King's Blood Page 3

  That, at least, made sense to Trevn. “Well, I am mended, so one of your wrongs has been righted. Perhaps the others will improve in time?”

  She rewarded his words with a small smile. “I hope you are right.”

  “I feel sure of it. Now, come. I have an hour or so before the council meeting and want to explore the ship. Will you accompany me?”

  “Anywhere,” she said.

  Later that midday, Cadoc opened the door to the captain’s private dining room and Trevn stepped inside. Spots danced before his eyes as they adjusted to the lantern light in this windowless chamber, which seemed glaring after the dark corridors and stairs. A woman was speaking. Rosârah Brelenah’s voice, though Trevn did not yet see her.

  People had gathered around the long table in the room’s center; a few guards stood around its perimeter. Trevn blinked and counted twelve in the room. Not as many as he had first thought. Everything seemed more crowded aboard a ship. As faces came into focus, they were instantly recognizable. Wilek, Father’s Heir, sat in the king’s place at the end of the table. Behind him stood his shield, Sir Kalenek Veroth, underneath the severed head of Barthos, which now hung mounted on the wall above. Seated on Wilek’s left along one side of the table was Teaka, Wilek’s mantic advisor he had appropriated from Randmuir Khal of the Omatta; beside her the Duke of Canden, Oli Agoros, newly appointed to the council, wearing a wooden arm to replace the one eaten by Barthos; then Kamran DanSâr, a stray the king had fathered on his concubine years before even Wilek was born, also a new council member; and Miss Onika, the True Prophet, who had saved them all with the God Arman’s warnings.

  Onika was a pale woman, blind, with eyes the color of water. Every time Trevn saw her, he tried desperately not to stare and failed. In a world where everyone had dark skin, her mere appearance fascinated him. He longed to speak with her, to find out what land she had come from, if all her people had skin and eyes like hers, and what language they spoke.

  On the other side of the table sat two original members of the Wisean Five—brothers Danek and Canbek Faluk—and standing in her place to the Heir’s right, Wilek’s mother, Rosârah Brelenah. Trevn wondered what had become of Barek Hadar, the fifth member of the council. On his own ship, perhaps?

  The rosârah’s eyes blazed as she spoke. “We have not been at sea a week and already there have been three reported attacks. I insist the women and girls be divided from the men.”

  “With all due respect, Your Highness,” Canbek said, “there is no room for any such division.”

  “This ship is only so big,” Danek said. “We are going to have to make compromises to accommodate the needs that arise.”

  “A compromise will do nicely,” the rosârah said. “There must be some small section of the deck that could be tented aside for women.”

  “Why on deck, Your Highness?” Canbek asked.

  “Because pregnant women need fresh air, and I will not ask them to fight for a length of rail each time they try to come aloft or wait hours in line to use the heads. Nor will I abide any more attacks upon these innocents. I demand all rapists be executed as a warning to all.”

  “I will speak with the captain about a private place for the women,” Wilek said to his mother, “and ask the king’s advice regarding sentences for those who attack women and girls.”

  “Thank you, my son.” Rosârah Brelenah took her seat.

  A bugle made Trevn jump. Shrill in his ears, he quickly recognized his own tune and glared at the herald. Had he seen the man when he entered, he would have insisted on silence.

  “His Royal Highness, Trevn-Sâr Hadar, the Second Arm, the Curious,” the herald said.

  Everyone stood and accorded Trevn with the bows due his station. Trevn wasn’t sure he liked being the Second Arm of Armania, but if Janek was not the king’s son, he would have to get used to it.

  “Trevn!” Wilek turned to his shield. “Kal, send word to Father that we are about to begin. And have the guards escort Janek to the anteroom.” Wilek skirted the table and came to stand before Trevn, looked him up and down, and smiled wide. His shorn hair still looked strange to Trevn. “When I got word from Sir Cadoc that you were awake, I praised Arman. You are truly mended? Master Uhley cleared you?”

  “I have not seen the physician,” Trevn confessed. “But I bathed, dressed, and ate a full meal.”

  His brother frowned. “I want you to see Master Uhley as soon as possible.”

