Wilek

For three days the storm raged. The ship rocked from one steep angle to another, shuddering continually under the onslaught and shaking the contents of Wilek’s office like dice in a cup.

Everyone stayed in their cabins, out of the way. Wilek could accomplish little. His mind was weary from the endless preoccupation of a hundred worries. Before the storm he had sent his father to the Kaloday, and he wondered how King Loran’s ship fared. He thought of Trevn and his shattered hand. More died each day from the fever. And while the rain had blessedly replenished their drinking water, food was so low that if the fish didn’t start biting again soon, Wilek would have to have another horse killed.

Then there were the rebels in the hold and the missing evenroot. Who had Hara given the root to? Or had there never been any evenroot to worry about in the first place? Wilek wanted to end the conspiracies once and for all, but he could not hold trials when more than half his council refused to leave their beds.

At least the storm should keep the pirates from taking more ships.

On the morning of the fourth day, the darkness retreated and overcast skies thinned to allow the glow of daylight. The sight eased some of the tension from Wilek’s shoulders, yet he kept up his guard until the sun shone brighter and the clouds parted to show a blue sky beyond.

Captain Bussie reported minimal damage to the ship. As to the state of the passengers, Rayim had encountered lots of seasickness, several dozen minor injuries, one dead from a fall down the stairs, and a total of thirty-one lost to the fever. But it was Admiral Livina’s words that made Wilek’s chest tighten.

“At least twenty ships missing, that we can see from the lookout.”

“What of the Kaloday?” Wilek asked of King Loran’s ship.

“The Kaloday is within my sights, Your Highness,” the admiral said.

Wilek breathed a sigh of relief that they had not lost his father, but he still struggled to keep his voice calm. “Did the missing ships go down?”

“Don’t know, Your Highness. Could be they were only blown off course. Or maybe it’s some of both. I’ve seen no sign of debris in the water thus far, but if they went down days ago, we likely left any wreckage behind.”

“Is there any way to know how many ships were lost and which ones?”

“Once the fleet takes formation again, if a ship is missing, word will come through the flags. But unless we find evidence in the water, there’s no way to know if a missing ship sank or was blown off course.”

“Thank you, Admiral. Bring me a list of the missing ships as soon as you know.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” The admiral departed.

“How many people on twenty ships, Dendrick?” Wilek asked.

“Depends on the type of ship, Your Highness,” Dendrick said. “Likely anywhere from one hundred to seven hundred people per ship.”

Wilek did the math in his head but didn’t want to say such numbers aloud. “Can we schedule a council meeting today?”

“We can try, Your Highness, but it might be best to have the shippings first.”

“Right.” Janek must be publicly mourned. Along with thirty-some others.

“There are only three death boats left,” Dendrick said. “Might some share?”

Wouldn’t Janek love that? The king would rage, were he here. But Wilek no longer saw any reason to fear tomorrow. With so much at stake, he could only live and rule one day—one moment—at a time. And this moment, he needed a break from disaster, if only for a short time. Zeroah had been asking to visit Inolah and her new baby. Wilek had put her off because of the storm, but he would do so no longer.

“A death boat is too small to share,” Wilek said, standing. They were just big enough to hold a full-grown man lying down. “Find another way to ship the commoners, but Janek must have his own death boat.” He headed toward the door. “Inform the council that we will meet this evening, during the dinner hour. If you need me, I’ll be with my wife.”

Wilek and Zeroah wound through the crossways and lengthways until they reached Inolah’s cabin.

The maid who answered the door yelped at the sight of them, curtsied, and ran back inside. A moment later she came back, curtsied again, and said, “My lady is not dressed, my sâr. She is not ready to receive visitors.”

Inolah’s voice carried over the woman’s panic. “My brother has seen me covered in mud, Biinah. I am in a much better state today. Vallah, greet your uncle and let him in. I do hope he brought his wife.”

Vallah came to the door and curtsied. “Good midday, uncle, aunt. Come to see the baby?”

“That we have, Vallah,” Wilek said. “Can you take us to her?”

The girl whisked them inside the tiny cabin to a framed bed, where Inolah was sitting up, blankets tucked around her. Wilek’s gaze locked on to the small bundle in her arms.

“Meet my daughter Tinyah, for though she did not feel tiny, you can see that she is.”

The small, dark face was squished like one of Mother’s dogs. Her eyes were open, alert, and looking around the room, fixed on nothing, despite the fact that Zeroah waved her finger before them.

“She is beautiful,” Zeroah said.

“Just like her sister.” Inolah smiled at Vallah. “I confess I am relieved she is female. Ulrik will not be so eager to make use of a girl.”

