreading that Lady Zeroah visited Sâr Janek’s tent late last night. Alone.”

  Heat filled Wilek. “What!” He threw off his blanket and jumped out of bed.

  Lady Pia backed up a step. “Please keep your voice down, Your Highness. And remember, this is only a rumor.”

  Wilek stopped, put his hands on his hips, and tried to calm himself. “What are the details of this rumor?”

  “It is most strange. No one seems to have any memory of seeing her, but I did overhear Sâr Janek tell Sir Jayron that Lady Zeroah had come to him and that they had been intimate.”

  Betrayed again? Why? “Did Janek say he summoned her?”

  “Not that he told Sir Jayron. He seemed surprised by her visit, yet boastful, as always.”

  Wilek stood in place, keenly aware of his bare feet, cool against the woven mats on the floor. His trousers had twisted slightly at the waist and around his knees. On his finger, his signet ring felt heavy. Here he stood in the dark of night and heard in his mind a herald blow his tune on the trumpet and call out his name: Wilek-Sâr Hadar, the First Arm, the Dutiful, the Godslayer, Heir to Armania.

  In the face of such blatant rejection, nothing mattered. Not his rank, not his hard work this past month, nor his fighting against traitors to save his realm. The lady simply wanted Janek instead of him. He wasn’t enough for her. He had never been enough for anyone.

  Lady Pia merely watched him. He could see her now, a dark shadow with two pinpricks of reflected light from the dying fire to mark her eyes. “I will try to learn more,” she said, “and come to you at once should I hear further rumors or see her anywhere near him.”

  What would he do? he suddenly wondered. Would he expo
se her to all? Could he marry her, knowing of this? He didn’t think he could. But if it offered stability to the realm, he might have to.

  Or perhaps nothing had happened and it was only a rumor Janek had started for fun.

  “Do you have any tasks for me?” Lady Pia asked.

  Wilek’s mind was completely distracted. “I don’t know at the moment. I shall have to think on it. How will I summon you?”

  “Place a rug in front of your door, whether you sleep in a tent, ship’s cabin, or a bedchamber. I will be watching, always, and will come to you at night.”

  “That will do,” Wilek said, not knowing how to end the conversation.

  Lady Pia nodded and walked away, not toward the door, but to the back of the tent. Somewhere in the darkness, she vanished. Wilek walked the way she’d gone but could see no sign of her. She must have slipped under the tent’s edge, but not one ripple marred the canvas wall.

  He went back to bed but could not sleep. He relived Pia’s visit over and over, repeating her words in his memory.

  “A rumor . . . Lady Zeroah visited Sâr Janek’s tent late last night. . . . I did overhear Sâr Janek tell Sir Jayron that Lady Zeroah had come to him . . . they had been intimate.”

  First Lebetta had betrayed him. Now Lady Zeroah. Wilek was far from perfect. He had been too busy to court the girl properly. Had put her off too long. But a delayed marriage was no excuse for such treachery. If she had done this, it could not be undone.

  What had come over her? The loss of her mother and now her grandfather must have ruined her mind. Regardless, it was unacceptable.

  All of it.

  Trevn

  Trevn had managed to spend two full days on Bakurah Island before Wilek remembered his pledge to Master Bussie and sent him back to the Seffynaw. But whether Trevn had been climbing limber trees, examining coral reefs, drawing maps of the island, or loading cargo onto the ship, his mind was consumed by the life he had taken. He kept seeing it over and over in his mind, the moment his sword had entered his attacker.

  He had killed a man.

  He hadn’t told Mielle yet—had barely seen her. Rosârah Brelenah kept her as busy as Captain Livina kept the sailors. Everyone had work to do if they were to sail into the Northsea in search of land. After leaving Everton, once they’d forgiven themselves for living while so many had died, they’d felt hopeful with the destination of Bakurah Island in mind. But now that had fallen through, and while a small portion of people had stayed behind to start the colony, the majority could not. That left those on board keenly aware that they must sail on, even to their deaths—which many felt was exactly what would happen.

  Word finally came that they would leave the next morning at dawn, intensifying their final hours into a frenzy of last-minute demands. Butchered pigs and birds were to be taken to Hara; sacks of feathers, pelts of pig fur, and bushels of cut grass for weaving were delivered to Rosârah Brelenah; and freshly carved water jugs full of drinking water were hauled down to Master Bylar, the steward, to be stowed in the hold.

  Trevn was on dawn watch. The captains Livina, Alpress, and Veralla met to determine that all who were leaving with the ship were accounted for. Then Captain Livina called the watch to raise anchor, and Trevn manned one arm of the capstan, pushing with the other sailors to lift that which kept them within reach of hope. Once the anchors were up, Bussie ordered Rzasa and Trevn to climb the foremast and stand ready to unfurl the sails.

  “May Thalassa give us a safe voyage,” Captain Livina said, “and may Mikreh lead us through the Northsea to a land more bountiful than this.”

  Or bigger, anyway.

  “Ease the rope on the foresail,” Bussie called up to Rzasa and Trevn, who set to work.

  Moving from forecastle to quarterdeck was much easier now for the sailors. While Trevn had been on the island, Captain Livina had employed the men in building a suspended platform of rope harpings over the heads of the passengers clogging up the main deck. The sailors could now scurry about unhindered, loosening or fastening lines and sheets, hoisting sails, and tightening the rigging.

