Inolah

As always, Empress Inolah of Rurekau found Master Jhorn on the Baretam’s foredeck. The legless man had fashioned a red cushion with straps that he slung over his back, except when he wanted to sit down. He was seated on the cushion now, looking out through the rail’s rungs at the surrounding ships of the fleet. His beard hid his mouth from view, but the expression of his eyes and the slant of his brows gave voice to the pain he would not speak of. She knew he missed his charges, Miss Onika and the boy Grayson.

“May I join you, Master Jhorn?” Inolah asked.

The man looked up in surprise. “Of course, Empress. You are very welcome, though the deck is wet here, so I do not recommend you stand too close to the rail.”

“I have brought a stool.” Inolah motioned to the guardsman behind her, who stepped forward and set the stool beside Jhorn and his cushion. Inolah settled down, instantly relieved to be off her feet. “I do not go anywhere these days without a place to sit.”

“I cannot blame you for that,” Jhorn said. “Will the child come soon?”

“Another two months or so, I suspect. Are you well, Master Jhorn? Do you need anything?”

“Only more patience, I’m afraid.”

“I am sorry Ulrik has not included you in his meetings.”

Master Jhorn waved his hand as if scaring off a fly. “I am no one to him. I am no one to anybody, which is how I like it. Onika and Grayson are safer that way. I only wish I were with them, but I must trust them to Arman now.”

Inolah liked this strange man. After having lived so long in a realm where men made themselves gods, to hear the God’s name spoken from the lips of any man . . . She felt peaceful in his presence, which was strange considering he had lost his legs by such violent means. But peace came from knowing Arman—such peace had helped her survive years of an abusive marriage and great loneliness.

“I fear I am losing my children,” Inolah said. “Ulrik has chosen advisors too like his father. And he keeps Ferro with him always, even when inappropriate for one so young.”

“You must give him space and time to make his own mistakes,” Jhorn said. “Only in hindsight will he see how true you have been.”

Perhaps. “Unless he remains blinded.”

“Trust him to Arman, lady. You taught him well.”

She wanted to trust Ulrik to Arman. She really did. “I fear he has turned his back on the God. His father taught him the opposite of all my training. It is no surprise that he is confused.”

“Confusion is a natural part of life,” Jhorn said. “Now that he is grown, you can teach more by your silent example than by use of your voice.”

Inolah sighed. “Stop telling him what to do? Is that what you mean?”

Jhorn winked. “Your words, lady, not mine.”

She supposed he was right. How hard, though, for a mother to stand by in silence and watch her son destroy himself and his nation.

Enough sorrow. She needed a change in topic. “How is Master Burk?” she asked, remembering how much Kal mistrusted the headstrong young man. “I hope he has stayed out of mischief.”

“Young Burk has shaved his head and joined the Igote.”

“Has he? I would think the obedience required of a military man would disagree with his pride.”

“As did I,” Jhorn said, “but it seems to be a fair price to pay for the power it gives him over everyone else. The Igote uniform demands respect, whether or not the man wearing it is worthy. Young Burk has found a way to have respect without having to earn it.”

Now that did sound like him. A Rurekan male, through and through.

A page approached and bowed deeply.

“What is it?” Inolah asked.

“Emperor Ulrik requests your presence at a council meeting in his private dining hall.”

“Now?” Council meetings were usually held in the mornings.

“Yes, lady. I am to bid you to come at once.”

Inolah nodded and turned back to face Jhorn. “I apologize that our visit was cut short today. I will think more about being a silent example.”

Jhorn pushed himself up onto his stumps and bowed. “I am honored, Empress.”

Inolah stifled a groan as she sat down to dinner in Ulrik’s private dining room. These days she felt hungry and full at all times, her ankles were as thick as her knees, and her back ached constantly. She had not been so uncomfortable this early in her previous pregnancies. The older she got, the harder childbearing became. Thankfully she would never be pregnant again.

From her place at the foot of the long, narrow table, she could see everyone well. Two musicians seated in the corner of the room played soft music on lyre and harp. How odd. At the head of the table, Inolah’s eldest son, Ulrik, the recently appointed Emperor of Rurekau, sat upon his throne. He had taken to dressing as his father had: no shirt, bare chest inked in henna tracings, tan trousers embroidered in gold thread, black boots, and a floor-length cape of gold velvet. As per Rurekan tradition, his head was shaved and the tracing that covered his scalp dripped down around both eyes like a mask of tattoos. Unlike his father, Ulrik never took off the heavy ceremonial crown—despite there being lighter ones for everyday use. He also wore a single gold chain around his neck as the symbol of his office.

She could not believe he was just shy of seventeen.

His little brother, Ferro, sat on his right. Recently turned nine years old, Ferro was a smaller mirror image of Ulrik, right down to the velvet cape, except he wore a gold circlet and a sleeveless white shirt. On Ferro’s right sat General Balat in his brown-and-gold Igote uniform, beside him Sheriff Kakeeo. Across from those two men, Ulrik’s High Shield, Sir Iamot, and Ulrik’s onesent, Taleeb, occupied the other side of the table. All of them, including Ferro, had shaved heads and henna tracings, but none so elaborate as Ulrik’s.

