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 arranged 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.”

“But Wilek stole my place as Heir with his false accusations of my birth,” Janek said. “I did nothing wrong.”

“Not so,” Father said, as lucid as Wilek had seen him recently. “You knew Rogedoth’s true identity and kept it from me. We may never prove whether or not you were working with him in his quest to murder me and take my throne. We might never know whether or not you have taken evenroot or tried your hand as a mantic. And we have no way of confirming that you did not order your servants to help your mother and grandfather escape their transport to the Seffynaw, but—”

“I did no such thing!” Janek yelled.

Father raised his hand. “My decision is final. The only Justness you will receive from me is keeping your life and your title as sâr. You must decide where your loyalties lie, my son. With me or with your grandfather.”

“Is not my presence here answer enough? If I were loyal to my grandfather and his ambitions, I would be with him, wherever he is. But I support you, Father. On that you can count.”

“We shall see,” the king said.

The questioning went on. Wilek asked about evenroot, the Lahavôtesh, Lady Lebetta’s death, and the identities of Armanian mantics. If Janek knew the answers, he gave nothing away. Wilek’s frustration mounted with each dead end.

“I grow tired,” Father said. “Janek, you are dismissed. The rest of you I will see on the stern deck tonight for the sacrifice.”

Wilek closed his eyes, wilting. He had hoped the man had forgotten tonight was a full moon.

Everyone stood for their sovereign’s departure. “Find a convict to sacrifice to Thalassa,” he added, and his attendants paused his chair before the exit.

Wilek looked up, frowning. “Thalassa?”

“Barthos betrayed my loyalty,” Father said, scowling up at the cheyvah head mounted on the wall. “But Thalassa has so far given us safe passage. She will take Barthos’s place in my five. You would all be wise to join me in paying tribute to the goddess of the sea.”

“You are wise to say so, Your Highness,” Canbek said.

No one else spoke until the door closed behind Janek and the king. Sir Kalenek moved Wilek’s chair to the end of the table. Wilek sat down and rubbed his hands over his face as the rest of the council took their seats.

“I, for one, am glad Sâr Janek is not false,” Kamran said. “I’ve always liked him.”

“Liking him is different from trusting him,” Oli said. “We’d be wise never to do that.”

“Will the rosâr really sacrifice at sea?” Danek Faluk, Duke of Highcliff, asked.

“Oh yes,” Wilek said. Of course he will.

“Father has never consulted logic before,” Trevn said. “No reason he should start now.”

Maybe so, but Wilek must try. He dismissed the council and set off to talk with his father. He strongly believed Miss Onika’s claim that Arman had allowed the Woes to destroy the Five Realms because of the people’s wicked ways. Resuming human sacrifice would not set the fleet on a better path. With overcrowded ships and too many inexperienced captains, they were vulnerable at sea. Best not to tempt He Who Made the World.

“Father refused to listen to reason,” Wilek said as he exited his cabin for the sacrifice, his High Shield, Sir Kalenek Veroth, in front and Agmado Harton behind as his backman. “With Janek’s reinstatement as a prince of Armania, I dared not push too hard.”

“At least the sacrifice will go swifter on the ship,” Kal said. “Without the long ride to Canden and back.”

“I preferred the distance,” Wilek said. “It always forced me to think long and hard about the life being wasted.”

“Not wasted, really,” Harton said. “Sacrificed to a goddess. Thalassa’s probably the first face the poor soul sees when arriving in Shamayim. She will put him in a place of utmost honor.”

Wilek used to believe that, but not anymore. He paused at the crossway and glanced back, taking in Harton’s lazy eyes and easy smile. “After everything we’ve been through with the Woes . . . Miss Onika . . . killing Barthos . . . Do you really believe that, Hart?”

His backman shrugged. “I can’t explain everything, but I do know that we killed a cheyvah, not a god.”

Kal had stopped as well, and Wilek took in the stark contrast between his grim and scarred High Shield and his handsome, skirt-chasing backman.

