King's Blood Page 20

  Wilek

  Wilek entered the sitting room of his father’s royal cabin. There were six people present: two guards, three servants doing various tasks, and Schwyl, father’s onesent.

  “I need to see him,” Wilek told Schwyl. “How is he today?”

  “We accomplished some tasks this morning, Your Highness, but he lost his way after about an hour. Then he was . . . um . . . He was resting when I left him. Let me see if he is awake.”

  Tense, Wilek waited in the empty circle of chairs where his father liked to sit with his favorite friends. Lady Zeroah had encouraged Wilek to pray to Arman for his father’s healing, but that only brought on guilt. Arman must know that Wilek wasn’t sincere about such a prayer. His father’s illness complicated the business of running the kingdom, but if he were well, his morals would do the same, perhaps worse. The only things Wilek felt true praying for were finding land, catching the pirates, and stopping Rogedoth from whatever insurrection he was plotting. When Wilek thought of everything mounted against him, it seemed too much to bear. But if he focused only on one item at a time, he could manage. One step. Then another. And another.

  So many things awaited the king’s approval. Wilek needed to act, and to do so, he needed the king not only awake but coherent.

  Schwyl returned, Lady Zenobia and two other concubines in his wake. “He is expecting you, Your Highness. I have made sure you have the privacy you need. I fear he is a bit lost at present, however.”

  Dread fell over Wilek, yet he caught himself before he fell into despair. One step at a time. He would go in. Perhaps talking with the man would bring him back.

  “Thank you,” Wilek told Schwyl, then entered his father’s bedchamber. The rosâr was sitting up in bed, a thin blanket tucked around his shrunken form.

  “Wilek! You must come to my aid.” Father waved him over with both hands.

  Wilek approached slowly. “What is it, Father?”

  “Schwyl will not bring my grandson to see me.”

  “What grandson, Father?”

  The man sputtered. “Echad.” At Wilek’s blank stare he added, “Echad II? Janek named him after me?”

  “You allowed a stray to take your name?” That did not sound like Rosâr Echad Hadar. The first. Wilek fought back a smile, glad he could find humor here.

  “What stray?” Father asked. “I speak of my only grandson, born to Janek and his wife.”

  Wilek could not follow. “Janek’s first wife?”

  “You know very well he has but one wife—unless you count your niece Vallah. But I’m sure you know I permitted the child an annulment, in light of the pairing having been orchestrated by traitors.”

  “That was very fair of you.”

  “I am a fair man. But I am old and have earned the right to see my grandson.”

  “Perhaps he is with his mother,” Wilek said.

  “Yes, that could be. Sârah Onika teaches him, you know. Normally I would not permit a boy of eight to spend so much time with his mother, but since she is a prophetess, well, he must learn her ways.”

  Janek and Miss Onika? “When did they marry?”

  “It’s been years now. I wasn’t certain about the woman, but Janek was so set on it, I gave permission.”

  Hopelessness crept upon Wilek, but he held tight to the scrap of parchment in his hand and tried a new tactic. “I will ask Schwyl to bring the boy to you right away. But first I need your approval to change directions. We have sailed into serpent-infested waters. Captain Livina and his navigators would like to alter the course to the northwest so that we may pass safely by.”

  Father looked stricken. “Leave Nivanreh’s Eye?”

  “Only until we are safely around the serpents. The navigators will keep Nivanreh’s Eye in their sights the entire time so that we will not lose our way.”

  “These serpents are dangerous?”

  “Oh, yes, Father. The bard’s tales are factual. They can crush a ship with their tail alone.” Wilek had no idea if that were true, but he’d rather not find out the hard way. He picked up Schwyl’s quill and ledger from the table near the bed, set his parchment on the ledger for a hard surface, and handed it and the quill to his father. “Sign at the bottom, Father, and we will be able to keep our distance from the creatures.”

  Father took the items and scratched his name in the appropriate place. “We should double the sacrifices to Thalassa, as well.”

