The Reluctant King Read online

  “Wait, don’t tell me,” Trevn voiced. “You’re married!”

  “No, thankfully. But I’ve finally managed to get back to the dungeon house, and Lady Islah is gone. Rogedoth must have taken her with him after all.”

  Trevn groaned. “This is terrible! How will we discover his secrets now?”

  “That is why I am seeking your counsel. I had presumed this was obvious.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to do.”

  “Neither do I. Except . . . What about that boy Grayson? Didn’t you say he can all but fly?”

  An intriguing idea. “It’s his magic. He moves by thinking himself from one place to the next. If anyone could find her, it would be him.”

  “Once again, the lowly Hinckdan has solved a problem for the mighty king of Armania.”

  “Would you prefer the job?”

  “I have enough difficulties here, thank you just the same. But Grayson is welcome to take this one off my list.”

  “Grayson has lived only ten years. How can I ask so much of him? Plus, this woman is his grandmother. Furthermore, I can’t imagine Jhorn would grant me permission.”

  “Perhaps you need me to be king after all. This is why Barek wants you to wear that crown. It’s so heavy, you can’t possibly forget it’s on your head because it’ll throw out your back. You decide things now, Trev. Use your position to let the boy’s father know you need him.”

  “I’ll ask Jhorn, but I’m not going to force Grayson to do something he doesn’t want to do or that Jhorn disapproves of.”

  “Either way, this problem is no longer mine.”

  “Oh the joys of being king.”

  “Still, assuming Grayson will find Lady Islah, that turned out not to be such bad news after all, which is good, because I have still more to share.”

  Trevn winced. “What else?”

  “Laviel remembered Bahlay and, with his help, has been using magic to fix the ship. They’ve been at it all day, and from the look of things, might finish by tomorrow. How close is the Seffynaw?”

  A thrill of fear ran up Trevn’s spine. He’d have to voice Bussie, but he knew the answer. “Not close enough. They’ve been gone only three days.”

  He sensed Hinck’s helplessness and understood. If Laviel reached Armanguard and attacked, they would fall. They had no way to defend against her magic. The strategies Trevn had found in the ancient scrolls had been desperate, though he supposed he was just that.

  “I’ll inform the war council,” Trevn said. “We’ll come up with a defensive plan. But I’m going to need you to do all you can to stop her.”

  “How?”

  “The ancient scrolls told several stories of mantics being taken out from afar by bowmen.”

  “You want me to kill the queen?”

  It was the best way. “She’s a traitor setting out to attack us. If you can stop her before she reaches us, you will save many lives. I’m sorry, Hinck.”

  “Not as sorry as you’ll be if I fail you.”

  Back in Trevn’s apartment, once Ottee had helped remove his armor, Trevn sent the boy to fetch him a snack, wanting a private moment with Sir Cadoc. Ottee scurried from the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  “I cheated, Cadoc,” Trevn said. “On the practice field. I got into Hirth Wallington’s head and somehow influenced his thoughts. Reminded him that he should respect his king.”

  Cadoc fixed Trevn with his familiar expression of concern. “You used your mind-speaking magic?”

  “Not to speak directly. It’s difficult to explain, as I’d never done it before.” Trevn looked away, embarrassed to have to admit this to a man he greatly respected. “It seems I put thoughts into his head, reminders that, in the end, caused him to ease up—changed the way he felt about me as a person.”

  “I don’t understand how that is possible.”

  “How is any of this magic possible?” Trevn asked, raising his voice. He felt Mielle’s concern and took a breath to calm himself. “Arman’s ways are mysterious, Cadoc, but I don’t think he intends for me to use my magic like that. I crossed a line. Wilek would not have approved.”

  “Nor do I,” Cadoc said.

  Now that was just irritating. “Trust you for that.”

  “Neither do you approve or you wouldn’t be telling me now,” Cadoc said.

  “There must be something I can do to learn swordplay faster.”

  “You can stop overthinking everything.”

  “Novan said I need to concentrate on my opponent.”