  “As you wish,” Trevn said. “Will you question my mother today as well?” Rosârah Thallah had been confined to her cabin on charges of duplicity, and Trevn longed to know whether they were true.

  “Not today, I’m afraid,” Wilek said. “I’ve had to delay Janek’s trial twice now, as Father insists on being present yet has been too ill to be out of bed. I had hoped that distance from Rogedoth and his mantics would bring back Father’s health. I fear it has only made things worse. He has been increasingly confused and forgetful.”

  “Perhaps their magic was keeping a sick man well rather than inflicting disease.”

  Wilek’s thoughtful gaze fixed on Trevn’s. “I had not considered that, brother. Could be that they were keeping him alive until he declared Janek Heir. Then they would have let his illness take its natural course.”

  “A valid theory,” Trevn said, though the set of Wilek’s jaw proved he had already accepted it as fact.

  Rosârah Brelenah approached them and curtsied, a single dog cradled in one arm. “Sâr Trevn, it does my heart good to see you here, healthy and strong. The sârahs and Miss Mielle will be relieved as well. Arman is not yet finished with you, it seems, and we are all glad of it.”

  “As am I, rosârah.”

  A door opened on the bulkhead behind Oli’s and Kamran’s seats. Two attendants pushed King Echad into the room and steered the rollchair to the end of the table, where someone had already moved away Wilek’s seat.

  Most stood and bowed, but for Rosârah Brelenah, who curtsied, and Miss Onika, who remained seated.

  “I will leave you, my son,” Rosârah Brelenah said softly to Wilek. “May the God be with you. And, Sâr Trevn, I bid you good midday.”

  Trevn nodded to the first queen, then turned his attention to his father. One of the king’s attendants had tucked blocks under the wheels to keep the chair from rolling with the waves. Lebbe Alpress, captain of the King’s Guard, stood behind the king, in the position Sir Kalenek had vacated. Sir Kalenek now stood beside Miss Onika.

  King Echad of Armania sat in his throne poorly, a husk of humanity. He had lost a vast amount of weight. His brown skin was dotted with sweat and hung loose from his cheeks, chin, and throat; it had a bluish tint, especially under his eyes, which dug deep in their sockets, the whites veined in blood. Lesions marred his face, the biggest of which had cut his left eyebrow in two. Since the king had no eyebrows left, someone had penciled them in. He wore his usual wig of warrior’s braids, which looked pristine and completely out of place on such a sickly body.

  Wilek elbowed Trevn and jerked his head toward the king. “Greet our father. And remember he is ill. I pray he keeps his head for this trial. I need him.”

  Trevn snapped out of his shock and went to bow before the king.

  “It is good to see you well, my son,” Father rasped in a voice that sounded far too weak for what once had been such a forbidding man. “Perhaps I will follow your lead, eh?”

  Trevn doubted it, but he said, “I hope so, Father.”

  “Prophetess,” the king yelled to Miss Onika, “will I live?”

  “You are yet breathing, Your Highness,” the pale woman said.

  “Bah!” Father scowled. “She is a terrible seer. Knows nothing of why Janek betrayed us all,” the king said to Trevn, spittle flying from his thin, cracked lips. “All this time, Janek was not even of my blood. He lied to me, as did his mother and father. Deceivers all, and I the victim of their games.”

  “You will see them brought to justice, Father,” Trevn said, hopi
ng to appease the man.

  “True, my son.” Father coughed, which jiggled the skin under his chin. “Trust that to be my own prophecy, pale one,” he yelled to Miss Onika. “Just you see if it isn’t.” He turned his attention to the guards on the opposite end of the table. “Bring in Janek at once! I want this over and done with before tonight’s full moon.”

  Wilek

  Wilek cringed at Father’s mention of the full moon. He had talked with the king about this! The man had agreed to cease all sacrifices to Barthos, whom Wilek had proved was nothing more than the trophy on the wall above. He hoped that Father didn’t plan to make an offering of Janek.

  Since Mother had departed, Wilek took her seat to the right of the king. Trevn sat on Wilek’s right and Danek’s left. Wilek’s high collar itched, and he fought the urge to scratch, not wanting to bring attention to the rune he was hiding or his short hair. He had aggravated the king by refusing a wig, but—Godslayer or not—he couldn’t stomach wearing warrior’s braids another man had earned.

