The Reluctant King Read online

  “If you please. If you are successful, you should be able to hear Miss Kaye’s thoughts through me. Miss Kaye, continue with your original line of thought, please.”

  Zeroah set the ball on the chair beside her, then closed her eyes. Oli connected with Kaye, but he left his eyes open, curious whether or not the queen would need to make use of the ball. He waited patiently, keeping his shields down and his senses open, straining to detect even the faintest brush against his mind.

  Zeroah lifted her hand and took hold of the ball. Oli sensed her mind then but quickly realized it was his magic, not hers. He pulled back and concentrated on keeping his shields down and his gift in his own head.

  Several seconds passed by, then Zeroah’s slender fingers slid over his forearm, sending a tingle up his arm. Her mind brushed up against his. She brought with her a heaviness—love masked in duty and prayer for those around her. Mielle. Trevn. The people of Armania.

  And himself. The Duke of Canden, Oli Agoros.

  Concern rose up within her. “Your Grace? I can feel you in my mind.”

  “Yes, you have done it, lady. Masking your presence will take practice, but this is a start. Do you sense Miss Kaye at all?”

  “You believe yourself worthless. Why?”

  Horrified, Oli closed his eyes and tried to push her out, and when he could not, he tried to bury that deepest part of himself, but she had already wound her way inside. A memory flashed by, and Oli knew that Zeroah could see it as if she’d been there all along, watching.

  He was a child, eight years old, awakened in the dark, pre-dawning hours by a kick to the back. He’d been lying on the ground, curled into a ball behind a cat’s claw bush.

  “You lazy flop! You fell asleep and let them pass. They attacked and stole half our horses. What have you to say for your actions, boy, eh?” A hand fisted his hair and pulled. “On your feet. A man stands in the presence of his betters.”

  Oli the boy straightened to attention and fought the urge to massage his scalp. “I’m sorry, Father.”

  “Sorry? The yeetta will probably cross the border and kill a hundred innocent farmers—women and children, dead, because you couldn’t keep your eyes open. And all you have to say is ‘Sorry’?”

  Young Oli fought back tears. His eyes ached with fatigue, but his heart was pounding so fast it reminded him of a galloping horse. “I failed you, Father.”

  “Indeed you did, and the king as well. You will go to the pole as any other soldier would for such inadequacy. Sir Briden, take him.” Father shoved Oli into the arms of his captain.

  The adult Oli fought, struggling to push the memory away. It was common for such negative thoughts to snag him in their grip, but to have a witness . . . How humiliating!

  Despite his resolve, the memory flashed by in bits and pieces. The flogging. His mother’s indifference toward what had taken place. The two days he’d spent in the infirmary. His own guilt at having failed so horribly, and his determination to make it up, to prove to his father that he was worthy.

  He saw Zeroah, then, standing in the infirmary—inside his memory, somehow. She sat down on the edge of his bed, where he lay on his stomach. She stroked his hair and took hold of his small, child-sized hand.

  “Do not be afraid,” she said.

  “My father is angry,” the boy said. “I failed him.”

  “He should not have asked a boy to do a man’s job.”

  “Father says I must become a man sooner than others. I must prove to everyone that I am royal, even though my name is not. I must impress the king.”

  “No, sweet boy. You must play and enjoy your childhood while you can.”

  The boy frowned. “I’m not allowed to play. Only when Janek asks me.”

  Adult Oli girded himself and concentrated, pushing against Zeroah’s hold with all his strength.

  He came back to the present with a sharp intake of air. His eyes flashed open. Inolah was standing over him, crouched and peering into his face.

  “You were yelling,” the empress said. “Are you well?”

  Well? No, he was not well. His entire body was shaking and his cheeks were wet with tears. Zeroah had witnessed one of the most demeaning and horrible moments of his life. While a small part of him wanted to know how she had done it, he was too embarrassed to speak at present. He glanced quickly at the queen, met her golden eyes long enough to know she was well, then pushed to his feet.

  “The lesson is over for today,” he whispered, then strode from the room on unsteady legs.