  “You’re not Novan. All that overthinking slows you down. Just let yourself react to what comes at you, just as you did when you killed that traitor on Bakurah Island.”

  “You weren’t even there. How do you know what I—?”

  “Wilek told me. And Sir Kalenek. And Harton before he went bad. And if you must use your voicing magic, why not use it to read your opponent’s intentions and be one step ahead? I’d think that a much fairer use of your ability and one that would serve you well in a battle with your enemy too.”

  Now there was an idea Trevn could put to good use. “How did you get to be so wise, Cadoc?”

  His shield grinned. “By making a thousand mistakes, Your Highness. The same will be true for you.”

  Trevn grunted. “Oh good. Something to look forward to.”

  The night bells had come and gone by the time Trevn finally left his office that night and returned to his apartment. He found Lady Pia sitting on the longchair beside the fire. Cadoc walked to the hearth, picked up the poker, and stirred the coals, which spat orange sparks up toward the dark chimney.

  “Is she asleep?” Trevn asked Lady Pia.

  “I think so. Went to bed about an hour ago.”

  “Good night, Lady Pia, Sir Cadoc.” Trevn let himself into his bedchamber. It was so dark he had to feel his way to the bed. He drew back the covers and sat on the soft mattress. He pulled off his boots, his vest, and shirt, then lay down and tugged the blankets over him. The bed felt cold and his back ached. He stretched his arms over his head, sore from his bout with Hirth.

  “Where were you all day?” Mielle asked.

  “I thought you were asleep.”

  “I’ve been waiting up.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I wanted to.”

  The words implied that she cared for him, but all he sensed through their soul-binding was annoyance and distrust. Her shields were up as well, and he could not hear her thoughts. “I had a busy day.” And he told her all he had done from his very first meeting to the very last.

  A pang of concern for Hinck momentarily overshadowed all other emotion, but when it faded, Mielle’s negative feelings were still present.

  “What is bothering you?” he asked.

  “Porvil did not come to class today.”

  Trevn tried to keep any emotion at bay, knowing she would feel it. “Duke Canden says the boy admitted to having lied, and I sensed no deceit in the duke.”

  “You and your gift. Your senses didn’t keep you from leading your men into a trap in Zuzaan, did it?”

  “That’s not fair. I was new to the ability, then, and barely understood it. And you didn’t let me finish. I also checked with Inolah. She says Oli has never laid a hand on any of the boys and that Porvil is a bit of a scoundrel, if a child could be called one. She said if he gets struck with waster swords, it’s not because anyone is overly cruel. It’s because he never practices.”

  Silence met his ears.

  “Mielle?”

  “You’re saying the boy beguiled me in an attempt to get the Duke of Canden in trouble, and I fell for his trick?”

  “So it seems.”

  “Oh, Trevn. How can I enter that school again? And the duke! I must apologize.”

  “The duke has much on his mind, and further discussion on this matter will only annoy him. As to Porvil, leave his antics to Duke Canden.”

  The bed and blankets shifted, opening up a space betwee
n them and sending a gust of heat toward Trevn’s still-cold side of the bed. “I don’t like this,” she said. “It feels very much like Trevn Hadar, the Curious, has died, and Rosâr Trevn, the Head, has taken his place. And I have no part of Rosâr Trevn’s life.”

  The words shocked. “That’s not true.”

  “Isn’t it? I’m not permitted in your very important meetings. You don’t want my help even to choose your clothes. You promised we would have adventures together, but they are for you alone.”

  It could not be easy for her. There was one thing he knew would please her greatly. “We will hold court in the great hall. It is not ideal, but with winter upon us, it is the only option. Will you take charge of the event?”

  Hope swelled between them, and he felt her shields lower. “Oh, Trevn, truly?” “And you’ll come?”

  “I will.”

  All anger vanished in a gust of unbridled joy. She drew close and her lips found his. Trevn praised Arman that they had again made peace. Marriage had turned out to be much more difficult than Trevn had ever imagined, but in times of peace and companionship, it was the best experience of his life.