  He had barely finished the thought when the door opened and Janek was brought forth, hands tied behind his back.

  The once vigorous and commanding sâr was hardly recognizable. He had been in captivity since before they’d left Canden, only a few days shy of a fortnight ago, yet his gaunt body, large black eyes, and sullen mouth gave him the appearance of a man native to the Sink. His time in the hold had sullied his fine red-and-blue ensemble to a dingy maroon and charcoal. Wispy black hair coated his cheeks and chin. His cornrows had frizzed near out of their braids. Oddly he wore no shoes, and one of his toes was bloody.

  Wilek did not envy his half brother’s time spent in the hold.

  The guards sat Janek in a chair at the opposite end of the table and stood on either side, as if to keep him from escaping. Where they feared the man might run off to on a ship as crowded as the Seffynaw, Wilek couldn’t guess.

  All this he noticed in a glance, but what gave him pause was the hunger in Janek’s eyes. Was it desperation? Injured pride? Determination? Wilek should have sent Hinckdan to visit Janek’s cell to see if he could learn anything. He needed to prove that Janek was in league with Rogedoth in trying to kill Father and usurp the throne.

  Wilek broke the silence. “Janek Pitney, you have been charged with treason against the crown of Armania. How do you plead?”

  “I don’t understand the charge,” Janek said.

  Wilek’s ire spiked and he raised his voice. “How can I be more clear?”

  Janek cocked his head to one side. “Well . . . if I am Janek Pitney, I am of Sarikar and I cannot very well commit treason against Armania. And if I am Janek Hadar, which I am, then Janek Pitney does not exist.”

  “Do not allow him to confuse you, my son,” Father said. “Proceed to the questioning.”

  Wilek set his jaw and looked down to the scroll anchored on the table before him. “This council wishes to know: What is the purpose of the sect Lahavôtesh?”

  “I know not,” Janek said in an agreeable voice that belied the fierceness in his eyes.

  “Do not lie,” Wilek said. “I have several witnesses who count you a part of that sect.”

  “Ask them for the sect’s purpose, then,” Janek said, “for I know nothing of it. Why not instead ask me about my mother and father, for you have that incorrect too, and I have longed to set you straight and claim Justness for the wrongs you have done me.”

  He dared make accusations of his own? Wilek should have known that Janek would be difficult. “We will get to Rogedoth in a moment,” Wilek said, his voice tight. “Traces of evenroot powder were found in your chamber in Canden. Can you explain that?”

  “I cannot. Drugs dull the senses. I would never use them. Have you questioned my concubines? They might have taken some. Pia, perhaps. The woman keeps things from me.”

  “Have you ever seen your concubines using evenroot?” Wilek asked.

  “No.”

  “Have you—”

  “I want to hear about Pontiff Rogedoth,” Father said, interrupting Wilek. “How long have you known he was Prince Mergest III of Sarikar?”

  “My mother told me on my fifteenth ageday,” Janek said.

  “And she convinced you to continue with the deception that I was your father?”

  Wilek sighed and sat back in his chair as Father took the reins of the interrogation out of his hands. At least he was of sound mind.

  Janek beamed at the king. “Barthel Rogedoth, or Prince Mergest III of Sarikar, if you prefer—for that part you do have correct—is not my father. He is—”

  “Do not lie!” Wilek said. “We have already established that he is your father.”

  “Will I be allowed to speak or not?” Janek asked the king.

  Father waved his hand at Wilek. “Let him have his say.”

  Janek smiled. “Thank you, Father.”

  This hardened the king’s expression, but he said nothing.

  Janek steepled his fingers and crossed one ankle over his knee. “In the Armanian year of 834, King Ormarr of Sarikar disinherited his eldest son, Prince Mergest III, for his cultish practices. He was a mantic and had founded the Lahavôtesh.” Janek paused, expression smug, as his audience sat spellbound. “In his exile Prince Mergest moved to Armania with his wife and two young daughters. He took on a new name, Barthel Rogedoth, and joined the Rôb church, where he worked his way up the ranks. Wanting more for his daughters than a lowly priest’s life could offer, he devised for them to be adopted into the well-born Nafni family.”