Pain flashed across Inolah’s face as she spoke of her son. Wilek wished he could fix all that was broken in her life. “Have you thought of marrying again?” he asked her.

Inolah stared at him silently.

“Of course I will provide for you. Do not doubt that,” Wilek said. “I only wondered if you might be happier . . .” He cursed himself for bringing it up.

“I am not a project to be fixed, like the Duke of Canden, Wil.” His sister lifted the baby to Zeroah, who took the girl into her arms with as much eagerness as if it had been her own.

“I should not have asked that,” he said.

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Inolah said. “Tell me you seized Oli’s bottles of evenroot juice, though. I am worried about him.”

Wilek grabbed his head. “I forgot!” With interviewing the traitors, then the storm . . . “Have you seen him?”

“Not since I went into labor at Hrettah’s ageday party. You must check on him, brother.”

“I will do so the moment we leave you.” Curse his overworked mind! How could he have forgotten so much evenroot juice? Was he a complete fool? He prayed that Oli had refrained from taking more and that no one else had discovered it.

They stayed only long enough for each to take a turn holding the newborn, then bade mother, sister, and infant farewell. Wilek didn’t mean to hurry his wife back through the corridors to their cabin, but concern for Oli had very much distracted him. He thought of nothing but Oli until Zeroah took hold of his hand and squeezed.

“Did you like your niece Tinyah, Wilek?”

He smiled upon her. “Very much.”

“I am glad, for I shall soon give you a babe of your own.”

Wilek blinked, wondering what she meant. Was this a promise for the future? Or was she trying to tell him something? “Are you with child, lady?”

A shy smile. A nod.

Wilek whooped, grabbed his wife around the waist, and lifted her. A clunk brought forth a cry, and Zeroah clapped a hand to her head. “Oh! Forgive me, Zeroah.” Wilek set her down again. “I forget how low these deck heads are.”

But she was smiling wider than ever before. “I am not hurt.”

He hugged her close and kissed the top of her head. On a day filled with death, missing ships, and trials of treason, news of this one new life filled him with a fresh purpose to forge on.

“You are pleased, then?” Zeroah asked.

“My dear, your gift has scattered a hundred burdens from my mind. I am overjoyed!”

Zeroah beamed.

Janek’s shipping took place that midday on the stern deck. Only royals and selected nobles had been invited, but commoners crowded the stairs and a few had climbed into the rigging to watch the sâr’s last rites.

Two reamskiffs had been decorated for the commoner shipping earlier that day. With the benches removed, they had managed to fit sixteen bodies on each. Janek’s death boat had been decorated with drapes of white and blue linen, curled ribbon, and an Armanian flag mounted on a pole at the bow. Dozens of silk flowers in a variety of styles had been stitched in bunches on the linen drape and, to Wilek’s surprise, looked as nice as real ones. Janek had been dressed in his best, then wrapped in white linen and cloth of gold. His beloved sandvine had been tucked beside his body, along with a chest of gold coins, several sculptures of Janek’s five gods, goblets, and a myriad of jewels. These were his grave offerings so that he would not appear before Athos empty-handed.

It all seemed a waste to Wilek, who no longer believed the dead would find Athos waiting. Where did these death boats end up, anyway? On the bottom of the sea? Looted by pirates? Drifting forever? He couldn’t recall what the Book of Arman had to say on the subject. He would have to ask Miss Onika sometime.

Father Mathal conducted the ceremony, resplendent in white robes that reminded Wilek of Pontiff Rogedoth, the pretender.

“We gather here to pay tribute to the life of His Royal Highness, Janek-Sâr Hadar, the Second Arm, the Amiable. The death of a man is the order of things. It comes to all as surely as night follows day. Our ancient forefathers gave us life through the people tree, so we acknowledge the tree as a symbol. Each man sprouts as a bud, grows into a leaf that appears for a season, flourishes in the glory of summer, then dies with the coming of fall.

“For Sâr Janek, the journey on earth has ended and another begun, but for us, there is loss, sorrow, and pain. Iamos, deliver us from grief and despair. Give us the strength to accept what is past, peace to appreciate what is present, and good fortune as we look toward what is to come.”

Wilek studied the faces of those in attendance. None appeared to have good fortune by standards of the past. Today good fortune meant having one’s health, food, and water. What separated these men and women from the so-called commoners on the main deck? Birth? Blood? It seemed a fine line.