“Just you keep your opinions on that to yourself,” Kal said. “Rosâr Echad believes our sâr killed Barthos—formally adding Godslayer to his title. We will give him no reason to doubt his choice, you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” Harton said.

They continued down the corridor. Wilek didn’t care what people thought about the past. It was the future that bothered him. Human sacrifice was wrong—forbidden by Arman. Yet until Wilek became king, he was powerless to stop it. And if he pushed his father too far, he might lose his place as Heir. “According to the Book of Arman, life is valued above all else. Arman does not wish us to pour out our own lifeblood for offerings, be they love or guilt offerings.”

Since Wilek had been reading Trevn’s Book of Arman, he had discovered just how many ancient Armanite traditions the Rôb church had changed. The biggest had been the worship of several dozen new gods in addition to Arman. It was because of this that Armanite believers had started referring to Arman as “the God” or the “One God.” Wilek had always admired Arman but had never once believed him to be the only god. All that had changed now, and Wilek wondered how he had ever believed anything else.

Kal turned up the companionway, and they met a young woman coming down. A young woman of twelve years who should have been in bed.

“Hrettah!” Wilek said, wondering what the princess was doing out alone at this hour. She reached them, and Wilek grabbed hold of her shoulder, noticing she was holding a bronze canister in her arms. “What are you doing?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” she whispered.

“Well, go back to bed and try,” he commanded. “Where is your shield?”

She merely shook her head and sprinted away, her bare feet slapping the wood floor of the corridor.

“What is she up to?” His mother’s concerns about the attacks on women and girls came to mind. He would have to speak with Rosârah Valena in the morning. It was far too dangerous for Hrettah to be out at night alone. Wilek could not protect those who did not follow the rules.

“You have been convicted of wrongdoing and sentenced to die,” Father Burl Mathal said. “Tonight you atone for yourself and all Armania.”

This line usually belonged to the king, but halfway through the ceremony he’d had a spell and forgotten what to say. His aides had taken him back to his chamber, and the Rôb priest went on alone.

Without a tongue the convict merely rasped. He had killed a man in a knife fight and had taken on substantial wounds of his own, including the loss of his tongue. Master Uhley said he wouldn’t last more than a day or two, which was why Wilek had chosen him.

Mathal looked up to the recently remodeled Thalassa pole. It had once held a bronze of Barthos’s likeness at the top, but Father had ordered it changed for tonight.

“Here is our exchange, goddess!” Mathal said. “Here is our substitute. Here is our atonement. This man goes to death so that we might earn your favor and proceed to peace and long life.” The priest nodded to the guards, who tipped up the plank until the convict slid off and over the side.

The man’s tongueless scream sounded like a raven’s caw. A splash followed.

A gasp turned Wilek’s head. A young woman ducked behind the mizzenmast. Miss Amala Allard, if Wilek wasn’t mistaken.

For sand’s sake! Were all the young ladies exploring this evening? “Did you see her, Kal?” Wilek whispered, though he knew the answer already from the grim expression on his shield’s face.

Kal grunted. “I will see that Miss Amala makes it safely back to her cabin where she belongs and that she knows how inappropriate it is for a young lady to be out alone at night.”

Wilek nodded, and Kal slipped away to deal with his youngest ward.

Wilek had once thought Miss Mielle a handful, but Miss Amala had turned out to be twice as bold with no common sense whatsoever. He did not envy Kal’s responsibility in raising the girls.

With Kal off scolding his ward, Harton escorted Wilek to his chambers. As per routine, Harton entered first to clear the room, then Wilek followed.

Before Harton could step out, a guard knocked and pushed open the door. “Forgive the interruption, Your Highness. You are needed in Rosârah Valena’s chambers right away. Sârah Hrettah has been attacked.”

