The Reluctant King Page 8

  “I see,” Qoatch said. “An antidote, then?”

  “I am doing my best, but without knowing what poisoned them, it is difficult. The moment I first saw the emperor, I administered a mustard emetic, which induced vomiting but overall did not help. Their condition resembles a dead sleep, brought on by torterus venom.”

  “But there are no torterus here,” Qoatch said.

  “No, but someone could have brought the powder from our homeland. Both the emperor and his brother have exhibited muscle twitching and slowed, shallow breathing, but I found no evidence of poison in any of the food trays found in their apartments, no punctures on either body, and no trace of the powder on their hands or beds or in their clothing. It is very strange.”

  “Why not give them an antidote for torterus venom, just in case?”

  “The antidote is quite dangerous. It can cause hallucinations, depression, addiction, and in some cases, death. Proper dosage is vital, and I cannot know for certain how much each patient consumed or how much antivenom I should administer. On the other hand, to do nothing . . . Well, they will both of them die eventually, likely within a week or two.”

  Master Nelkin was an intelligent man. Qoatch wondered who had trained him. “The empress will be grieved to hear how dire the situation is,” he said. “I wish there were some way I could help.”

  “Pray and make offerings. I will continue to experiment, and should the council decree it, I will take my best guess about administering an antidote to torterus fangs. But the truth is, both the emperor and his brother are at the mercy of the gods.”

  Onika

  For many years Onika had seen light. Bright, colorful, ever-changing, and often distracting light. At the moment, she saw only a dark brown canvas sprayed in purple spots that shifted, as if trying and failing to come into focus. Now the dots were green. Now blue with flecks of yellow and orange, and it seemed as if some of the blue was threatening to break through the brown canvas and outshine everything else, but for some reason it could not.

  Onika had never experienced darkness—pitch blackness—even in the dead of night. She had always wanted to—but not this darkness that had so consumed her soul.

  Bring light, O Holy God, and vanquish the darkness surrounding me. My ragged soul is withered to a shadow. How long must I endure? I beg you grant me the mercy of sleep, that I might close off the memories and forget.

  But sleep did not come, and her memories continued to betray her. Again and again she relived the horrors of that day. Cries of death from kindly servants. Screams of terror and anguish from Tulay and Yoana. The jeers of the men. Villains, all of them. Rough hands that grabbed her. Smothering fear. So many voices. So much pain.

  She’d told them to stop. Again and again. But they would not. Finally, desperation gave way to defiance, and Onika had reached into the nearest mind and commanded it to stop.

  Her attacker had collapsed. Shouts of disgust rang out. Accusations of murder and witchcraft followed by a different kind of violence with fists and kicks and ugly curses, as if she had done something to harm them. Fear laced deep in the men’s voices kept a question at the forefront of her mind. What had she done?

  Then young Master Burk had arrived, yelling censure to anyone who dared harm a prophet of the gods. His clammy hands had pulled her to her feet and led her away, his reedy voice warning the men that anyone who dared touch her again could expect the same as what happened to Aloz.

  Onika had no idea what she’d done to Aloz or who that even was. She had made no curse—not even a prayer at that moment—but she had reached into someone’s mind. Perhaps the man Aloz had heard her? Sensed her emotions and become convicted? If so, why then did the men claim he had died?

  Master Burk had led her away from the turmoil, helped her inside a transport of some kind. Tied her hands and bade her sit. Told her the bonds were for her own safety and that he would take care of her.

  She knew better than to believe that. He was no better than the others.

  Master Dendrick had been in the transport already—the rebels had wanted him for his knowledge of Armania’s politics. He had tried to calm Onika, but she remembered little of the words he’d spoken.

  How long she had sat in that wagon, she did not know. At some point Master Dendrick had nudged her shoulder and whispered those glorious words: “Help is here, Miss Onika. We are saved.”