  Out in the corridor, he set his hand against the wall and breathed deeply, trying to catch his breath, to calm himself. Zeroah’s guards eyed him. Oli pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dried his cheeks. Crying like a babe? How humiliating!

  “Your Grace?”

  His spine stiffened at the sound of Zeroah’s voice. He wanted to flee but instead tucked away his handkerchief and turned to face her. “Yes, lady?”

  She stood in the opened doorway of the classroom, her brows crinkled above golden eyes that penetrated his very soul. “Forgive me.” A little shake of the head. “I didn’t mean to invade your privacy.”

  What she had done . . . while it had been far too personal and downright terrifying, it was nothing short of remarkable. “How did you do that?”

  “I was trying to do as you said—to enter your mind, and when I finally succeeded and listened for Miss Kaye . . . I was distracted by the pain.”

  Pain he had hidden from everyone for years. It was fascinating, really. He should explore her ability further, but his pride swept away the idea before he could speak it aloud.

  “Will you forgive me?” she asked again.

  That he had yet to answer shamed him. Where were his manners? “Of course,” he managed.

  She clasped her hands. Her eyelashes fluttered and her nose wrinkled slightly. “And you’ll come back and continue the lesson?”

  Movement behind him made him reach for his sword, but it was only Zeroah’s guards, drawing near. He forced himself to answer. “Yes. I will join you in a moment.”

  She grabbed a handful of her skirt and glided back to the classroom. It wasn’t until she disappeared around the doorframe that he realized he’d been watching her every move.

  Did he fear her? Gods help him. He must not allow a woman to intimidate him. He must teach her how to use her gift, then learn more about her unique power—preferably without having to make himself vulnerable again.

  Two more hours in close proximity to Rosârah Zeroah did not ease his discomfort around the woman. They did make progress, however. Zeroah was able to connect to Miss Kaye’s mind through Oli’s connection. And though it took several tries, she also succeeded in hearing Miss Kaye’s thoughts on her own by holding the girl’s shoe.

  Oli was just about to dismiss everyone when Rosârah Mielle barged into the classroom and walked right into the center of their circled longchairs. Hands on her hips, she glared down upon Oli. She was nearly as tall as he was and thickset. She wore her hair in minibraids, but hers hung loose. A slightly wild look for a queen.

  “Is it true you struck Porvil in front of the other boys?” she asked.

  Oli sat up and swung his feet to the floor. “Your Highness, you are interrupting my class.”

  “Answer the question, Your Grace. This is an order from your queen.”

  His cheeks tingled at her disrespect. “No, I did not strike him. Is that what he told you?”

  She folded her arms. “He said you would deny it. He said you treat him differently because he is orphaned.”

  Why would the boy lie? “That’s absurd.”

  “I won’t have anyone abusing children in this castle.”

  Oli fought back his growing rage. “Forgive me, lady, but the young man in question is not of trustworthy character.”

  “Porvil is a known troublemaker,” Inolah added, coming to stand beside the queen.

  “I expected you would defend the duke, Empress, having worked wi
th him, but answer me this: Have you ever gone up to the roof while he is teaching the boys to be soldiers?”

  “I have not,” Inolah said. “I always remain with the girls.”

  “Then you cannot know what goes on up there, can you?” Rosârah Mielle asked.

  “Swordplay and exercises, as always,” Oli said.

  “And perhaps going harder on some children than others?” Rosârah Mielle asked.

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Oli said. “I didn’t realize you had so much experience in teaching young men to fight. Have you a better method that I should know about?”

  “Don’t you dare mock me,” she said. “I came here to defend a young man who has accused you of wrongdoing. What say you to this?”

  Oli took a deep breath. “I deny any wrongdoing. Porvil, on the other hand . . . When he first arrived, he caused fights daily, but he has improved a great deal in the past few months, or so I thought.”

  “Because the Duke of Canden beats him?” the queen asked.

  “I have never beaten a child, Your Highness, and I take exception to being accused now on the sole testimony of a known troublemaker. Ask any of the boys and I guarantee they will tell you the same.”

  “You claim he was never struck with your sword, then?” Rosârah Mielle asked.

  That stopped Oli. “These boys are learning swordplay, Your Highness. All of them have been struck with the wooden practice swords as they spar with each other.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “And do they spar with you?”

