The Reluctant King Read online

  Trevn

  Trevn stood at the head of the table in the council chambers and surveyed the faces of those present. There were four of the Wisean Five, minus Inolah, who had departed for New Rurekau to see her recovering son. Also present were Hawley, Master Jhorn, Cadoc, Nietz, and Captain Veralla, whom Trevn had invited for a particular purpose.

  “I call to order this meeting of the Wisean Council.” He did not sit down, but brought up his first topic from where he stood before Barek could seize the opportunity to take over. “First and foremost, as my sister the empress does not plan to return soon, I have made a new appointment to the council. Captain Veralla will serve as our fifth member. That decided, I am officially promoting Collak Ensley to General of the army.”

  Instantly the emotions in the room darkened, the most hostile coming from Barek Hadar, of course.

  “But Veralla is not of noble birth,” Barek said.

  “It’s true,” Danek Faluk said. “The council has always been made up of nobility.”

  “I care not,” Trevn said. “Captain Veralla is a wise and decorated soldier. He knows more about this realm than some of you, I daresay.”

  “I thought you planned to give the position to the Earl of Dacre,” Oli said.

  “I considered it,” Trevn said, “but while Hinckdan is trying to get back to us, he is not here yet. This council needs a new member now.”

  “The nobles will not like it,” Barek said.

  “What you mean, Your Grace, is that a handful of argumentative nobles will not like it,” Trevn said. “But as I cannot trust that particular handful, I had no noble options to fill the seat.”

  “But what about the captain’s failure to protect the king?” Barek asked.

  “That we have already put behind us,” Trevn said. “Now, I’m concerned about how the snow has affected the crops and our people. Master Hawley?”

  “Reports from the nobles are mixed, Your Highness,” Hawley said. “Some had already harvested most, if not all of their crops. The biggest concerns lie with Lord Blackpool and Lord Idez.”

  Trevn turned his attention to Joret Vohan, Earl of Idez, whom he’d appointed to replace young Rystan Barta. “Lord?”

  The man was slender with over two dozen gray warrior braids and a bronze tooth. He was dressed in black to mourn the loss of his son, Greth, who died in the battle that took Wilek. “The wheat was lost, Your Highness,” Lord Idez said. “All of it.”

  Trevn’s heart sank at the gravity of that news. “We survived at sea without wheat. What was Lord Blackpool growing?”

  “Turnips and clover,” Hawley said. “He also raises sheep.”

  “They’ll go hungry without food for winter,” Captain Veralla said.

  “Master Jhorn, gather a group of commoners looking for work,” Trevn said. “Send them west until they find grassy hills to make silage. How do the people fare in this cold?”

  “Most have shelter,” Jhorn said. “And there are plenty of trees to make firewood, but food is going to be scarce for some, especially if this early winter sticks. The people either need jobs so they can earn money or they need land to work, with the hope of providing their own food.”

  “They could hunt,” Captain Veralla said. “Give the people free reign to scavenge and hunt wherever they please and that will go a long way.”

  “The nobles won’t like it if commoners come onto their land to hunt,” Barek said.

  “No land has yet been assigned,” Oli said, raising an eyebrow toward Trevn. “Isn’t that right?”

  “It is,” Trevn said carefully, sensing enthusiasm rising within Barek Hadar. “So, Master Jhorn, employ commoners for silage and hunting. And make it known that anyone can hunt and scavenge wherever they like.”

  The Master of Requests nodded and scrawled something down on the parchment before him.

  “And what do I tell the nobility when they complain?” Barek asked. “When will you hear their concerns?”

  Trevn had put off the subject long enough. “I will hear them now. From all of you,” he added so that it was clear he wanted to hear from more than Barek.

  “You must give land to the titled,” Barek said. “It would go a long way toward appeasing them, especially if you allow commoners to hunt and scavenge wherever they please.”

  “The nobility hates your youth,” Lord Idez said. “They call you the Sapling King and King Lackbeard.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard their names for me,” Trevn said, trying not to sound annoyed.