  “Next full moon,” Wilek said, taking back the parchment. “I will tell Schwyl about it at once. And that you wish to see your grandson.” He walked toward the door, giddy that he had gotten what he needed. The fleet could change direction both to avoid the serpents and travel the way that Miss Onika and the Sarikarian priests felt they should go.

  “Don’t forget I want to see my grandson,” the king called after him.

  “Yes, Father,” Wilek said, leaving the room.

  That night, since Captain Livina was on watch, Wilek borrowed his cabin to have a private dinner with Lady Zeroah. They ate at the captain’s desk while Novan and Rystan played dice with Miss Mielle and Hrettah at the larger table. Wilek found Lady Zeroah more tongue-tied than ever. The young woman kept looking around at the bulkheads and deck heads as if they might close in on her at any moment. She ate quietly, so Wilek filled the silence with the story of getting his father to sign for the change in direction. He was pleased that when he stopped to sip his wine, Lady Zeroah spoke.

  “I am glad you found a way to get what you needed from your father.”

  There now. That wasn’t so hard. Perhaps Lady Zeroah needed to move ahead one step at a time as well. “Yes, but I’m not the only one. After I saw my father, I spoke with Schwyl about Father’s demand to see his imaginary grandson. He told me that several days ago Janek asked for permission to marry Miss Onika, and my father consented!”

  “Oh dear. I hadn’t heard about that.”

  “Neither had I. So I asked Miss Onika. Janek has not yet spoken to her.”

  “I am glad of it,” Lady Zeroah said.

  “As am I. But I couldn’t let it stand, so I wrote a decree declaring Miss Onika an alien citizen with her own rights so that she could legally refuse Janek if she wished to. To do so I had to tell my father this was so that we could begin trade with her nation.”

  “And he signed the decree?”

  “He did. I tell you, with the right story anyone could get him to sign anything. He is dangerous. I must put a stop to it, yet at the same time, I am finally able to do what needs to be done. I am torn.”

  “You are under a terrible burden. One hand does the work and the other holds a weapon to protect against threats. But living like this every day would exhaust anyone. Let those you trust take some of the work so that you do not carry it all.”

  “I am trying,” Wilek said, “but there are few on this ship I fully trust.”

  “My grandfather used to say, ‘Tread carefully, weigh each decision, then act. A life of indecision is a life not lived.’”

  “King Jorger was a wise man.”

  She smiled sadly. “He was. I will miss him.” She sighed. “There is too much sadness around us at present. I want to laugh.”

  “Let it be at Sâr Janek’s foiled marriage, then,” he said, lifting his goblet.

  They both chuckled as they drank to laughing at Janek, but the bleakness of such humor quickly dried up and they sat again in awkward silence.

  “I fear I am poor company, Your Highness,” Lady Zeroah whispered. “No matter where I go on this ship, it all seems so small, like the trunk. Even on the deck, where the air has a chance at freshness, it is still so crowded.”

  Wilek’s heart wrenched at the idea that she suffered still, simply from being aboard a ship, something he could not change no matter how much she wished it. An idea came to him. “You have not seen the balcony, lady. May I show it to you?” He stood and offered his arm.

  It was not an overly large space, but it was situated on the stern and looked out over
the sea and the ships behind them. To the west the sun sat low on the horizon, making its way into the sea for the night. A longchair occupied the space. Wilek helped Lady Zeroah sit, then settled beside her.

  “Is this better?” he asked.

  “I did not know there was such a place on this ship. The air truly smells fresh.”

  “It doesn’t always,” Wilek said. “The wind is in our favor tonight.”

  Silence followed. They had begun their relationship with niceties, and now they were right back where they had started.

  “Lady, I must beg your forgiveness. I once had the opportunity to execute Charlon Sonber and did not. And later my brother Trevn warned me that you and your grandfather were not well when he saw you both in Sarikar. Miss Mielle noticed it even before Trevn, yet none of us heeded her concerns or understood what they might have meant.”

  “Do not blame yourself, Sâr Wilek. There is nothing to forgive. Who could have expected such a deception?”

