Wilek

It was early summer, and Wilek had finally found time to visit New Sarikar. He sat at the table in his guest chamber, head in his hands as he voiced with Trevn. His brother had found Grayson, son of Jhorn, and they were beginning to fashion plans to help the Armanians and Sarikarians escape from the giants. Giants that Rogedoth had somehow brought under his thumb.

“I still don’t understand how Fonu Edekk ended up with Randmuir,” Wilek said.

“Grayson doesn’t know,” Trevn said, “but I think Fonu must have swum to the Malbraid after jumping overboard and escaping arrest during the rebellion on our ship.”

“It seems like the only way.”

“Regardless, Fonu has put Rand under a compulsion and ordered him to find Grayson. Do you think Rogedoth knows that Grayson is his grandson?”

“I suspect he does now. Is the boy upset that Jhorn wishes to tell him about his parentage himself?”

“He’s curious, but it takes a lot to upset Grayson. He’s quite upbeat. Like me.”

A knock on the door startled Wilek. He glanced up and saw Dendrick enter.

“Focus on getting yourself and your men to safety, brother,” Wilek said. “Princess Saria as well. Then do what you can to protect Grayson. I want you both back here as soon as possible.”

“And Mielle too.”

“Yes, Mielle too.” Wilek severed the connection, exhausted by the mounting frustrations. “What is it?” he asked Dendrick.

“At Lady Amala’s recommendation, Sârah Hrettah voiced a message of concern to the Duke of Tal on behalf of his sister, Lady Zeroah,” Dendrick said.

Wilek smirked. “Are you certain you got that message correct, Dendrick?” he asked.

“Quite, Your Highness. Young Rystan repeated it twice. He too is concerned for his sister.”

“Rayim saw Zeroah only yesterday. He believes this illness is related to the pregnancy, and my mother and her midwives agree.” He said a quick prayer for his wife, knowing it must be difficult to carry a child and be so very ill. “Please tell Rystan to fear not and to pass on the message to Lady Amala that her concern for my bride’s welfare is appreciated.”

“I will do so,” Dendrick said.

Not ten minutes later Dendrick returned. “Your Highness, King Loran and his staff await you in the throne room.”

“Excellent.” It was time to make plans to deal with their common enemy before it was too late.

Wilek followed his onesent out the door, where Novan, Rystan, and two other guards were waiting to accompany him. The Sarikarian castle was quite ornate. The four-level keep comprised the kitchens, cellars, storerooms, and granaries—empty thus far—on the ground floor; the great hall and privy chambers on the second floor; royal apartments on the third level; and small chambers for staff and servants on the fourth.

The skill of King Loran’s carpenters never ceased to impress. Yet Loran had always intended that this should be a temporary structure until he could find stone, since wood rotted and could easily be destroyed by fire. Wilek couldn’t imagine tearing down something so fine.

The room was full and awaiting Wilek, as Dendrick had said. A table had been brought into the throne room and set lengthwise from where King Loran sat his throne. His brother Rosbert sat on his right, then Rosbert’s son, Kanzer. Across from them sat Prince Thorvald. Also present were several lords, a half dozen white-robed prophets, and three priests dressed in blue.

Blue didn’t seem the right color for Sarikar. Armanite priests wore brown. Perhaps Loran was making some changes of his own.

Everyone stood to greet Wilek, who took his place at the foot of the table. The room felt strange, cold and heavy, like the walls might fall in at any moment. Wilek brushed aside the strange observation.

“Thank you, King Loran, for welcoming me to New Sarikar,” Wilek said.

“It was the least I could do,” Loran said. “Knowing that your brother will rescue Saria from those giants . . . It is an answer to all our prayers.”

“All credit goes to Grayson, son of Jhorn,” Wilek said. “He is the true hero.”

“Then he shall be knightened for his service to House Pitney,” Loran said.

“I imagine that will please him and his father,” Wilek said. “I must congratulate you on this magnificent structure. It is glorious.”

King Loran nodded his thanks. “My carpenters are unsurpassed in skill. Do call upon them whenever you have need.”

“Thank you,” Wilek said. “I will waste no more of your time. I have come here for one purpose. Will you go to war with me against your uncle?”