  “Sometimes with me, yes.”

  “But you have never struck Porvil with your blade?”

  “Not on purpose.”

  “So it is true!”

  “Accidents happen in training, Your Highness. With Sir Kalenek as your warden, I’m sure you must know that.”

  “Why would the boy lie?”

  Oli could only guess. “He has been challenging my authority for weeks. Testing the boundaries of our class. Where he finds no boundaries, he continues to push. It is a cry for attention.”

  “Then give him the attention he needs.”

  “To coddle a boy like Porvil is to create a useless man,” Oli said. “I will not do it.”

  “You should not be teaching children, Your Grace,” Rosârah Mielle snapped. “And I will tell my husband as much. Come, Zeroah. We will leave the duke to his guilt. No doubt the king will summon him come morning.”

  Zeroah stood and smoothed out her skirt. “Will we have our class again tomorrow, Your Grace?”

  “If you wish it,” Oli said. And if the queen didn’t have him in the dungeon or worse.

  “Zeroah!” Rosârah Mielle had reached the door and stood, holding it open.

  The dowager queen glanced at her friend, then returned her golden gaze to Oli. “I will see you tomorrow, then. Good midday, Your Grace, Miss Kaye, and, Empress, my prayers go with you on your journey to see your son. May you find him healthy and strong.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness,” Inolah said.

  The rosârahs departed, leaving Oli feeling as if he had barely survived an attack on his life. An attack set in motion by an orphan boy with a penchant for twisting the truth, whom Oli would need to speak with very shortly.

  Fewer people seemed to be taking advantage of first sleep in Er’Rets since it stayed light much later, so Oli no longer felt the need to rest like he had back in the Five Realms. He also had far more work to do than he’d ever had in Janek’s retinue, and he’d spent the hours of first sleep with Master Grayson on the roof, working through basic swordplay exercises.

  The young man looked a shambles, as usual. He was gangling—needed to eat a great deal more. His clothes were always wrinkled past the point of bothering with an iron, and his hair . . . He wore it like King Trevn used to, wrapped in a puff at the back of his head like he cared naught what he looked like.

  Grayson was eager and a quick learner, though he relied too heavily on his ability to move through the Veil. Oli had forbidden him to use his magic until he had mastered the weapon, but he easily saw how the young man’s ability could someday make him an invincible opponent.

  Oli kept that opinion to himself, of course. Grayson had the tendency to take any form of flattery or praise as authorization to behave recklessly.

  Oli finally dismissed him, changed for dinner, then went down to the great hall. As First Arm, Oli had received an open invitation from Rosâr Trevn to sit at the high table, but since only the queens and princesses had arrived thus far, Oli decided to sit elsewhere rather than go near Rosârah Mielle and her wrathful, unsupported allegations.

  That Porvil had manipulated the queen was bad enough—he had laughed when Oli had confronted him, claiming he’d been playing a prank on the queen—he’d be lucky if the queen didn’t send him to the pole. But of course she wouldn’t. The daft woman had believed his story over both Oli and Inolah . . . He could not fathom why.

  Oli took a seat at Barek Hadar’s table, which was currently empty. His mother’s cousin was likely still in a meeting. Vivia, a caramel-skinned serving girl with loops of thick, amber braids, arrived almost instantly, holding a pitcher of ale in one hand and a bottle of wine and an empty goblet twisted among the fingers of the other.

  Eyes sparkling as always, she said, “Wine, I presume, Your Grace?”

  “Yes.”

  She set down the ale and took the goblet in her free hand. Poured his wine. He admired her slim waist, the low neckline of her dress, and how her braids fell over her shoulders. Vivia was his favorite of all the maids. She had a way of making him forget, not only his pain but his deformity as well.

  She set the goblet before him, then brushed her fingertips over his hand, almost by accident. “Shall I come visit tonight?”

  The words were less than a whisper, though Oli’s ears tingled at the notion that someone might have overheard. “I would not turn you away,” he said.

  Vivia twisted her full lips into a knowing smile as she gathered up the ale and wine. “As you like, Your Grace. I’ll bring you back a platter.”

