King's Folly Read online

  Gran plodded up and sat on the chair beside Mother’s throne. “Well, I’d rather sit.”

  “It was only a tremor,” Wilek told them. “Lady Zeroah’s guards are well trained. I’m certain she is fine. But to ease your minds, I will go at once.”

  Princess Nabelle curtsied again. “Thank you, noble sâr. You are most kind.”

  “He’ll make an excellent king,” Gran said. “I’ll have the minstrel write a song about this.”

  “Find her and bring her back to us, my son. Make haste!” Mother reached for Princess Nabelle’s hand, and the princess graciously moved to the queen’s side.

  Wilek kissed his mother’s cheek, then he and Kal left the courtyard and started for the west wing, the quickest route to the stables. Kal sent a boy to run ahead and tell Master Crossett to saddle their horses, then followed silently on Wilek’s right.

  “I am certain they are well,” Wilek said. “It was a little quake.”

  Kal merely nodded.

  Harton ran up behind them. “Some guards have set up a barrier to keep people out of the foyer.”

  “Well done,” Wilek said.

  The castle seemed deserted and devoid of any other damage save more candles fallen from wall sconces. The men exited through the western doors and found a crowd of servants huddled on the terrace.

  “The quake is over,” Wilek told them. “Return to your posts at once.”

  The servants meandered toward the castle, shooting Wilek furtive glances as if he were mad to suggest they go back inside. At the foot of the terrace steps, three horses stood saddled and waiting. Wilek slowed as he approached his mount. The black horse before him was not his stallion.

  “Where is Foxaro?” he asked Master Crossett.

  The marshal ran his fingertips along the bridge of the stallion’s nose. “Sorry to say, Your Highness, but Prince Janek took Foxaro to Seacrest. I hope Gibolt will serve you well. He’s an excellent horse.”

  Wilek’s chest tightened. Janek! That arrogant, bothersome . . . He had no time for such games. He mounted Gibolt and set off. Kal and Harton quickly caught up. They rode three abreast, heading for the front gate.

  Not even an earthquake could drive away the crowd of protestors. They caught sight of Wilek and pressed against the iron bars, their cries increasing in volume and fury, no doubt fueled by the superstitions of the Athosian priests. The guards saw Wilek coming and pushed back the crowd so that the gates could be opened.

  “Let the prophet speak!” someone yelled from the crowd.

  The protestors fell silent and backed away from a stooped, scrap of a man with slits for eyes and skin like a raisin.

  “Everton staggers!” The man’s voice was raspy yet full of authority. “Armania is falling; the king’s words and deeds oppose Athos, defying his glory. He parades his sins, does not hide it. Five Woes to him! He has brought disaster upon himself and all of Armania. Justice will come from the hand of Athos. Stop, Prince of Armania, and answer for the crimes of your father!”

  Those slit-like eyes focused on Wilek, who looked away. Crazy Athosians. Wilek should stop and answer. He wanted the people to know he cared—that he was not his father. But would they even listen? And what could he say about the earthquakes? He was powerless to stop them. Besides, Lady Zeroah was waiting—could be hurt.

  Wilek urged the stallion into a canter. The protestors got out of the way, but their indignant cries filled Wilek with guilt. Once Lady Zeroah was safely returned to Castle Everton, he would try to speak with them. A prince should not ignore his people, whether he had answers or not.

  Wilek, Kal, and Harton rode down Procession Street until it came to an end at the cliffs where the waterwheels lifted seawater up into the Blackwater Canal. The stench of sewage and rot overpowered the fresh sea smell as they neared the poorest part of Everton. Here they turned left onto the Sink Road, which followed the canal inland along Echo Crack.

  Dust clouded his view as if a contingent of King’s Guard soldiers had just passed through. The poor visibility and debris in the street forced the horses to slow. Merchant booths had collapsed, wheels had broken off carts and wagons. Several awnings had been ripped from their braces and hung limply down the sides of buildings. They passed by two buildings that had collapsed into a pile of rubble that spilled out into the street. Every so often someone ran up and begged help. At Wilek’s nod, Kal threw each a coin.

  “That prophet could be right,” Harton said. “My nurse used to say the father realms would someday fall and Magonians would rule all.”