“We will join any war that comes,” Loran said, “yet I am uncertain it’s wise to strike first.”

“We must,” Wilek said. “If we wait, he will continue to pick us off until we are small enough to defeat with magic. Already I fear we have waited too long.”

“Sarikar can stand against his magic,” Loran said.

“How? Have you mantics of your own?”

“Of course not,” Loran said. “But do not take my word alone.” He gestured to the men seated on Wilek’s end of the table. “Here you see my prophets. What say you, men? Shall we go to war against Prince Mergest the betrayer, or shall we wait for him to attack us?”

“Wait,” said one.

“If you attack now, he will certainly destroy you before winter comes again.”

“Bide your time and be victorious.”

“The gods will give it into your hands if you are patient.”

At the word gods, Wilek grew curious. “Do you no longer have a prophet of Arman here of whom we can inquire?”

“There is one,” King Loran said. “Wolbair, brother of Queen Daria, my mother. But he is arrogant and completely biased. His advice to my father always made the nobles rise up in protest.”

“I would like to hear his opinion,” Wilek said.

King Loran said nothing for a long moment before motioning to his onesent. “Bring Wolbair here at once.”

The men at the table began to grumble, and Wilek felt dismayed that this once pious nation had drifted away from Arman’s teachings just as he had begun to embrace them.

“Which gods have told you to wait?” he asked the prophets.

“With Emperor Ulrik, your nephew, on the throne of Rurekau, surely Rurek god of war is on your side,” said the priest on Wilek’s left. “A cunning warrior knows when to wait.”

“Zitheos as well,” said another. “With the horns of Zitheos you will gore any Barthians who come to your door until all are destroyed. Defending from a fortress is safer than being vulnerable on the battlefield.”

“Athos gives Justness to his adherents,” said a third. “King Loran has been loyal, and Athos will repay that loyalty with safety.”

The prophets were still touting their false gods when Loran’s onesent returned with an old man. He was short, slight, had black skin and golden eyes. His hair and beard were long and white, and he wore a plain brown robe.

“Wolbair,” King Loran said. “My prophets all agree that we should not attack my uncle at this time. Let your word match theirs and speak favorably about this action.”

Wolbair looked around the table from face to face. He paused at Loran, then spoke, “Is there no god in New Sarikar that you would consult with the gods of Rôb? When did you forsake the One God?” His piercing eyes shifted to focus on Wilek. “King of Armania, do not let these prophets deceive you. Inaction will not deliver you from your enemies. Do not let them persuade you to trust in their false gods. Act now and Arman will deliver you.”

“Do not listen to Wolbair,” Loran said. “Has Arman ever delivered us from the hand of our enemy? Never. Not when our enemy was Prince Mergest, not when he was your Pontiff Rogedoth, and not when he is now King Barthel. Arman has done our nation no favors. We would be wise to make offerings to more than one deity.”

This coming from King Loran stunned Wilek. King Jorger had always been extremely pious in his beliefs, but Wilek had spent little time talking faith with Loran. He hadn’t realized the man’s beliefs were so far from his father’s.

“What say you, prophet?” Wilek asked Wolbair.

“Since I do not commune with the black spirits of Gâzar, I can tell you only what the God says,” came Wolbair’s answer. “I saw New Sarikar scattered on the plains like sheep without a shepherd. Arman said, ‘These people have no master. I will put deceiving spirits in the mouths of their prophets and decree for them disaster since they have turned away from me.’”

“You dare curse us?” King Loran said, his expression fierce. “Guards! Take Wolbair back to his chambers.”

Two guards rushed forward and seized the old prophet. As they dragged him out the doorway, he yelled, “If you remain safe by hiding in your fortress, Arman has not spoken through me!”

Loran sighed. “I apologize, King Wilek. His intolerance is very off-putting.”

The entire exchange had left Wilek in shock. “You believe him wrong?”

“He speaks nonsense,” Loran said. “I ask, ‘Should we remain here?’ I expect a simple yes or no. Not to be berated as if he is an angry woman seeking to wound with words.”

“Was not he the prophet who bid you sail northwest when we crossed the Northsea?” Wilek asked.

“He was one of many, yes. All agreed on that matter.”

“Did all worship Arman then?” Wilek asked.