  Grayson

  Two soldiers held open the door to the king’s office so that Jhorn could vault himself inside on his canes. The king wanted to see Grayson, for some reason, and he followed on foot, feeling nervous. The king usually voiced Grayson when he wanted something. All this formality . . . it felt like bad news was coming.

  Onika. Grayson sucked in a sharp breath as he approached the king, who stood in front of his fancy desk. Could something have happened to her? He suddenly wanted to reach for her mind to make sure she was well, but King Trevn spoke before he got the chance.

  “Please sit down.” The king gestured to the chairs before him.

  Jhorn swung up onto one seat, and Grayson lowered himself carefully onto the other.

  “Thank you for coming,” the king said. “I have news for you and a request. The two are intertwined, and I completely understand if I am asking too much.”

  “You have a task for me?” Grayson asked.

  “Yes, I do.”

  Grayson sighed, relieved that no one was hurt or in danger. “I will help, Your Highness.”

  The king smiled. “Thank you, Master Grayson. I would first like you to hear what I have to say. I believe it is just the opportunity we need, both to right a wrong done long ago and to stop Rogedoth in his attack against this realm.”

  Barthel Rogedoth. Grayson realized with a jolt that their enemy was his grandfather.

  “You may or may not know,” the king said, “that the Earl of Dacre, Hinckdan Faluk, has been serving as a spy. He infiltrated the cult known as Lahavôtesh and made himself a part of Rogedoth’s inner circle.”

  Grayson had never heard of Hinckdan Faluk, but his mission sounded awfully scary.

  “Hinck discovered a woman in Rogedoth’s prison who identified herself as Islah Pitney,” the king said. “This is a woman who all the Five Realms thought died decades ago from an illness, before even I was born. She is Rogedoth’s wife—his first wife, I should say—and the birth mother to Rosârah Laviel and to Darlis Nafni who, Jhorn has informed me, was your mother.”

  Grayson’s arms tingled. “She is my grandmother?”

  “She is. She seemed lucid to Hinck, though her husband has kept her incarcerated for the past thirty-five years, so I can only imagine how that might affect a person.”

  Grayson didn’t know the word incarcerated. “You want me to talk to her?”

  “I would like to know why he has locked her away for so long. More importantly, I am looking for his weakness. I know some about mantics from the archives and from your father, who saw such tactics used in the Centenary War, but I cannot understand why Rogedoth hesitates in attacking us. I am thankful he has not done so, but I want to know why. Each day brings us closer to a war, and I must do all I can to try to learn his secrets and discern his weaknesses. This may be our only chance. And who would know him better than Lady Islah Pitney?”

  Locked away for thirty-five years. “I want to help her,” Grayson said. “I want to meet her.”

  “It could be dangerous,” Jhorn said.

  Grayson realized that his father hadn’t tried to stop him. “You don’t mind if I go?”

  “You are your own man now,” Jhorn said. “Younger than most, but much as I’d like to, I can’t treat you like a child anymore.”

  Grayson’s heart felt so full he thought it might burst from his chest. “I will find her.”

  “Thank you, Grayson,” the king said. “Now, I’ve studied Miss Onika’s prophecies about you, and they reminded me of some other prophecies I studied as a boy. I searched through the archives until I found them. Will you have a look?” He motioned to the sideboard, where he had laid out a tablet and anchored open three scrolls.

  Grayson stood and approached the sideboard. The words were in foreign languages, but he could read them all as if they were Kinsman. He expected more words about the Deliverer, but these prophecies were not about Grayson—at least not directly. He read the first aloud.

  “‘The Deceiver will be deceived. He will break from his true family and be led astray by those he considers friends. He will stir up against Arman’s remnant an army who care only for their own pleasure and have no delight in the truth.’”

  “Any ideas who the Deceiver might be?” the king asked.

  Grayson’s mind spun as he inserted one name after another into the prophecy to test the words. Barthel Rogedoth had led his friends astray, not the other way around. Master Fonu almost fit, but Grayson hadn’t heard anything about him stirring up the shadir against the remnant. Empress Jazlyn had not been led astray by friends. Perhaps Chieftess Charlon?