  Onika knew a fleeting moment of joy that her Rescuer had come at last, but the moment she’d heard Rosâr Wilek’s cultured voice instead of Sir Kalenek’s rough one, that joy had vanished. Despair had nearly made her collapse, for she knew two things in an instant: She would not escape for long, and Rosâr Wilek and Master Dendrick would not survive.

  She had tried to speak. To warn the men. But what could she say? She hadn’t seen the future. Arman had not spoken to this directly. She simply felt certain from everything put together.

  She simply knew.

  The rest had happened very fast. Master Dendrick had pulled her along by the arm as branches snagged her skirt and scratched her ankles. She’d smelled a horse. Master Dendrick had lifted her onto the animal, but before he’d been able to join her, someone had attacked. A loud crack rang out, and Master Dendrick had yelled, “Heeya!”

  The horse had taken flight. Onika had wrapped her arms around the animal’s neck and done all she could to hold on. The animal had not gotten far before something struck Onika’s head and knocked her to the ground.

  She’d lain still, gasping for breath, knowing she must hurry but unable to move. Men had descended upon her, one mocking her for not knowing when to duck under the branch of a—

  Stop it! Onika must stop this madness. She had again allowed the memories to whisk her to the past, where death reigned supreme. She had forgotten to focus on praise. On goodness. On joy. She begged Arman for forgiveness, then for sleep, though she knew that even when exhaustion finally consumed her, the memories would be waiting in her nightmares.

  She could not escape. She could never escape.

  How could such evil be overcome? How would she ever find the light again? She knew it was there, but darkness had trapped her under a boulder she could not lift.

  And where was her Rescuer? Why hadn’t Sir Kalenek come? She had seen that he would free her. When would he—?

  A gust of cold and the sound of rumpling fabric lodged a pebble of fear in her throat.

  Someone was inside her tent.

  She closed her eyes. If the intruder thought she was sleeping, maybe he would go away.

  Footsteps scuffed the dirt floor, drew near. Toes nudged her mat. Knees cracked as they bent down. Hot, putrid breath at her ear followed by words in a familiar, arrogant voice. “Time to get up, prophetess.”

  Master Burk. He had made himself her protector, stood sentry outside her tent each day, claiming that protecting the prophet of the gods would give the soldiers luck on their journey, asserted that only he was safe to touch her since he had stepped in and saved the gods’ anointed.

  His superiors had believed him, the fools.

  A clammy hand grabbed her arm, shook it. “Get up, woman. They want to tear down your tent.”

  Onika rolled to her side and pushed to her knees. Like a cloak reeking of an unbathed man, Master Burk stayed with her, helping her stand, pulling her forward. From his winding steps, she guessed he was maneuvering her around several obstacles. The sound shifted. Canvas walls that muffled the sounds of nature fell away, and Onika’s senses were overwhelmed by chilled air, the smell of pine and horses, the sounds of men and birds.

  As Master Burk had every day for the past week or more, he took her to the wagon, bound her hands, and reminded her that his kindness was not without cost.

  “You owe me for protecting you, don’t forget,” he said in his cocksure manner. “I’ll come to you tonight.”

  He had said those words every day since the night of the battle, yet he had not come. She sensed he was afraid of her—of whatever she’d done to
the man called Aloz—but Master Burk’s fear would not stop him forever. Arman had revealed that much long ago.

  Master Burk left her alone in the wagon. She sat listening to the sounds of the men breaking camp, barks of laughter from souls still whole, distant birdsong, the wind rustling leaves. She knew from Dendrick that the south was not a large section of land. So why was the journey to meet Barthel Rogedoth taking so long?

  The wagon jolted softly and a rolling purr met her ears. Rustian. He circled her, rubbing his fur against her body, then climbed into her lap and settled down.

  All these days the dune cat had kept her sane. He was the small glow of Arman’s goodness, and she held him close as long as she was able. Eventually the men would come and chase him away, leaving Onika again alone in the darkness.

  “Move out!” someone yelled, and the wagon rolled forward.

  That night after the men had set up camp again, she was lying on her mat, trying to sleep, when her bedroll shifted.

  “Onika?”