  Father coughed. Canbek whispered to Danek. Wilek, too, felt unease at the direction this story had taken. Could he have been mistaken? Let it not be so!

  “Silence,” Wilek said to the council, and “Please continue” to Janek, failing to control the waver in his voice.

  Janek took his time before speaking again. “As we all know, Laviel Nafni was married to Rosâr Echad in the Armanian year 848. She bore him a son named Morek a year later, and I came along the following year. So you see, the Pontiff is not my mother’s husband or my father, as you accuse. He is instead my mother’s father and my grandfather.” Janek stood, chin high, shoulders back. “I am Rosâr Echad’s son, and I demand Justness for how I have been mistreated in this matter.”

  No. Wilek turned in his chair to Teaka. The old mantic woman had convinced him that Janek was Rogedoth’s son—all based on the testimony of her shadir. Now her eyes were wide, remorseful. She bowed her head, acknowledging her mistake.

  Had her shadir been mistaken or had it purposely tricked them? Either way, he should not be surprised. Trevn had warned him against trusting black spirits—had been right to. Wilek never should have taken the word of a mantic’s black spirit as truth. Janek’s explanation made much more sense than what Teaka had surmised from her shadir. A queen might risk unfaithfulness to her king, but to bear another man’s child and claim such a child as the king’s own . . . Such audacity would be beyond foolish.

  And Rosârah Laviel was no fool.

  “How it relieves me to hear this truth, my son,” Father said to Janek. “I knew in my heart that you were mine.”

  “I have not enjoyed being parted from my family, Father,” Janek said.

  Wilek needed to grasp control of this interrogation before he lost everything. “We will discuss Sâr Janek’s request for Justness in a moment,” he said, “but first we must take into account his collusion with his . . . grandfather to kill the king and put himself on the throne.”

  “Yes,” Father said, nodding gravely. “What say you against this charge, my son?”

  Janek gazed penitently at the king. “If that was truly my grandfather’s plan, I had no knowledge of it,” he replied. “It was my mother’s desire to see me declared Heir. That much I know. I can produce two letters on the subject between her and Rosârah Thallah.”

  This news stunned Wilek. “What is the nature of these letters?”

  “In their plotting to make me Heir, the two women arrang
ed my marriage to Princess Vallah of Rurekau. When they first presented the idea to me, I believed Wilek had been killed. So I agreed, wanting to do all I could to keep Armania stable.”

  Wilek doubted that very much.

  “Only when I discovered the letters in my mother’s chambers in Canden did I realize that she and Rosârah Thallah had been conspiring with one another long before then.”

  Wilek glanced at Trevn and saw that his brother looked as unconvinced as Wilek felt. The king, however, to Wilek’s alarm, looked completely persuaded.

  “Why would the rosârahs Thallah and Laviel conspire together?” Wilek asked Janek. “It is no secret that the two have never gotten along.”

  “My mother wanted me declared Heir. To coerce the support of Rosârah Thallah, she promised that if I someday became king, Sâr Trevn would have the title of Heir until I produced a son of my own.”

  This Wilek didn’t doubt for a moment. The third queen had always been ambitious for Trevn. Why couldn’t she let things alone?

  “So you see,” Janek said, “none of that was my doing. Father, I ask Justness for the wrongs done me. Will you, in your great mercy and wisdom, grant me that much?”

  Too soon, Wilek thought, fighting a smile. Janek should have waited a bit longer before pressing for Justness. Rushing the topic made him look eager, and Wilek could tell from the king’s stiff posture and squinted eyes that the man was not yet appeased.

  Father scowled at Janek. “What do you ask for Justness?”

  The council fell silent, waiting to hear what Janek would say. His eyes shifted to Wilek and he cocked one eyebrow in confidence. “That my Heir ring be returned to me.”

  Everyone watched the king, who stared at Janek as if weighing the situation in his mind. If Wilek were to lose his position as Heir . . . Janek could not lead this expedition! He knew nothing of sailing. Nothing of starting a new colony. Nothing of politics. It would bring disaster.

  “That I cannot give,” Father said finally. Wilek released a relieved breath and felt those around the table relax. “Justness amends must be equal to the wrongdoing.”