“We all worship Arman now, King Wilek,” Loran said. “I am surprised that you would think otherwise.”

Wilek did not know what to think. It seemed to him that something had changed in Sarikar. Had Rogedoth somehow affected them? Wilek longed to remain on good terms with King Loran, but he could not take so lightly the scene he had witnessed here today.

Sarikar had turned their backs on Arman. Wilek would return home to Armanguard and inquire of Miss Onika. She would know what to do.

On Wilek’s journey home, he sat in his carriage, speaking with Hinckdan Faluk.

“Rogedoth plans to attack Sarikar with his army of native slavs.”

“When?” Wilek asked.

“‘On his command’ is all he will ever say, but as it will take five or six days to reach New Sarikar, I can give plenty of warning. His army consists of mostly archers—and not very good ones. I, as their marshal, should know. Still, you might focus on making armor and shields. Bows are inadequate to pierce such defenses at any significant range, and keep in mind, Rogedoth’s slavs have no armor at all, so your archers should be able to take them out easily.”

“That is helpful, Hinckdan. I shall let Captain Veralla know at once. Do keep me informed should you learn anything—”

Zeroah’s voice burst into his mind with force. “Wilek? The baby is coming. It is early, the midwife says. I am frightened.”

“Hinckdan, I will speak with you later. Good midday.” Wilek closed off the connection and grabbed the wrist of Dendrick, who was sitting beside him on the bench.

“Is something wrong, Your Highness?” Dendrick asked.

“Zeroah’s labor has begun. Ask the driver to hurry.”

“If you like, Your Highness, but rest assured that she does not need your assistance. Women have been having babies for centuries without the aid of men.”

“I would like to be there just the same.”

Dendrick gave the word, and the carriage surged ahead. Wilek kept his mind connected to Zeroah’s, which increasingly began to terrify him. For the first few hours she was able to talk clearly about where she was and what she was doing. The midwives had joined her in her bedchamber along with her honor maidens and several noblewomen who would act as witnesses to the child’s validity. Zeroah reported much chatter from the women about names for boys and girls and stories of each other’s childbearing ordeals.

Wilek tried desperately to look through Zeroah’s eyes the way Trevn had learned to do, but he found no success. Nor could he feel her pain or sense her emotions—more abilities Trevn had discovered. His brother had more time to waste practicing, while Wilek had been running the kingdom. Still, his failure shamed him.

Zeroah grew more agitated as the pain quickened. Wilek understood why midwives insisted men keep away. Had he been there, he would want to help, but there would be nothing he could do.

The labor escalated quickly, and each time the pain struck, Zeroah screamed. Wilek recalled how she always prayed for him when trouble came, and so he prayed. It was all he could think to do as she fought to bring their child into the world.

In the middle of his prayer, his wife went completely quiet.

“Zeroah?” he asked. “Are you well?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “It is over. They say it’s a boy. Our Chadek is here.”

“A boy!” Wilek whooped, nudging Dendrick beside him. On the opposite bench Novan and Rystan both offered congratulations.

“How does he look, my dear?” Wilek asked. “Describe our son to me.”

“I have not seen him yet,” Zeroah said. “The midwives are bundling him.”

“You are a father,” Novan said, grinning.

“You will be a fine one,” Dendrick said.

“Oh! Wilek, he is ill. Our baby is not well, they say.”

Zeroah’s words nearly stopped his heart.

Wilek shushed the men in the carriage. “Ill? How?” He strained to hear her answer, but she was no longer speaking to him.

“What is wrong?” Zeroah yelled. “Tell me at once. I demand to see my baby.”

“Zeroah?” Wilek asked.

“Do not say such things. My only comfort is to hold my son.”

Wilek reached for his mother instead. “What is happening, Mother? Tell me at once.”

“I don’t know, Wilek. The midwife says he is small. He is struggling to breathe.”

A chill clapped onto Wilek and would not leave.

“Wilek?” Zeroah again. “Your mother says he is very small.”

“My dear, tell me everything.”

But there was nothing more to tell. Zeroah’s demands for more information went unanswered by the midwives. The physician came and declared the same. He was small. Likely came too early. Time would tell.

Finally Wilek’s mother gave Zeroah the boy to hold, and Wilek heard his wife weep.