  She startled, shocked that she had not heard this man coming. A voice she did not recognize.

  “Who is there?” she asked.

  “It’s Grayson,” the man said. “I know I sound different than I used to, but it’s me.”

  Tears flooded her eyes at the deepness of that voice—what he must have suffered. “Oh, Grayson!” She sat up, reached for him. “How did you get here?” Perhaps her rescue had finally come.

  “I popped here.” Cold hands gripped her fingers. The bedroll tugged as he sat beside her. “Back when we were at sea, I learned how to travel through the Veil,” he said. “I could go from one place to another in the blink of an eye! Sir Kalenek came and gave me your message, about holding onto my secret, and when we landed here and I met the giants in the forest, I knew it was time to stop hiding what I could do.”

  Praise you, Holy God, for keeping him safe. She trailed her fingers up his thick sleeve to prickly cheeks. “You are shaving?”

  He turned his head. “Sir Cadoc taught me,” he mumbled. “Said it made me look less like a barbarian slav.”

  She chuckled. “I am glad you have friends looking after you. You have changed so much.”

  “Just on the outside,” he said.

  “You should not stay long,” Onika said. “I’ve heard these men talking. They were charged with capturing you and would still like to succeed.”

  “These were Master Fonu’s men,” Grayson said. “I’m not scared of them. I’m too fast.”

  “But should a mantic join them . . .”

  “Did you know Jhorn is my father?”

  She heard the pride in his voice. “I suspected as much, though he never said. Something about your personalities felt similar. You have the same determination. Did he tell you this?”

  “Yes.” And Grayson shared the whole story, which led into a second story about Grayson rescuing the Sarikarian princess and many Puru people from the giants’ mines.

  “You are falling into your role as a hero,” she said. “I am proud of you.”

  Movement behind Onika made Grayson twitch, but at the thick purr that followed, he laughed. “Hello, Rustian. Did you miss me?” He moved away, and a chill ran over Onika.

  “It’s been a long time,” she said. “Why did you come now?”

  “I didn’t know you were a prisoner until Jhorn told me. Rosâr Trevn wanted me to find you so I could lead a rescue party here.”

  Oh how she wanted to flee with him, but that was not Arman’s will. “No, Grayson.”

  “Why would you say that? I can lead you out of this tent and far away from here.”

  “You don’t even know where we are yet, do you?”

  “I will figure it out.”

  “The nights are very cold,” Onika said. “We would freeze out there.”

  “I can steal us some warm clothes.”

  “And how will I find my way back to Armanguard? Rustian does not know the way.”

  “I’ll walk with you,” Grayson said.

  Sweet, precious boy. “That would take far too long. Even with your help and Rustian’s, I cannot move very fast. As soon as these men realized I escaped, they would come looking for me. They have horses. They would catch us.”

  “No one can catch me. And I could probably steal us some horses.”

  She felt for his hand, found it, and squeezed. “I appreciate your wanting to help, Grayson, but I must wait for Sir Kalenek. Arman showed me long ago that he is my Rescuer.”

  “But he already rescued you. This time I want to help.”

  She shook her head. “Sir Kalenek will come for me again.”

  “But the king said I must.”

  “I will explain to Rosâr Trevn. We must trust the God’s plan. Now, tell me what you have been doing in that big castle.”

  Grayson stayed very late, filling Onika’s ears with story after story of his exploits. How his presence lifted her spirits and reminded her of the bigger plan at work. She chose to wait for morning to voice Rosâr Trevn about his rescue plans, but his voice woke her before Master Burk could.

  “Miss Onika? Do you hear me?”

  She opened her eyes to spiraling orange flecks on a sea of mauve light. She made herself sit up before answering, hoping the position would help her more quickly gather her wits. “I hear you, sir.” To call the boy “sir” felt strange, but he had been made king. Onika’s service must defer to Arman’s chosen.

  “Grayson tells me he found you and can lead a rescue party to your location. Yet you have refused?”