  A bolt of fire ran through Wilek’s veins. “Senseless! Athosian prophets are nothing but play actors. They rewrite ancient prophecies and terrorize the people with doomsday claims. Look to the original texts and you’ll find a very different message.”

  No one spoke for the space of ten paces. Wilek should not have snapped.

  “I thought you were from Highcliff, Hart,” Kal finally said.

  “Indeed,” Harton said. “But my nurse was Magonian. When I see a disaster like this—like Cape Waldemar—it reminds me of the bedtime stories she used to tell.”

  Delightful bedtime adventures for a child. “I have no intention of letting Magonians take over my reign,” Wilek said.

  If he ever got to reign.

  Ahead, the adobe brick almshouse came into view, looking sturdy and undamaged. Thank Mikreh! If Lady Zeroah had perished, the king would have seen it as a sign against Wilek as Heir.

  Regret washed over Wilek at his selfishness. He hated how the Heir War plagued his every thought, but Janek was deceitful and would use any means to win the title of Heir for himself. Wilek must take care.

  The almshouse had been built at Mother’s command to help the destitute. Rosârah Brelenah herself came once a week to feed her people. It pleased Wilek to learn that his mother and Lady Zeroah shared this interest. Perhaps, once he and Lady Zeroah were married, his mother would occupy much of his wife’s time so that Lebetta would not fear being replaced.

  Lady Zeroah’s guards let them inside. From the realm of Sarikar, they wore green-and-brown striped tabards with the crest of the evergold tree bright over their breasts. Sarikar did not invite each royal to choose their own insignia. Everyone wore the crest of their king.

  Wilek stopped to let his eyes adjust to the darkness and the mess. Shelves had tipped over and lost their contents to the dirt floor, which was covered in muddy patches from spilled soup. A lone table remained standing. Behind it stood a woman in a pink dress who jumped when she saw them enter.

  “Kal!” It was Miss Mielle. She ran to Kal and embraced him. For the first time, Wilek realized the girl was nearly as tall as her guardian.

  “Where is Lady Zeroah?” Wilek asked one of the guards.

  “Out back, serving soup,” he said.

  Excellent. “Harton, with me.” Wilek started for the back door, but Mielle released Kal and stepped in Wilek’s way.

  She curtsied to him, wobbling slightly. “Good midday, Your Highness. Thank you for helping me to a position with Lady Zeroah. I’m most grateful. We are already dear friends.”

  Wilek smiled, always amused by how Mielle managed to mix up the order of protocols and never seem the wiser. “You are most welcome, Miss Mielle.”

  Kal, as always, corrected her. “You must wait to speak to the sâr until he first speaks to you, Mielle.”

  “But he spoke, didn’t he?” She looked innocently flummoxed. “I thought he had.”

  “To the guard, yes,” Kal said. “But not to you.”

  “Oh.” The word was weighted with such forlornness that Wilek could not leave it be.

  “Forgiven and forgotten, Kal,” Wilek said. “Walk with me, Harton. I must determine whether or not Lady Zeroah is ready to depart.”

  Harton followed Wilek toward the back door. “That’s a big girl,” he said. “Put a sword in her hand and I’d think twice about crossing her.”

  “Don’t let Kal hear you say that,” Wilek said, despite the tru
th of Harton’s words.

  They exited through the back door and into a muddy clearing where Lady Zeroah stood dishing up bowls of soup, a Sarikarian guard on each side. Lady Zeroah Barta was a pretty girl. Short and slender with thick black hair that today she wore in a combination of braids, beads, and loose curls. It was all tied back under a cowl to keep it from the cauldron flames and from slipping into someone’s bowl. Her skin was the color of dark chocolate, a tinge lighter than her mother’s, since her father had been Armanian. She had her mother’s golden eyes. She wore a dress in two shades of blue, the hem of which was now muddy. Her body had very little shape to it . . . yet. Her mother’s stunning figure gave Wilek hope of that someday changing.

  The line of dust-covered people before her table sent a twinge of guilt to Wilek’s heart. Why had he never come here? No wonder the people hated him. Perhaps he should help.

  He walked to her side and picked up an empty bowl, held it out. She did not see him, too busy talking to the small girl she was handing the bowl to.