“Is it so bad?” he asked.

“I have never seen a baby so new. He looks beautiful to me.”

“We will pray for Arman to strengthen him.”

“I am afraid.”

“‘He will cover you with his feathers, armored and protected in the shelter of his wings,’” Wilek said. “‘He is your hiding place. In his arms he protects you from the attacks of the enemy.’”

Zeroah broke down, so Wilek repeated her favorite verses again and again until she said, “I love you, Wilek. When will you be home?”

“Tomorrow at dawn. We will ride through the night.”

The next morning Wilek sat on the edge of Zeroah’s bed, looking down on his son as he cradled him in one arm. Chadek had a flat little nose, thick black hair, and Zeroah’s golden eyes, which were watery as if the babe was on the verge of tears. Zeroah’s eyes were watery too, though when a tear seeped out it was thick, more like custard than water. Each gentle, wheezing breath from the babe took effort. Wilek reached for his son’s mind but heard no thoughts. How foolish. What could he possibly hear? He did sense an overwhelming weariness, but that might be coming from him or Zeroah. None of them had been sleeping well.

Wilek thought of his older brother and their father. Rosâr Echad had sacrificed Chadek I to Barthos—to a cheyvah beast. It had always haunted Wilek, but as he held Chadek II in his arms, he was ever so much more shocked at the depravity of such a choice. How could any man have his own son killed?

A great terror welled up in Wilek’s chest. What if his son someday felt the same way toward Wilek as he had felt toward his father? Wilek had despised nearly everything about the man. The mere idea of little Chadek hating him seemed to suffocate him, and tears welled in his eyes.

No. Wilek was not his father.

Rosâr Echad had always prioritized his own pleasures and vices. Nothing had ever mattered but that which he had deemed important. Wilek sought peace and to help the people in his realm thrive. And he had been trying to bring his people to worship Arman alone, but now that Sarikar seemed to be straying away from the monotheism King Jorger had worked so hard to maintain, Wilek felt alone in his endeavors.

Sarikar was becoming what Armania had once been.

In his weariness Wilek longed for a friend who understood his frustration. Using his voicing magic, he reached out to Kal.

“Your Highness,” Kal said. “I have been hoping you would check in with me.” And he went on to tell Wilek much about what had been happening in the realm now called Magos.

Wilek listened, shocked by Kal’s report. Charlon had killed a shadir to become Chieftess, and Shanek was already nearing the throes of adolescence. Such news only strengthened Wilek’s resolve to deal with Rogedoth before Charlon unleashed her plans for Shanek.

“Will the boy cause trouble?” Wilek asked.

“He certainly could,” Kal said. “He is eager to please Charlon and myself. When he discovers we are divided, I don’t know what he’ll do. Though I’ve known him only a short time, he sees me as a father. I am . . . uncertain I could take his life.”

Wilek studied Chadek’s peaceful face. “I would not ask that of you unless there was no other choice.”

Kal talked until he had said all he must, and only then did Wilek share his own news of the meeting in Sarikar, Zeroah and Chadek’s ill health, and their son’s small size.

Kal listened well before answering. “Something seems amiss. Could someone have poisoned the queen?”

The question startled Wilek. “I think not,” he said. “Zeroah has been sickly since we reached land. In fact, she has always been somewhat frail, but surely I would have seen the effects of poison.”

“There are many poisons,” Kal said. “Some are slow-acting and difficult to detect. Find an expert to look into the matter. Increase security and make sure that no one has a chance to tamper with your food. Perhaps even appoint a taster.”

Wilek had no argument, so overwhelmed was he at the mere thought that someone might have purposely harmed Zeroah and their child. “You are wise, Kal,” he said finally. “I will do as you suggest.”

Wilek felt better after talking with his friend and promised to voice him more often for updates. Wilek set Chadek in the cradle, then went to his office. He paced about, eager to investigate Kal’s hunch. He would have Dendrick speak to the kitchen staff immediately about security, have Rayim find an authority on poisons, and then he would summon Miss Onika and tell her all that had happened in New Sarikar and Magonia—now Magos.

His enemies were working hard against him, and Wilek would not remain idle. He must do whatever possible to protect his family and his realm.