  Wilek should have. For ten weeks he had been Charlon’s prisoner. He knew her. Agmado Harton had broken the soul-binding between them, but that was no excuse to grow careless. So much of Lady Zeroah’s behavior had been suspect in the last days of Armania. The way she had behaved during the final quake, demanding her trunks, abandoning Miss Mielle. He had simply been too preoccupied with the evacuation to give the matter proper thought.

  “I am ashamed, lady, that I almost married her. Had the earthquake not come when it did, I would have.” He forced himself to look into her eyes. “If you wish to withdraw from our betrothal, I understand and will release you with no penalty.”

  She suddenly looked frightened. “Do you wish to withdraw?”

  “Not at all, lady. I would marry you this moment if I could.”

  This brought forth a radiant smile. “I imagine that looking at me might remind you of things she did while resembling me. Did she cause you much embarrassment?”

  Should he tell her? “I may as well be perfectly honest, lady. If you have not heard already, you will soon. The only harmful development is that she—well, it seems she carried on an affair with my brother Janek in your name and likeness.”

  Lady Zeroah’s eyes watered. “Oh dear.”

  “Her entire motive in abducting me was to produce a child of Hadar blood. Apparently she did not care how that came to be and lost patience when I would not . . . I did not lie with her. I felt we should wait until we were properly wed.”

  Lady Zeroah began to cry.

  Wilek did not know what to do, so he kept talking, hoping to at least comfort her if he could. “I have informed Sâr Janek of the truth. He knows you never came to him and that his selfishness might have given the Magonians a weapon against us. I have no doubt that, in time, your reputation will be mended entirely.”

  The tears ended as abruptly as they had begun. Lady Zeroah wiped them away and looked Wilek squarely in the eyes. “Sâr Wilek, had she succeeded in her efforts to win you . . . I could never have married you. I am so grateful for your discretion. It is a trait I admire in any circumstance, but that it saved our marriage, I admire it even more so.”

  “Thank you, lady. I am pleased that there is still hope for our betrothal.” And, because there was little time to waste, he added, “How would you like to proceed? I wish to know your will.”

  “I have but one concern, Your Highness,” she said. “I am an Armanite by birth and belief. You are not. Traditionally children are reared in the faith of their father, but the fulfilment of prophecy in the Five Woes and the Root of Arman, coupled with the suffering I experienced in the mantic’s trunk, have inspired me to live out my faith boldly.”

  “I find that surprising,” Wilek said. “I would think you bitter at the God for not protecting you.”

  “I was so angry at first. I fought hard against Charlon, scratched her face and tore at her hair. But the magic gave me no way to escape. I knew Charlon had done this, not Arman. I felt like he was telling me not to struggle but to rest. That if I would be still and trust him, he would fight for me, make use of my pain somehow. So I tried to do that, and I comforted myself with words and songs from the Book of Arman.”

  “Like what?” Wilek asked, wondering if he might recognize them.

  As she recited, she closed her eyes and smiled. “‘He will cover you with his feathers, armored and protected in the shelter of his wings.’” She glanced at Wilek. “That was my favorite. And also, ‘He is my hiding place. In his arms he protects me from the attacks of my enemies.’ Whenever I lost hope, I would picture myself in his arms or under his wing, and peace always came.”

  Gone was her timidity when she spoke of her god. Her passion surprised and fascinated Wilek. He craved such peace for himself. “You know the God well.”

  “I have always known him. I was raised to. But in the solace of that trunk, I came to know him so much deeper. He sustained me in the darkness. I live today because he willed it. He is generous in affliction, patient with failure, and worthy of complete devotion. I want my children to know Arman as I do. Sâr Wilek, I cannot abide idol worship in my family. I will not teach it to my children. I cannot.”

  Her voice had risen with each word, and though her eyes shone with moisture, she did not cry. She was fierce and determined, and Wilek found her courage beautiful. He reached out and stroked her cheek, wanting to ease her concern. “I understand you perfectly, lady. Rest assured that my heart on the matter of idol worship is in line with yours. I must confess, I have been reading Trevn’s copy of the Book of Arman and have found answers to so much that I have always questioned. I have never been devout in worship to any god, so this is all very new and different. But I believe Arman is the One God and that he sent his prophet to save this remnant. For what? I can only guess to start again, and this time to honor He Who Made the World.”