  Next in line was a boy of maybe nine. His tired eyes locked onto Wilek and flashed wide. “It’s the sâr! The Dutiful! The First Arm!” The boy sank into a squat.

  The outcry quickly caught on as others in line bowed to their prince. Lady Zeroah turned her head. Golden eyes latched onto his. She gasped and sank into a deep curtsy.

  “I am grateful to see you well, lady,” Wilek said. “From the damage I have seen on my ride here, the earthquake must have been a great deal stronger than it felt inside the castle. Our mothers and I were concerned for your welfare.”

  Her eyes shifted to meet his, wide and wary like a frightened mouse. “Your Highness.” She looked at the ground and mumbled, “Good midday.”

  Bother. Wilek grew weary of these meetings. He could plainly see she was terrified of him. Trying to father his heir on this girl would likely be an awkward chore. He wondered if telling this to Lebetta would ease her anger at his coming nuptials. Likely not.

  Lady Zeroah straightened, reached for the bowl he was holding. She took it, careful not to touch him. “I thank you.” She ladled soup into the bowl, but her shaking hand spilled soup over the side and onto her finger. She closed her eyes and winced. Had it burned her? Or was she merely embarrassed?

  The boy was on his feet now and grabbed the bowl. “I thank you, lady.”

  “Let me clean the side,” she said, reaching for a rag.

  “No need. That’s what the gods gave me a tongue for.” The boy grinned and staggered off, slurping at the bowl.

  Wilek withdrew his handkerchief and handed it to Lady Zeroah.

  “Thank you, Your Highness.” She carefully took the proffered linen and dabbed the moisture from her hand, keeping her eyes downcast. Her chest heaved, as if she were short of breath.

  Gods help him. How was he to stomach being married to this jittery butterfly? One wrong word and she would fly away. If only he could marry Lebetta instead.

  “Your Highness,” Lady Zeroah blurted suddenly. “Would you honor me with a walk?” A deep breath. “In the queen’s garden when we return to Castle Everton?”

  Well, this was new. Every moment they spent together seemed to cause the poor girl agony. Did she relish an increase of torture?

  Still, he saw no way out of it and gave a polite lie. “I would be delighted, Lady Zeroah.”

  “Helping!” A woman in a black cloak ran toward them, waving her arms. “Helping me! Is hurt. My daughter!”

  Wilek was struck by her strange accent and bronzed skin. Could she be from the mother realms? It was difficult to tell sometimes. All this talk of prophecy was making him jumpy.

  “Where is your daughter?” Lady Zeroah asked.

  The woman pointed down the street to an alley. “Is in tiny street. First house. Is inside. Trapped. My daughter.”

  “There is nothing but adobe houses down that alley,” Wilek said. If an adobe house had collapsed, the girl was likely dead. Adobe bricks were mercilessly heavy.

  “But you will go with her, yes?” Zeroah asked, turning her golden stare on him.

  “Absolutely,” he said, wishing he would have jumped to it without having to be told. He was far too used to having everything done for him. But here was his chance to help his people. “Harton, fetch Kal. We will assist this woman.”

  Harton darted inside the building and returned a moment later with Kal. The three men followed the strange woman to an alley that was cluttered with dust and fallen bricks. Midway down, he could barely see that the back side of a tenement had collapsed. The woman stepped deftly through the rubble. Kal followed, hand on the hilt of his sword. Wilek doubted very much this old woman had planned an ambush, but he appreciated his shield’s caution.

  The woman stopped at what once had been the corner of the tenement. The back wall was gone, now a pile of broken adobe and dust that bared the inside of each home on the three levels of the building. The woman pointed to a bare foot sticking out from a section of fallen wall. A foot with reddish-brown skin. This must be a Magonian family. Or Tennish. Illegal immigrants in Everton. Why?

  “Harton, help me lift,” Kal said. “Your Highness, try to grab the girl.”

  Kal and Harton gripped the end of the broken wall and lifted, both grunting with the effort. Wilek reached for the bare ankle, which was now a fully bare leg. Was this girl naked?

  Clumps of straw and mud from the roof’s insulation covered the rest of her body. Wilek brushed aside the debris until he found—not a girl, but—a young woman underneath. She was clothed, after all, wearing the red sheath of a temple prostitute. Wilek lifted her in his arms and carried her back down the alley. She groaned when he laid her on the packed dirt, then looked at him. Her eyes were gray, like polished rounds of a dirty diamond. She must be from the mother realms.