  “They know you have always disdained them,” Danek said, “so they never liked you much to begin with, beyond the hope that you might marry one of their daughters, which is no longer a possibility.”

  “Unless you take another wife,” Barek said.

  “No,” Trevn said. “I won’t do that.”

  “But your common wife is a big concern, Your Highness,” Barek argued. “The nobles feel that one of them should have married into the Hadar family. Wilek married a Sarikarian, Janek is dead, and you are the only one left. The nobility feel cheated out of a chance for one of them to join with the royal line.”

  “It’s true,” Master Jhorn said, “disgusting, though it is. Most of the nobles hate your queen.”

  “But they don’t even know her!” Trevn said.

  “Permission to speak plainly, Your Highness?” Oli asked.

  “Please do,” Trevn said, bracing himself.

  “The queen seems drawn to seeking out and righting injustice. This is wonderful, but she sometimes jumps to conclusions without conducting an investigation. To the nobles and to those who have served House Hadar for many years, she has the tendency to make herself a meddlesome distraction. Take the school, for instance.”

  Trevn set his jaw. “My wife loves children.”

  “She can spend every other waking moment with the children, if she so wishes, but she must learn that not all orphans are darlings. Some lie. And yet she is quick to believe every word.”

  Trevn raised his eyebrows. Before he could formulate a reply, Oli went on.

  “I mean no ill will, Your Highness. But if your wife does not take more care with where she goes and whom she offends and accuses, she could cause your reign more trouble than good.”

  Trevn wanted to rage and defend Mielle, but Oli was right and he knew it. “I will speak with the queen.”

  The press of conflicting emotions made Trevn pull back the use of his gift. Rather than sit through the awkward silence, he went on. “I know a majority of the nobles do not like me. Besides assigning land and titles,” he said with a look to Barek, “what can I do to change that?” He’d never cared if anyone favored him as a prince, but being king was different. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed the nobles’ support.

  “It’s nothing personal,” Captain Veralla said. “They hate that they cannot buy your loyalty. They hate that you are monogamous. Wilek had this problem as well. Taking concubines and extra wives is one way of giving noble families a voice in the politics of the kingdom. Their daughters would have your ear. Your denying the nobles this avenue is merely another way they feel cheated out of gaining any power over you.”

  Of all the ridiculous . . . “Why should anyone have power over me?”

  “Influence is more the word, I’d say,” Danek said.

  “And if they cannot gain influence or land from you,” Barek said, “history shows that they will rise up and take it, whether they attack the castle directly, indirectly, or pillage each other.”

  “They would attack their own people?” Trevn asked.

  “Some might,” Lord Idez said. “A simple fight over a missing flock of sheep could quickly escalate into a war between two households.”

  “Unless you give your nobles a permanent means of making a living,” Barek said, “many will see war as their only hope of increasing their wealth and influence.”

  “Will holding court appease them?” Trevn asked.

  “It would be a start,” Lord Idez said.


  Trevn took a deep breath, annoyed that he was already capitulating. “I will revisit the idea of holding court. The other matters I hope will improve over time. Now, the ore pit mines have brought in plenty of raw material, but the snow will likely end the process until spring. How many weapons can we produce with what we have already mined? And will it be enough should we be attacked?”

  The meeting went on and in the end lasted just over two hours. Trevn, though exhausted, could not rest as he wanted to. Instead, he ate a quick meal, then had Ottee dress him in armor. He had been practicing swordplay on the castle roof for a few weeks now. The soreness in his body had finally begun to fade, and Cadoc thought he was finally ready to make a showing on the practice field without being completely humiliated.

  Trevn was eager for some new opponents. He had never enjoyed sparring with Cadoc. The man was shorter than he was and nearly twice as wide—all muscle. Getting pummeled continually by someone like that did not help a man’s confidence, especially when he couldn’t even grow a beard. Cadoc and Nietz were of a similar build, but Trevn did not mind sparring against Nietz. That might be because the former first mate was not as adept in swordplay as he was with his fists.