  It did sound rather foolish when put like that. “I do not claim to know the mind of Arman, Your Highness, but he has revealed some things to me that I know with certainty. And I have known since long before I met him that Sir Kalenek will be the one to free me from this place.”

  A long stretch of silence passed before the king spoke again. “Miss Onika, Sir Kalenek fled the Seffynaw after killing my brother. He lives in Magosia now.”

  “Yes, Rosâr Wilek sent him to watch over Sâr Janek’s child. But he will come.”

  “Have you spoken to him? Told him what happened to you?”

  It had never occurred to Onika to use Arman’s voicing magic to speak with Sir Kalenek. Well, why not? Rosâr Trevn spoke to non-gifted minds all the time. “I have never tried to, but I will.”

  “I must warn you, Wilek told me that Sir Kalenek is not himself. The Chieftess has placed several compulsions upon him to keep him loyal. He sometimes struggles against her magic to have coherent conversations.”

  Poor Sir Kalenek! He so hated magic. How must he feel to be bound by it? “I will let you know what happens,” she said.

  “Miss Onika, getting you back safely is my top priority, but I also seek to arrest your captors. Those men are enemies of Armania who are responsible for my brother’s death.”

  “Do not waste your time and resources on this matter,” Onika said. “You must trust me, and your enemy’s judgment, to Arman.”

  “How certain are you about all this? It could be that Sir Kalenek is meant to rescue you from another place in another time.”

  Onika had wondered that, but this was one of those things that she simply knew, just as she had known the Five Realms would fall into the sea, that Sir Kalenek would find her in Magonia, and that she and Grayson would be parted. “I sense that my waiting for Sir Kalenek will be of mutual benefit. If you send others for me, Sir Kalenek will be lost. I must wait for him to save him. Should the God say differently, Your Highness, I will tell you at once.”

  “Very well. Take care, prophetess.” He closed off the conversation so abruptly that Onika felt cold. She hadn’t realized there had been any warmth in her connection to Rosâr Trevn until he had relinquished it. How strange.

  She reached out with her mind, feeling for Sir Kalenek the same way she felt for Rosâr Trevn or the Duke of Canden. She did not find him at first, and wondered if she even knew how to accomplish what the young king had suggested. The task kept realit
y at bay, however, so she kept trying. After some time, she came to feel something familiar, like a tangible memory calling her close. She followed the sensation until she recognized Sir Kalenek’s smell of leather, mossy sweat, and the orea oil he used to clean his hair. She also smelled soil and something foreign and feminine.

  “Sir Kalenek? It is Onika. Can you hear me?”

  She felt him jolt at the sound of her voice. A hesitation. “I hear you.”

  “I am being held captive by evil men. Can you help me?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Onika.”

  Confusion clouded his mind. He seemed . . . stuck, as if searching for a memory that was just barely out of reach.

  “I don’t know that name,” he said finally.

  Despair fell heavily. “We traveled together out of Magonia, through Rurekau, where we boarded the ship Baretam. Then we journeyed around the Five Realms and came aboard the Armanian ship Seffynaw, which carried us across the sea until you left to watch over Sâr Janek’s child.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Because we are friends. A magic spell has made you forget.”

  “I don’t . . .” He breathed deeply and seemed to be fighting something within himself. “Do you go by any other name?”

  What a strange request. “I am Onika, daughter of Jhorn. Some call me Arman’s prophetess, the king’s prophet, or the True Prophet.”

  A rush of wistfulness passed between them. “I know you.”

  “Of course you do. You are my Rescuer. And I need your help. I am the captive of men who formerly served Fonu Edekk. They are taking me to Barthel Rogedoth in hopes of earning a ransom.”

  “Villains, all of them,” Sir Kalenek said.

  “Yes! Can you help me?”

  “I cannot leave.”

  “Because the Chieftess has compelled you. Rosâr Trevn told me as much.”

  Sir Kalenek recoiled and confusion bled through their connection. “Rosâr Trevn?”

  “Sir Kalenek! You are needed in Shanek’s tent this instant.” A woman’s voice. The source of that foreign, feminine smell.