  “The Magosian Chieftess?” Grayson asked. “I don’t know much about her.”

  “Could be,” the king said. “Read the first scroll.”

  Grayson turned his eyes to the loopy handwriting, which was harder to read than the etched tablet. “‘Whatever the Deceiver plots against Arman, the Deliverer will bring to an end.’” Grayson looked at the king. “That makes it sound like I will have to face him.”

  “That was my interpretation as well,” the king said. “Read the next scroll.”

  “‘The Deceiver has built himself an army. He has heaped up evil like dust and divided his minions amongst the rulers of darkness.’”

  “Only Rogedoth has built an army,” Jhorn said from his chair.

  “Unless the army hasn’t been built yet,” King Trevn said. “Read the last one.”

  “‘Arman has given a command concerning you, Deceiver. “Your descendants will not bear your name. I will destroy the carved images and cast idols that are in the temple of your gods. I will prepare your grave, for you will be cut down by your own family.”’” This one puzzled Grayson more than all the others. “I’m related to Master Rogedoth. Do you think I’ll have to kill him?”

  “Perhaps, if he is the Deceiver.”

  “What about Lady Islah?” Jhorn asked. “She could be the mastermind behind all of Rogedoth’s actions.”

  “That’s an interesting theory,” the king said. “I myself was thinking of Shanek DanSâr. Chieftess Charlon believes him to be a Deliverer, but I think the old Magonian prophecies were misinterpreted. You are the true Deliverer, which makes Shanek something else.”

  “The Deceiver, perhaps?” Jhorn asked.

  “Perhaps,” the king said. “Remember, these are prophecies, and while I believe they came from true prophets, men are fallible, prophets and scribes alike. We must treat them as warnings, but not as holy writ.”

  Grayson didn’t like the idea of cutting down anyone, especially not someone he was related to. “I don’t use a sword very well,” he said.

  “The Duke of Canden tells me you are learning quickly,” King Trevn said. “But I wouldn’t worry too much about this just yet. We have a lot of investigating to do. In the meantime, I would encourage you to ta
lk with your father about what it means to take a life. Swordplay is all competition and romantic notions until you are forced to drive your blade into another person.”

  Grayson had seen death on the pirate ships, so he understood the gravity of the situation. “Yes, sir.”

  “You must go carefully as you seek out Lady Islah,” the king said. “Despite her captivity, she might support her husband still. I suggest you approach her on the pretense of getting to know her and learning about your mother. Asking her to tell you about Darlis might be the best way to earn her trust. Take your time. Relax. Go slowly.”

  The king was worried that Grayson would get overly excited. It was something he had been trying to work on. “I will be careful, sir. I won’t fail you. I promise.”

  Charlon

  It took three days to reach Castle Rurekau. Charlon brought along five overtaken gowzals in addition to Masi and a small swarm of commons and slights. She wanted to appear strong—but not too strong. Rurek, therefore, had taken Dominion inside one of the gowzals. One that rode perched upon her shoulder as they entered the inner bailey of the fortress. Approached the arched entrance.

  Empress Jazlyn and King Barthel stood waiting. Side by side. United. A massive horde of shadir filled the Veil around the pair. Caterwauling and crowing. Well fed. Strong.

  Why would the empress partner with this man? Charlon silently asked Rurek.

  Meet her eyes and know your answer.

  Charlon slowed to a stop before the empress. Smoky gray eyes spoke clearly enough. He has purchased her loyalty with ahvenrood.

  So it seems, Rurek said. We are at a disadvantage, not knowing what they have already discussed. You must find out what they want from you without offending them.

  These two had summoned Charlon as if she were a commoner. She owed them no courtesy.

  “I am honored to see you again, Chieftess Charlon of Magosia,” Jazlyn said, curtsying. “Allow me to introduce my guest, King Barthel, heir to the realms of Sarikar and Armania.”

  Charlon bristled at such a declaration. “My son is heir to Armania,” she said.