  “Te segees,” the girl said.

  “Te des emjar,” Wilek replied in rusty Tennish. He had learned the language as a child but had not spoken a word of it since the war ended and the truce kept Armania’s borders closed to the mother realms.

  Those gray eyes widened at his comment, and she spoke quickly to her mother, too soft and fast for Wilek to understand.

  “They’re from Magonia,” Kal said.

  “How can you tell?” Wilek asked. “I guessed Tenma.”

  “The accent. And the red dress is in honor of Magon’s red lakes.”

  “I have never seen eyes like those,” Wilek said.

  “She’s a mantic,” Kal said. “Evenroot turns the eyes gray.”

  A mantic. A chill ran up Wilek’s arms at the idea of magic, illegal in the father realms. He had never, in fact, seen magic done.

  Kal had grown up in Raine and fought in Magonia during the war. His Tennish was much stronger than Wilek’s. “Ask them why they are here,” Wilek said. “How they got here.”

  Kal asked the woman, then translated. “She says they always lived here.”

  “Tell her who I am and that I will have them arrested if they lie to me again.”

  Wilek caught some of Kal’s next words. This is your sâr, the First Arm of Armania. Then Kal’s fluency lost him.

  The mother gasped and fell to her knees. “My prince! To me. Be forgiving.” She rubbed her hands on the ground and scrubbed her face, leaving smudges of dirt and adobe dust on her skin. Then she prattled on to Kal.

  “She says, ‘The Chieftess of Magonia is coming to rule Armania,’” Kal said. “‘For centuries the prophets have spoken of this time. Any day now, the old world will fall to ruin.’ They came here through Ebro, then Grayswood, and Pixford. Her daughter was trained at the Temple of Magon, which helped them cross the border and earn rides with merchants.” Kal grunted. “Says her daughter knows many ways to please a man.”

  Of that Wilek had no doubt. Her other words disturbed him. Every realm had their own translations of the Root Prophecy, but this sounded like the Magonian Chieftess might be plotting something. “My father rules Armania,” Wilek said.

  The
woman wiped dirt over her daughter’s face. “Forgive us, most noble prince. From the earth we come. From Barthos. We honor god of Armanian king. You must be taking to be wife. My Fina. Girl is beautiful, yes?”

  “Yes,” Harton mumbled from behind them.

  “Pleasing you, my daughter. Making wonderful wife. For a prince. Being Father to the Deliverer. You may be.”

  “I have no need of a wife.” Especially one who spun magic.

  “Saved her life, my prince,” the woman said. “Insult Magon, you do. To refuse. If not wife, add to your harem, no? My daughter?”

  Wilek had no harem. He looked back to the girl, Fina, and her eyes of glass. His brother Janek would have already thrown the girl up over his horse and ridden away, but Wilek had trouble enough balancing two women in his life. Plus his father would never allow a Magonian woman in the castle, no matter how beautiful or exotic she appeared.

  “Kal, give them some coin and see that everyone vacates this building. It is dangerous and must be knocked down.” Wilek retreated down the alley.

  Bootsteps slapped the packed dirt behind him and Harton slowed on his left. “You’re just going to leave her?”

  Wilek glanced back. Kal was walking toward them, so he waited for his shield to catch up. “Upon our return to the castle, send some men to arrest them. They are in our realm illegally, and we must learn more of this Magonian plot to usurp the throne.”

  “I live to serve,” Kal said.

  “You’re going to arrest her?” Harton said.

  “Never underestimate the power of a woman, Harton,” Wilek said. “Especially one of our enemy. Lady Zeroah awaits.”

  Another full hour passed before all the soup had been dispersed and Lady Zeroah declared the task complete. Wilek felt glad for having helped. Shortly thereafter Hawley and the women were loaded into the carriage. The Sarikarian guards led the way on horseback. The carriage followed. Wilek, Kal, and Harton brought up the rear.

  That was when Wilek saw them.

  His youngest brother, Prince Trevn, and Hinckdan Faluk, the young Earl of Dacre, were riding atop Lady Zeroah’s carriage. The boys were facing forward, paying no attention to them.