  Novan was Trevn’s favorite to duel. They were similar in height and build, though Trevn was a trifle thinner. The man was quick, though, and always left Trevn with new bruises each time they fought.

  Once Trevn was dressed, he set out for the practice field with Cadoc, Nietz, and Rzasa. They passed through the castle and out into the frigid air without drawing too much attention, but the moment the foursome stepped off the barge, people began to stare. By the time they reached the field, a distant crowd trailed along behind them.

  “I expected to be seen,” Trevn murmured to Cadoc, “but by soldiers, not a bunch of oglers.”

  “Want me to dismiss them?” Cadoc asked.

  “No, no.” He would simply ignore them.

  “Are you ready, Your Highness?” Cadoc asked.

  “As much as I can be.” Trevn’s breath puffed out before him as if he were smoking a pipe. It would be nice to get warm, at least. He lifted his waster and crouched into position. “Which one of you is going to fight me first?”

  “Rzasa can,” Cadoc said. “Better that you warm up on someone you have a chance of besting.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Rzasa said.

  “It’s your youth I am referring to, boy, not your skill. That you and the king are close in age gives him a fighting chance.”

  “Now I’m the one to be insulted,” Trevn said. “Let’s have a little more affirming talk from you or silence, Cadoc, if you don’t mind.”

  Cadoc said nothing, and Trevn chuckled. “So that’s how it’s going to be, is it? I see I shall have to prove all of you wrong.” He lunged forward, jabbed his waster at Rzasa, and the two began to spar unsteadily on the slippery snow. Wishing and a cocky attitude did not make up for Trevn’s lack of experience with a blade. He made simple mistakes and wondered if perhaps he had been practicing too much.

  Rzasa stumbled. His boot slid in the snow, and Trevn was able to knock away his blade. He’d gotten lucky, and from the amused emotions surging around him, the onlookers knew it.

  A soldier stepped forward and bowed. “If you are looking for sparring partners, Your Highness, I would be honored.”

  Trevn instantly recognized Hirth Wallington. The man was about twenty-four and, in his younger days, had run with Janek’s crowd. His uncle, Mahat, had joined Rogedoth’s traitors and thus abandoned his family to the care of Hirth’s father, the Duke of Everton.

  “All right, then,” Trevn said, sizing up the man. He was no taller than Trevn but much stronger. If Trevn could devise a way to trip him and get him on his back—

  Sands! He needed to stop thinking like Nietz. Biting and breaking fingers would not win him an army.

  Hirth stood across from Trevn, unmoving. Did he expect Trevn to make the first strike? Very well. Trevn swung the blade. Hirth twisted easily and raised his flat against the blow, halting Trevn’s stroke in midair. He spun away and brought his blade in a circle over Trevn’s weapon and toward his other side.

  Trevn barely had time to parry before Hirth’s waster chopped against his left side. Hirth continued on his offensive, going slowly and methodically.

  Just as slowly, but with no real skill, Trevn somehow managed to block each swing of Hirth’s sword and counter every step, though it took great effort to do so and to keep from falling in the slick snow. His lack of skill frustrated him to the extreme, as did Hirth’s faint yet amused smirk and the swell of his confident emotions.

  Hirth slowly drove Trevn back toward the racks. Humiliation burned Trevn’s cheeks, making him doubly hotter under the heavy armor, even in the winter cold. Trevn ducked a swing of the sword, turned, and parried, but Hirth’s blade knocked Trevn’s flying.

  An involuntary cry escaped Trevn, which drew a handful of chuckles from the crowd. He bit back an oath as he stood before Hirth, weaponless.

  The young soldier stepped back and bowed overly deep, oozing a thrill of delight over his stench of sweat. “I will wait for you to retrieve your waster, Your Highness.”

  “Thank you,” Trevn said. He moved slowly, trying to catch his breath. Out of desperation, he reached for Hirth’s thoughts.