  He watched her walk along the table opposite his, and just as she disappeared through a side door, his gaze caught that of another woman looking his way. Rosârah Zeroah, watching him with a puzzled expression from where she sat beside Rosârah Mielle on the dais.

  His cheeks burned, and he lowered his gaze, instantly annoyed at his reaction. Why should he care what the dowager queen thought of him?

  “Good evening, Oli.” A glance over Oli’s shoulder revealed Barek, standing behind him. A welcome distraction from Zeroah’s reproving stare.

  Barek pulled out the chair on Oli’s left and sat just as Vivia reappeared with a platter of food. This time Oli made sure not to look at her.

  “No sign of our new king?” Barek asked as Vivia again departed.

  “Only his bride and her ladies.” Oli helped himself to a wedge of cheese from the platter.

  Barek grunted. “What I wouldn’t give to have seen him wed a lady of quality.”

  “Do you mean Princess Saria or your own daughter?”

  Barek turned his rich, tawny brown eyes Oli’s way—Father Tomek’s eyes, though Barek’s held none of the depth and respectful censure that used to make Oli’s knees quiver.

  Barek changed the subject rather than rise to Oli’s bait. “You are a military man,” he said. “What do you think of the boy’s recruitment plans?”

  Oli finished his bite of cheese before responding. “We have to recruit from somewhere.”

  “If he would have married Saria, he would have what is left of the Sarikarian army.”

  “He has them already through the alliance,” Oli said.

  “But they are lost without a king. I can’t imagine they would come, even if we called them.”

  “I think they would. Saria is very capable, plus she still has General Norcott to help her.”

  “And we have Captain Veralla.”

  This time Oli grunted.

&nbs
p; “Pardoned after losing the king. It’s absurd,” Barek said. “And so many important occupations assigned to foreigners, pirates, and nobodies.”

  “He is young,” Oli said. “To him it makes the most sense to appoint his friends.”

  “If only my father were here to talk some sense into him. They greatly admired each other. All I’m trying to say is, I know the young man to be smarter than his actions. Too much pressure, I suppose.”

  Oli didn’t think so. Rosâr Trevn had his own mind and did things his own way. “The harder you push, the harder he pushes back. Perhaps if you praise his efforts, he will dismiss them and get around to trying things your way.”

  Barek chuckled. “He does seem to take the opposite side of anything I propose. When I first spoke to him, the boy was terrified. You should have heard his voice.”

  “He seems to have found his courage. It’s a shame he hasn’t more experienced, trustworthy friends.”

  “You distrust Captain Veralla?” Barek asked.

  “Not him, no. He is the only one I do trust. The rest of them . . . those sailors, the pales, that mountain giant he speaks of, Zahara the pirate, and the queen, especially.”

  “The queen’s taken a disliking to you, has she?”

  “Oh, she means well, of course, but she has as much common sense as a puppy. She seems to care only for what is cute and helpless.”

  “Don’t you fall into that category, Oli? I hear what the women say about you. Even my daughter admires you.” He raised an eyebrow. Oli glared at the accusation that he was in any way helpless, and Barek chuckled. “I take that as a no.”

  “Rosârah Mielle accused me of beating one of my students. Believes I’m still a mantic too, so say some of the maids. And a skirt-chaser. As long as I’m a member of the Wisean Council, I will do what I can to help this realm. But my personal life is my own business.”

  “And if you were not a council member . . . ?”

  Oli turned to face the older man. “Do you know something I don’t?”

  “Not at all. I only wondered if you had any ambition beyond serving the throne.”

  Barek’s words infuriated Oli. He had no stomach for political machinations. “I serve the throne out of respect for Rosâr Wilek and to combat the evil that Barthel Rogedoth wields with shadir. My only hope in succeeding in those tasks is to keep the throne of Armania stable. The object is to help Rosâr Trevn succeed. If the throne comes to me, I have failed. We all will have failed. So pray that does not happen. Pray that Rosâr Trevn rules until he is gray and half blind and must be pushed around in a rollchair like his father. Pray that he has sired a dozen heirs to rank between the throne and me. That is my only ambition. Anything else is unforgivable.”