Chapter Six

King Esterling was heavyset but not horribly out of shape for his age. He blamed the rich foods and lack of exercise that came with the job. Overall he should have felt healthy, even if his knees felt as old as they did. Considering the active life he’d lived before, full of adventure and thrills, he resented the pain and the extra pounds. He swayed as one leg buckled, popping in protest over his desire to move swiftly and end this tortuous day filled with duty.

“Your Majesty?” the chancellor asked, stepping forward, fearful his king would topple over. “Are you ill, sire? Shall I fetch your physician?”

“No, Percy,” Amash replied, but he lied. Illness lurked in every shadow, mocking his former youth. Recently, the headaches had worsened, growing so distracting he could barely endure the ringing. He took this moment to rub his thigh muscle just to distract his hands. They yearned to rub away the greater pain throbbing between his temples.

You never were a liar, the voice said, but politics have made you into one. I’m disappointed in you, old friend. Amusement lined the words, and the king detected a hint of laughter.

Be quiet, the king demanded, and leave me.

The first time he had heard the voice he found it familiar, a reminder of a person he’d known many years before. Friend, as the voice called him, was not the word he’d choose to describe this master of deceit.

He looked around at his entourage. Each pair of eyes pointedly avoided meeting his. It was undignified to witness their ruler in pain. Even worse, Percy Roan offered a shoulder on which to lean. The king waved him off, stepping gingerly the rest of the way. His quarters weren’t much farther down the long corridor, just past a row of painted arches and endless vases with cut roses. These were his family’s symbol, and scores of them filled the palace. He had grown to despise the smell. It reminded him of loneliness and obligation—nothing of home and family.

They reached the door to his quarters, gilded and reflecting sunlight from the open windows high above. Though splendidly carved with twisted vines and budding roses, he had tired of the beauty in this entire place.

Wasteful and overdone, he thought, a sign of extravagance from a time when our people starved.

None starve now, because you’ve done well, the voice encouraged. Thanks to the leader you proved to be.

I’m not a leader, King Esterling argued. Not like Braen was. I’ll never be as great as Braston.

Percy pushed the door open.

The king sighed. Inside waited several body servants, each ready to strip him of robes and adorn his body with sleeping attire.

Sleep.

How had he ever found time to sleep during his seventeen-year reign? There had been so much to do, rebuilding the kingdom out of scraps of the fallen empire. The Brother’s War had demanded so much of Eston’s people. This city stood, but so many more had met ruin. He especially lamented the fate of his own Old Weston—buried forever beneath volcanic rock and a deep lake. The rebuilding efforts in each location had bled his coffers dry, leaving him to pass the cost on to his people. Even now, they grumbled his name for giving the city over to the Pescari.

“We must discuss the topic of succession, my lord,” the chancellor said without hesitation. He had pressed this same issue many times over the past seventeen years, but the king never allowed it resolved.

“That matter is closed, Percy. I have a will, and you shall unseal it upon my death.”

That time is sooner than you know, the voice cautioned.

“But the witan, my lord, may not agree with your choice. You must reveal him now. Tell me and I will vet his background and smooth his transition.”

“Smooth his... You mean bribe the witan to comply? No, Percy, I won’t allow that.”

It’s what I would have done, the voice urged. This politician is correct—you must make back room deals to ensure transition.

The king ignored both the man and the voice, holding his arms out while the servants removed first his outer garments and then the silkier layers underneath. He shivered as he turned, as if entering a layer of cooler air. Had he not been in a state of undress he would never have felt it. Irritated at the draft of indignity, the king waiting patiently until the attendants finished and he was once more covered.

“Will you desire anything else tonight, Your Highness?” his chancellor asked.

“No, Percy, that will be all.”

“Very well, my lord. I will greet you again in the morning.” The man bowed his leave, holding his spectacles to his face as he did. Only once he’d departed did the king sigh with relief.