  “You . . . Truly? You will convert?”

  He had shocked her. She had expected him to refuse. “Not publicly. Not yet.” Wilek felt a coward to say so aloud, but there was too much at stake. “At this precarious time with the king so unpredictable, I dare not risk the fleet or my position as Heir by blatantly defying his convictions. All I can promise is that upon my father’s death, I will openly declare Arman as my One God and set about reforming Armania to the Armanite faith. Until then I must, as your grandfather said, tread carefully.”

  “Oh, thank you!” She threw her arms around his neck in an emotional embrace. “Your answer has given me more joy than any woman deserves.”

  “You deserve every happiness, lady,” Wilek said, pulling her back so he could look into her eyes, “but I do not do this for you. I do it because I have come to see that Arman is true and holy and all-knowing. I could never serve any other god. I owe him everything—my very life.”

  “Then your faith is real,” she said, still sounding surprised.

  “It is.” Though not yet as bold as hers. “You will marry me, then?”

  “Yes, I will, Your Highness. But . . . I am not fully recovered from being so long in the trunk. I am frightened of small spaces—of being trapped. My legs feel much better now that I’ve been walking, but they cramp easily. Perhaps I should ask the physician if he thinks I should wait to marry.”

  “I will speak with him,” Wilek said. “Know that I will do all I can to help you recover fully. And if you would rather wait to marry, we shall wait.”

  She shook her head. “I do not wish to wait, Your Highness.”

  He took hold of her hand and squeezed it gently. “Then let us plan a wedding at sea.”

  Grayson

  We are back on course, at least?” Chieftess Mreegan asked as she walked across the main deck.

  “Yes, Chieftess,” Kateen said, scurrying along beside her. “My shadir found the fleet and led us to them.”

  Chieftess Mreegan sneered. “I am glad to hear that some shadir are loyal.”

  Grayson peeked under the edge of the dinghy he was hiding beneath. It was one of three that sat upside do
wn on the main deck, and he liked the view it gave him when he wanted to spy. When the fleet had sailed away from the Armanian island, the Vespara, which had been hiding on the other side of the lagoon, had gotten left behind. Grayson knew from eavesdropping that the Seffynaw was leading the fleet, and it relieved him to know they had caught up again.

  “How is our water?” Chieftess Mreegan asked.

  “We are on our last four barrels. Torol’s water makers take three days to fill half a barrel, so they are not helping quickly enough to make a difference.”

  The Chieftess grunted. “And how much food is left?”

  “Two crates. But some of the workers have been fishing and—”

  “Two?” the Chieftess shrieked. “Have you been feasting without me?”

  “I swear I have not, Chieftess. None of us have.”

  “Lies!” Chieftess Mreegan said. “Everyone lies to me. Even my own shadir. She tells me Charlon still lives when I know she must have been hanged by now. Yet Magon stays away. Why is she disloyal to me after so many years together?”

  No one dared answer. Grayson couldn’t blame them. The Chieftess’s swinging moods scared him. The longer they were at sea, the crazier she became. No answer would make the woman feel better. Nothing ever did.

  Grayson had done plenty of snooping since he had dubbed himself spy and had learned a lot about this ship. The Magonians had stolen it from Sarikar, but they hadn’t loaded many supplies. They also hadn’t stocked up at the island. Chieftess Mreegan had been too afraid to get close, worried they might be seen by a powerful mantic who could attack. Grayson didn’t think there were any other mantics besides Priestess Jazlyn. He wondered who was more powerful: Chieftess Mreegan or Priestess Jazlyn?

  He also wondered why the fleet hadn’t decided to live on the island. From the sounds of things, that had been the original plan. So what was the plan now? Chieftess Mreegan didn’t know, and it was making her crazier than usual.