The only empty chair at the table was the one on Ulrik’s left, across from Ferro. This Ulrik had set aside for Priestess Jazlyn, High Queen of Tenma.

The priestess had been High Queen for as many days as Ulrik had been emperor, and the woman had taken to her new authority with as much—or more—vigor as Ulrik had his. Inolah should have listened when Kal had warned her about Ulrik’s unhealthy interest in the priestess. With so many women to fawn over him, Inolah had been certain he would forget the Great Lady once he was crowned. But he had not. Quite the opposite, in fact. During the many weeks they had traveled aboard the ship from Jeruka to Everton, her son had become completely obsessed with the Tennish queen. She, of course, had spurned all his advances, whether he invited her to dine, dance, or simply walk the ship in his company. Her answer had always been no.

Tennish women didn’t marry and viewed romance as a weakness. Men were slaves in Tenma, so it was no surprise that the woman had no interest in Ulrik. But the young emperor thought so highly of himself that Tennish customs were no barrier to his desires. He pursued the priestess as relentlessly as she denied him. Inolah worried that when his patience finally wore thin, he would respond in anger and the mantic woman would destroy him with her magic as she had his father.

The musicians ended one song and began another—a slow love song, Inolah realized in a sudden rush. While the High Queen wanted nothing to do with Ulrik romantically, she insisted upon attending his council meetings and having her say where her people were concerned—no matter that they were no more than twenty of the five hundred sixty-three souls on board the Baretam. Apparently this dinner “meeting” was yet another step in Ulrik’s continuing plan to woo the woman. Inolah had to admit her son was persistent.

The door opened, and Qoatch, Jazlyn’s handsome eunuch, held it open as his Great Lady entered the room. The High Queen was dressed as always in an elaborate white gown and pearl-studded gold diadem. She looked no more than twenty, had a perfect figure, flawless dark brown skin, wide gray eyes, full lips, and coils of jet-black hair that fell past her waist. Inolah felt herself dim in comparison and glanced at her own thick wrists, bulging stomach, fat arms . . . Stop it, Nolah, she chastised herself. Mantics could look however they liked, and Inolah had no doubt that magic had enhanced a face and body that perfect.

The High Queen stopped just behind Ulrik and her shrewd gray eyes took in the arrangements. “What’s this?” she asked.

Ulrik pushed back his chair and stood, bowed deeply to her. “High Queen, welcome. I have been so busy of late that I must combine business with dinner. I do apologize if this inconveniences you. If you have not yet eaten, you are most welcome to partake of our meal.”

“I am not hungry.”

Disappointment that only a mother could see flashed in his eyes, yet he masked it well as he sat down and drank from his goblet. “Do sit, Great Lady. We were just about to begin.”

Jazlyn eyed him warily, then jerked her chin at the eunuch, who jumped to pull out her chair. Servants entered, carrying covered trays and pitchers. The aroma made Inolah’s stomach growl, yet she did not think she could eat one bite.

Once everything had been laid out on the table and all the wine poured, Ulrik began the meeting. “Lead us in our discussion, General Balat,” he said, picking up a wedge of melon that was long past ripe. “What grievous problems faced us this day?”

“I’m afraid there are pirates among the fleet, Your Eminence,” Balat said.

“Pirates!” Ulrik seemed offended by the very idea. “What makes you say such a thing?”

“A ship was taken,” Balat said. “The Noohrez. It was a midsize fishing vessel carrying one hundred thirteen souls. The pirates came at dusk, just after the crew had pulled in the nets, catching them off guard.”

“Did they kill the crew?” the shield, Iamot, asked.

“Seven fighting men were killed,” Balat said. “Another twenty-one were thrown overboard and are suspected to have drowned. The pirates made the men choose whether to sail as crew or work as fishermen. Any able-bodied man who refused was put overboard. The Noohrez’s own crew sailed her away, directed by a few dozen pirates left behind to oversee things. A few hours later the pirates lowered a dinghy with a handful of women and children.”

“Why?” Ulrik asked. “Were they causing trouble?”

“They say not. There were other women and children left aboard, and I’ve spoken to each of the survivors. The women weren’t ugly or diseased, so I cannot discern why they were put out of the ship.”

“The pirates want us to know they are here,” Inolah said.

Ulrik scoffed at this. “Why would a pirate want that? They pride themselves on being stealthy.”

“Which they were, I gather, if no other ship witnessed this crime,” Inolah said. “General Balat, did the survivors see the name of the pirate ship or know what type of vessel it was and if it was part of our fleet or someone else’s?”

“The Taradok, Empress. She was a two-masted, lateen-rigged cog. Relatively small, but highly maneuverable. I do not know where she came from.”

“I see no reason why they would give themselves away on purpose,” Ulrik said. “It’s ludicrous.”

“Not really,” Jazlyn said. “How much more terrifying is a story of invisible pirates moving through the fleet? I agree with the empress. The pirates let these women and children go free so that they could tell the story to the rest of us. Now that we know there are pirates out there, willing to steal ships and kill, fear will spread among an already vulnerable population.”