  They would go slowly this first day back at sea, as it would take time for all the ships to assume the order of the fleet. Once the Seffynaw was northbound and had found favorable winds, Bussie called Trevn and Rzasa to join Cadoc on the quarterdeck to patch holes in a spare mainsail. Trevn had never used a needle and thread before, but his fingers had always been adept with small details, and though his stitches were fat and crooked, he fared much better than Cadoc, who had yet to even thread his needle.

  “Captain Veralla used to help us mend our things when we were traveling,” Cadoc said. “He said we were all used to women doing our work and that none of us knew which end of the needle was which.”

  “What woman did your mending?” Trevn asked.

  “My mother.” Cadoc glanced over the port rail to the vice flagship. “She and my father are aboard the Rafayah.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” Trevn said, realizing that he knew nothing of Cadoc’s family and not liking how self-absorbed that made him feel. “I should like to meet them when we land.”

  “They would like that,” Cadoc said. “Mother especially was relieved to have me working as a shield. She thinks I’m safer in this position.”

  Trevn dropped his section of the sail into his lap. “After Beal tried to kill us in my mother’s apartment?”

  “I have no intention of ever telling her about that event,” Cadoc said.

  “Ottee said you killed a man on the island,” Rzasa said to Trevn.

  “What?” Cadoc roared, staring at Trevn as if scolding a child.

  Trevn ignored his shield’s reaction and met Rzasa’s dark eyes, wondering who had told Ottee. “Some rebels attacked Wilek and I got drawn into the fray. It was him or me. I saw that quickly enough.” He probably would have died, standing there stupidly, if it had not been for Inolah’s quick action. His sister, great with child, had killed three men. A woman worth knowing better, he decided.

  “I don’t like how killing makes me feel,” Rzasa said.

  “You’ve killed before?” Cadoc asked, incredulous.

  “Twice,” Rzasa said. “I served aboard a merchant ship my first three years. We were attacked by pirates a half dozen times. In those situations it’s kill or be killed.”

  “I keep dreaming about it,” Trevn said. “Reliving the moment, I mean.”

  “That’s normal,” Cadoc said.

  It was? “How long until it stops?”

  His shield shrugged. “Impossible to know. Every man is different.”

  The bells rang for the watch change. Trevn wouldn’t be meeting Mielle until after the midday watch, so he, Cadoc, and Ottee joined Rzasa and the sailors for breakfast.

  Breakfast for the average sailor turned out to be a rock-hard roll, a slice of whitefish, and mush. Rzasa poured tea over his roll to soften it. Trevn did the same but found it all quite bland, especially since there was no salt or spices to be had for sailors.

  Nietz entered the galley, copper mug in hand. “Eating with us now, are you, Boots?”

  “Sir Cadoc and I thought we’d give your fare a try,” Trevn said.

  Nietz chuckled. “So we’ll never be seeing you in here again, is that right?”

  Trevn lifted his mug in mock toast. “I drink to your foresight, Master Nietz.” And he choked down a glob of lukewarm mush.

  Nietz sat with them. “Heard you got into a scrape on the island.”

  “Wasn’t my idea,” Trevn said.

  “Rarely is. I know Sir Cadoc has trained you to fight with a sword, but if you ever want to learn how to stop a man with your bare hands, I’d be willing to show you.”

  The offer surprised Trevn. “I would like to learn.”

  “Next watch,” Nietz said. “You and I will have some fun.”

  After breakfast Trevn went to bed, hoping to catch a few hours’ sleep before the midday watch. But as he lay in his hanging cot, he kept seeing his swo
rd stab that man, hearing the soldier’s gasp, smelling the blood, seeing it on the ground, his blade, his hands.

  He hadn’t strung the dead man’s braid in his hair like a soldier. Instead he’d hidden it in the bottom drawer of his desk. He saw no reason to brag about having killed anyone. And that was the only reason he could see to wear the braid. He didn’t understand why so many soldiers did it. To look threatening, perhaps? In that regard Trevn supposed it worked.

  He wanted to find Mielle, to tell her about it, so she could comfort him. But as he couldn’t see her until after the midday watch, he would have to suffer until then.

  Mielle’s consolation over Trevn’s ordeal on the island was everything he had hoped it would be. They’d met in the cabin she shared with her sister and nurse, both of whom were on deck as Miss Darlow chaperoned Miss Amala’s outing with the sârahs and their guards. This left no one to chaperone Trevn and Mielle but Cadoc, who took his usual place out in the hall. An ineffective chaperone, which suited Trevn just fine.

  Mielle sat on the bed, leaning against the wall. Trevn lay on his back with his head in her lap, looking up into her face as he told his tale. She exclaimed over the danger he’d encountered, praised his bravery in standing by Wilek and the king, and lauded his skill in protecting himself and his pregnant sister—which wasn’t at all how it had happened, but Trevn did not correct her assumption. Mielle cherished his remorse at having killed but reminded him that villains brought such consequences upon themselves. All these things were said while petting his hair or face, holding his hand, or rubbing his shoulders. None of these ministrations changed what he had done or washed the memory from his mind, but her words and actions mollified his conscience in a way that no other person had been able to.

  “You are too good to me,” Trevn told her when finally she fell silent. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  She grinned down on him. “My friendship requires no compensation.”

  “There must be something? We could talk of Miss Amala or Lady Zeroah?” Mielle had lately sworn not to talk of either, claiming she would only annoy herself.