Hrettah! Wilek scurried from the room, knowing this had been his fault. When he’d found Hrettah wandering before the sacrifice, he should have sent Harton to escort her back to her cabin. Why had he been so careless with her safety? There was no way to keep security on board a ship so overcrowded. How many more would be attacked before they reached the island?

If they ever found the island.

Aldair Livina had assured them all that the place existed, but almost seven months before that, the king had demanded the former admiral’s early retirement for insanity in the wake of his wife’s affair and later death. On the word of Trevn and Duke Odarka that it had all been a mistake, Wilek had convinced the king to reinstate Livina as captain of the Seffynaw with the charge of leading the fleet to the island he had discovered.

But Wilek had been wrong about trusting Teaka and her shadir in regards to Janek’s parentage. What if he had been wrong to trust Captain Livina as well?

Wilek and Harton followed the guard down the lengthway. The ship surged beneath him and he steadied himself against the bulkheads just outside Rosârah Valena’s cabin. Once he regained his footing, he entered and found Princess Hrettah reclining on a longchair.

“Wil!” The princess jumped up and clutched him. “She took my face! She took it and put it on her own!”

“What happened?” Wilek asked the fourth queen. He could not fathom why anyone would dare attack one of the princesses.

“A sailor found her bound and gagged, roaming the foredeck,” Rosârah Valena said. “She cannot recall what happened except that she saw a woman’s face change into hers.”

“She took my face, Wil, and walked away looking like me.”

Wilek’s stomach churned. Charlon on the Seffynaw? The mantic woman had impersonated Lebetta after she’d been killed. Could a mantic take the form of the living?

He glanced at Harton but couldn’t ask questions about mantics in front of an audience without giving away the secret of his backman’s mantic past. “Fetch me Teaka,” Wilek told a guard, who raced out the door to obey. Wilek settled onto the longchair. “Hrettah, sit with me.”

She did so instantly, her wide brown eyes staring helplessly up into his.

“What did this woman look like?” he asked.

“She was no taller than me. She had lighter brown skin and gray eyes. Her hair was short, done up in side braids and knots. And she spoke in a foreign tongue.”

It sure sounded like Charlon. Wilek fought the shiver that stood his arm hair on end. He would not let anyone see his fear, especially not Hrettah.

“Did she say anything to you? Do anything?” he asked.

“She cut off some of my hair. I tried to scream, but my voice wouldn’t work.”

A mantic for certain, but why take Hrettah’s likeness? He suddenly thought of seeing Hrettah earlier, when they’d gone up for the sacrifice. “Hrettah, did you see me tonight? In the crossway just before the stairs to the stern deck?”

Her frown answered his question before her words. “Did I see you where?”

“My daughter knows better than to go traipsing about the ship alone, Your Highness,” Rosârah Valena said.

“I’m sure she does.” Wilek hugged the girl to his side and stroked her hair. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you?”

“Wilek.” She leveled a glance at him. “I am not a child.”

“Will you be all right?”

“If you will catch that woman.”

“I promise to do so.”

The door opened. The guard he had sent for Teaka had returned without her. Kal was with him, though.

“Well?” Wilek asked.

“A, uh, private word, Your Highness?” the guard said.

“Very well.” Wilek followed the guard into the corridor, Kal and Harton with him.

“The old woman is dead,” the guard said when the door was closed. “Found her lying in her bed. Looks to have died from old age, yet her cabin has been ransacked.”

Wilek heaved a sigh. Randmuir Khal of the Omatta’s mother, dead? The man had never liked that Wilek had persuaded her to act as his advisor. Now he would be furious.

“There’s more, Your Highness,” Kal said, nudging the guard.

“The first mate and ship’s boy both saw Sârah Hrettah enter the old woman’s cabin just after dark,” the man said.

“Ah.” Charlon had killed Teaka. It made perfect sense. Teaka had betrayed Charlon by breaking the compulsion over Wilek and helping him escape the Magonians. If Charlon was on board, she must have decided to enact revenge.

Wilek shuddered. “Charlon of Magonia is on board the Seffynaw.”