He turned to a chair near the fireplace and spoke to its empty cushions.

“I know you’re there. I felt your aura. Show yourself,” he commanded. “I want a full status report.”

The image of a man slowly appeared, solidifying as if born of the misty air molecules in which he’d hidden. He looked to be in his mid-thirties and sat upon the chair with legs crossed and hands resting patiently atop his lap. His robes were a richly dyed blue, and the crest upon their center identified him as a Dreamer. The golden trim around the fringes revealed him to be Cuyler, the leader of their sect. The voice liked this man, and so did the king.

“I apologize for arriving in secret,” Cuyler said. “But I’d followed the chancellor closely and had to maintain the connection until after he departed. Otherwise he would have noticed.”

“Wonderful,” the king muttered. “What of it? Am I correct in my worries?”

“I don’t know yet. He’s been in your service as long as any of us but very difficult to read. All his conversations seem in order and related to your best interest. I believe he is indeed loyal to your position, at least while you’re alive.”

The king grunted. “But he may turn against my wishes after I’m gone?”

“He may,” Cuyler agreed, “but what you demand won’t sit well with many. Your choice of heir won’t be easily understood among your kingdom, but especially not the nobles.”

“I think it will, in time.”

“Even the Dreamers won’t understand. To those who fought it, this will remind them of the Brother’s War—times best forgotten.”

“Perhaps, but they should remember those who brought this peace to Andalon, and that his father was part of it,” the king replied solemnly. Those were the best times of his life, when he had a purpose and a clear direction. The king paused, then asked, “What have the seers among you prophesied?”

“Another war is coming and it begins with and hinges upon him.”

“We cannot allow another war,” the king declared. “Does he cause it? Or is it a civil war waged by those who oppose him?”

“We’ve not reasoned that out,” Cuyler admitted. “But it involves Falconers and most certainly the Fjorikans.”

The king paused. “What about Falconers?” he asked.

Those beastly specters had been destroyed during the Brother’s War, their hive mind severed and bodies allowed eternal rest.

“Some must have survived the war, and several Dreamers have reported clashes in each city,” the Dreamer explained. “We can only assume they farm latents as in past times.”

If the Falconers have returned, the voice suggested, they are led by a single mind, not a hive. Find the source and destroy it.

“There’s a source,” the king said. “A single mind controlling them all. Find it and sever their connection.”

The lead Dreamer nodded, but his face suggested more troubling news.

“There’s more?”

“It pertains to the boy,” Cuyler explained. “He was attacked by Falconers. Caroline and Bearnard chased them off but were forced to reveal their presence.”

“His mother and I have an agreement,” the king said. “Did she turn him over to them? He’d be safer if she did.”

“They did not elaborate, only reported he fled and went into hiding.”

That is unacceptable, the voice cautioned.

“Find him and bring him before me.” The pain between his temples pounded with worry. What if no one in Andalon understood his decision? “I must have him found, and soon.”

“We will not fail,” the lead Dreamer promised, then cloaked himself with a shimmering cloak of air—invisible except for a vibration against the far wall.

The door to his chambers opened and closed, and King Esterling let out the breath he held.

“Am I mad?” he asked the empty room.

Not yet, thankfully. And it’s good the madness hasn’t begun to set in, the voice said, or we’ll never succeed in what’s to come.

“You speak like you know it intimately,” the king said with a laugh. Surely the madness in his chambers was his own for talking to voices.

I know it and fight against it daily. But know for certain you are not mad, King Esterling.

“What did you mean earlier when you suggested my death is sooner than I know?” King Esterling asked. “How much time do I have if I’m truly dying?”

I did not say you are dying, King Esterling. But my own time is ending, and so then, will yours.

“I don’t understand,” the king admitted.

He waited, but the voice had fallen silent. Climbing into bed he closed his eyes, ignoring the heavy issues of state weighing on his mind. After a while, Amash Esterling fell into a deep sleep.