Ulrik took a long drink—a trick he learned from his father that meant he was giving himself time to think. He set down his goblet and leaned back in his chair. “A fair point, Great Lady,” he said. “We must be on the lookout for these pirates—beat them at their game. Sheriff, the task goes to you.”

“How will I hunt down a ship that small?” Kakeeo asked.

“Figure it out,” Ulrik said. “What else is there, General?”

“Our supplies are running low,” Balat said. “We were unable to restock our stores in Everton or Odarka since the Woes kept us from docking or even sending dinghies to shore. We last replenished in Highcliff, over two weeks ago.”

“The new Armanian island is close, is it not?” Ulrik asked.

“Yes, Your Eminence,” Balat said, “or so they claim. I would like to put together a landing party to be ready to go ashore immediately when we arrive.”

“I will be part of that,” Jazlyn said.

“No,” Ulrik said. “No landing party. Not until we know what we’re dealing with. It could be this island suffered the Woes as well. We would be wise to go slowly.”

“I ask only to prepare a landing party, Your Eminence,” Balat said. “It would not set out until you gave word to do so.”

“Very well, General,” Ulrik said. “Choose your party, but I will approve every member.”

“It is right that you should do so, Emperor Ulrik,” Jazlyn said slowly. “But do not forget that I am not yours to command, nor are my people. It is my wish to explore this new island and determine whether or not it is right for Tenma. Do not stand in my way.”

Silence passed as everyone awaited Ulrik’s reply.

Concern etched his face. “I would never, Great Lady. I only fear for your safety.”

Priestess Jazlyn inclined her head, which was the closest she ever came to bowing to Ulrik. She stood then and smoothed out the creases in her white gown. “If there is nothing else, Emperor, my people await my return.”

Ulrik stood, and everyone else at the table mirrored him. “Good evening, Great Lady.”

She left without a farewell, Qoatch trailing behind.

The moment the door closed, Ulrik fell into his chair, slouching low like a lazy boy. “She will never respect me. She hates me!”

“The priestess takes offense at all of us,” General Balat said. “She does not wish to be aboard the Baretam. She and her people talk of leaving the first chance they get.”

Ulrik leaned forward and banged his fist on the table. “That is exactly my concern! If I give the priestess a chance to leave this ship, she will never return. So I will not permit her to leave.”

Silence fell over the table. Inolah could resist no longer. “You seek her respect, yet you would keep her prisoner? To what end?”

He lifted his goblet, noticed it was empty, and set it back down, frowning. “I seek to make her my bride, Mother. I thought that was plain.”

Somehow the following silence seemed greater than the one before. Inolah looked around the table and saw that none of Ulrik’s craven advisors would look him in the eye and call him a fool. Again she must do the ugly work.

“You cannot force a woman to love you, Ulrik, and certainly not by keeping her prisoner.”

“Going to accuse me of being my father again, I suppose?” he asked.

“Quite the opposite. Your father would have had her arrested, maybe even whipped, for defying a direct order, but you respected her when you granted her wish to rule her own people. And she bowed her head in thanks. That is the type of behavior you should continue if you wish to win her heart.”

His dark eyes flashed. “Why do you always do that? Compare me to him? He is dead, and I don’t care to hear about what he would have done.”

“I only said that to praise how you—”

“I don’t want your praise!” Somehow Inolah had become the focus of Ulrik’s crushed pride. “You think me too young to be a competent ruler. You think me a fool where the High Queen is concerned. You think Sir Kalenek is smarter than me. You went behind my back and released the prophetess Onika on his order.” He gestured around the table. “I have plenty of wise men to advise me. I am no foolish lamb. I am a ram with horns of fire, and it is well past time you left the hard work of ruling Rurekau to the men. Good night, Mother. You may go.”

Tears choked her throat, flooded, and overflowed her eyes before she could try to fight them back. The pregnancy had long ago taken control of her emotions, but this time she could not blame them alone. She picked up her handkerchief from the table and dabbed her cheeks, stood, and walked down the length of the table toward the door.

“Come, Ferro,” she said to her youngest son. “I shall get you put to bed.”

“No,” Ulrik said. “I am his guardian now. Ferro is old enough to sit up with the men.”

Inolah swayed and had to grip the back of a chair to keep from stumbling.

General Balat jumped up and grabbed her arm. “Easy, Empress. Are you well?”

I am heartbroken. Ulrik, in all his overwhelming insecurities, had lashed out at her. She knew that Jazlyn’s continual rejection was toying with his self-worth. And his mother’s presence and contributions had emasculated him in a place where he sought to have ultimate wisdom. She did not wish to abandon him, but as Master Jhorn had suggested, perhaps that was exactly what she must do.

“Your wish, my son, is granted,” she said. “I bid you good night. And when we arrive at the new island, I will leave you and Ferro to your very wise council.” She swept from the room before allowing Ulrik a chance to reply, though Ferro’s cries of “Mama!” made it very hard to keep going.