  . . . out of shape he must be if his muscles are crying. We have a king who cannot even hold his own against me, and I am not nearly as strong as Sir Jarmyn or Sir Keshton. If I crush him now, the army will never follow him. They will follow Jarmyn. And whatever prize Jarmyn sets for them, they will rally toward.

  Trevn set his jaw, shocked at how this soldier saw him. How desperately he wished to have heard a different reaction, but could he really blame the man for thinking the obvious? Trevn was inferior to Wilek in just about every way except climbing trees, sailing, drawing maps, and perhaps brawling. What good were such talents when one had a kingdom to rule?

  He picked up his sword, still concentrating on Hirth’s thoughts, and sank into guard position, but this time, as Hirth grinned and darted toward him, Trevn kept a hold on the soldier’s mind. He willed grace and kindness into the man. Respect for his sovereign. Fear for the power his king wielded—not with a sword, but with a word. Trevn could bring pain upon Hirth. He had yet to send anyone to face the pole, but there was a first time for everything, and if Hirth saw fit to disgrace his king, then Trevn just might have to disgrace the soldier right back.

  He might not.

  But he might.

  They were only thoughts, and Trevn didn’t know why he felt the need to fall upon such childish games, but the intimidation worked. Hirth eased up, and Trevn was able to match him strike for strike until he finally slipped his waster past Hirth’s guard and the end of the wooden blade tapped his opponent’s breastplate.

  Murmuring rose above the scattered applause. Trevn quested into the crowd and found the audience puzzled. They knew Hirth had let up, but they didn’t know why.

  Trevn knew. But did Hirth? He again reached for the man’s thoughts.

  . . . will berate me. But I’m not sorry. I did what I felt was right. He is the king, after all, and deserves respect. Doesn’t he?

  Hirth seemed just as puzzled as the audience. None knew that Trevn had used his magic—that their king had cheated.

  Was it cheating? To use every tool in one’s arsenal? Trevn wasn’t exactly sure how he had manipulated Hirth’s thoughts, but the man no longer disdained him. He wasn’t exactly for him either, but wasn’t this an improvement?

  Hirth bowed, this time without the mockery of his previous two. “Thank you for the contest, Your Highness.”

  Trevn nodded. “You fight well, Master Hirth. I am proud to know there are men such as you in my army.”

  Hirth met his eyes, bowed again, then walked toward a cluster of soldiers who were watching him with disdain.

  Rzasa appeared at Trevn’s side. “Will you go again, Your Highness?”r />
  Trevn handed him his waster. “Not today.” He needed to end on a victory, and he knew very well that he would lose any other match at this point. Nor was he ready to use his mind-speak magic in such a way again right now.

  The more he thought on it, the worse he felt. Hirth had no idea that his king had reshaped his thoughts. It seemed to Trevn a moral breach. He had no doubt that if Wilek had known what he’d done, he would have scolded him. Surely Arman would not approve either.

  Trevn walked off the field, adding the weight of the onlookers’ stares to the weight of his own guilt. Cadoc, Nietz, and Rzasa left with him.

  “Not exactly what you had in mind, was it, Your Highness?” Cadoc asked.

  “No, but I kept my sword pointed in the right direction. That, at least, must make you proud.”

  “Why’d he suddenly ease up?” Nietz asked. “Another few seconds and he could have had you.”

  “What makes you think he eased up?” Rzasa asked. “Maybe he got tired.”

  “I think he realized he was about to best his king and thought the better of it,” Cadoc said.

  “Did you hear his friends mocking him for being a bootlicker?” Rzasa asked.

  “That’s just men being men,” Cadoc said.

  Trevn felt sick. He would have to improve. That was the only answer. But he knew as well as anyone that these men had been practicing swordplay all their lives while Trevn had been poring over prophecies, religious texts, and histories. Arman would have to provide a way.

  Trevn ambled back to the barges, his men keeping pace while he caught his breath. About halfway back, Hinck’s words startled him. “I have news.”