“Nivanreh, god of travel,” Father Mathal went on, “we stand at the doorway between earth and Shamayim and pray for Sâr Janek’s journey. Cethra, keep him safe as he sails. Be his eyes and protect him from any evil that comes his way. Mikreh, provide good fortune. Thalassa, give him calm waters. Iamos, heal his wounds. Avenis, restore his beauty. We ask all this for our sâr so that when he stands before Athos’s bench, he will be judged fairly.”

No mention of the evils Janek had done in his life. How would those be measured?

“Sâr Janek Hadar, the Second Arm, the Amiable, we thank the gods for your life, for being part of our lives, and we ask that they would bless your journey to Shamayim now that our time together has ended. May Yobatha grant you peace and joy in the hereafter. We will not forget you. Go well.”

Two King’s Guards worked the crank at the boat fall, and Wilek watched over the rail as his brother’s death boat lowered to the water. The sea was calm today, after causing so much trouble and perhaps taking several ships into her depths. Wilek wondered where Janek was. If he could see them now. If he had met Arman, and if so, been pardoned or chained in the Lowerworld.

Wilek had never been close to Janek, but watching his death boat drift away, one thing became very clear. Death came to all. It could not be escaped. Wilek had lived most of his life in fear of his father—of death. Yet he had faced Barthos and lived; he had survived the Five Woes and seventy-three days at sea since Bakurah Island. He would no longer be afraid. He would live each day fully so that when his turn came to be shipped away, he would have no regrets.

A cry from the rigging caught his attention. A sailor pointed into the distance, where something bobbed on the water. Wilek left his place at the rail, found Captain Bussie, and urged him to investigate. A half hour later he stood again at the railing, looking down on the wreckage of an Armanian ship.

This day would not end. Wilek sat at his desk, eager for the first sleep bells to ring so he could visit Zeroah. He’d barely found a free moment, whether it was investigating the wreckage or presiding over a search of Oli Agoros’s cabin and watching the duke dump his evenroot contents into the sea.

Now Admiral Livina had come to deliver his account of the missing ships. There were twenty-two listed. Wilek sat at his desk, a square of parchment anchored on the wood before him. His eyes followed the strokes of the admiral’s slanting penmanship, dazed by how the simple shape of a letter could convey such meaning. Affrany, Colla, Dogstar, Eremon, Fairwing, Gallayah, Intrepid, Luvin, Nightflyer . . . He read the names slowly, letting it sink in, asking Arman to protect the souls on each vessel. Halfway down he realized that the admiral had alphabetized the list. Such efficiency in a tragic situation felt wrong somehow. He continued reading the ship names until one caught his breath.

“Rafayah,” Wilek said aloud.

Armania’s vice flagship. The ship that Miss Mielle, Trevn, Miss Shemme, and Kal had been on. The ship Miss Mielle had remained on to prepare Miss Shemme’s body for shipping.

Miss Mielle was lost.

How could this be? The Rafayah had sailed right behind the Seffynaw since the day they’d left Everton. How could it have gotten off course?

Arman, why?

Anger welled inside him. Anger at Arman. The Book of Arman said that He Who Made The World was good to those who followed him. “Well?” Wilek said aloud, then spouted off several verses Zeroah had encouraged him to commit to memory:

“Arman delivers his people through the power of his Hand.”

“Arman is faithful and will keep his people from evil.”

“A man who keeps Arman’s decrees shall live.”

“The beloved of Arman shall dwell in safety.”

“Arman will guard the lives of his faithful servants.”

He slapped the desktop, furious. Hadn’t he obeyed Arman’s prophetess and encouraged his people to flee their homeland, to leave everything behind and trust Arman to lead them to land? He recalled the words Miss Onika had prophesied to Kal.

“The remnant will set sail and begin anew. In northern lands they will give glory to Arman. In the lands beyond the sea they will praise his name.”

The remnant had sailed north. So where was the land? “What did I do wrong?” Wilek asked. “Why would you punish me?”

Arman’s ways are beyond understanding.

Zeroah’s favorite verse came softly. Wilek could not recall the reference, but he pondered the words for a very long time.

In the end the words did placate him some. He could not wallow in despair over the lost ships nor could he rail in anger. His father was bedridden aboard the Kaloday. Janek was dead. And Wilek would meet with the Wisean Council in a few hours to combat a potential mutiny. He must remain strong. What was left of the fleet looked to him. He must lead well, with confidence and strength.

He would have to tell Miss Amala and Zeroah.

Worse, he would have to tell Trevn. Poor Trevn, his hand maimed, lying in a drugged stupor in his cabin. Wilek wondered if, in his sleep, his brother had felt his soul-bound bride’s absence, and if he would wake, thinking it the worst of dreams, only to discover it to be all too real.