Chapter
2
Aodren
MY ATTENTION CATCHES ON A FLASH OF colors as gold and blue Shaerdanian tunics enter the far end of the mud-streaked training yard. Not counting the half dozen guards standing at attention nearby, until now Leif and I have had the field alone to spar. The two newcomers must be the men who have been chosen to represent Shaerdan’s ruler, Chief Judge Auberdeen, in the upcoming Tournament of Champions at the All Kingdoms’ Summit.
When the tournament first began, each kingdom’s ruler and their second fought a mock battle to prove their strength and leadership mettle. Decades ago, after the Plovian king lost his life, the rulers decided participation was too dangerous, and tradition changed. Now the most skilled warriors in the land vie to fight in place of their leader.
Leif, the first of my chosen competitors, swings his practice sword through the air. I thrust upward to block. It’s too late. His waster slams my left arm. Bone-rattling pain lances from elbow to shoulder, and my weapon hits the ground.
Godstars! “Solid strike.” I suck a breath between my teeth to temper the pain.
“Are you whistling, sir?” Leif chuckles.
Glaring, I straighten my posture, regain some of the dignity he knocked away, and switch to breathing through my nose, despite the moisture that clings to my nostrils. Shaerdan’s humidity is also out to kill me today.
“I shouldn’t have landed that,” Leif says in a low voice. In my periphery, I notice one of the ever-present guards avert his gaze, and I wonder if he heard Leif’s comment. It’s too sympathetic for the captain of the royal guard—the elite force of the most skilled combatants in Malam. He needs to control that emotion if he and Baltroit, the other Malamian competitor, are to prove they’re the best fighters in the five kingdoms. Grit wins tournaments, not sympathy.
The last All Kingdoms’ Summit was five years ago, and I didn’t attend. It’s more important than ever that we have a good showing during the tournament. We must prove to the other leaders, my late father’s peers, and to Malamians that Malam is worthy of being here. That I am worthy of being here.
I roll out my bruised shoulder. “I shouldn’t have let you. On the battlefield, distraction means death.”
Leif watches the Shaerdanians through the slits in his helmet. “Lucky there’s no risk here.” He reaches for the fallen practice waster and swings it in an arc. “Not with this blunted sword.”
I move into position. “Enough talk.”
“Oh, you’re recovered? Ready to get beat?” Exhaustion helps Leif forget himself, a benefit of our sparring sessions. Too often, he lapses into the formality he feels the captain of the royal guard should maintain around the king. He forgets I am just a man and he is my closest, if not only, friend.
Chuckling, I switch grips to take the sword in my dominant right hand. “Captain and court jester, let’s see how you fare now.”
He snorts and swings his waster. I’ve spent the last six months training with Leif. I’ve studied his movement. He is quick, but I’m faster. I block his blade and push my weight into his. He stumbles. A vulnerable space opens between his elbow and ribs, and I strike. Leif grunts against the pain.
The rhythm of our clanks and curses echoes across the yard. This rigorous sparring session keeps Leif competition-ready for the Tournament of Champions. And it tempers the uneasiness that came on earlier today when my traveling retinue exited the forest and first beheld Shaerdan’s summer castle. The stone fortress is designated for all leaders and dignitaries during the summit and sits north of Celize like a solemn gray throne.
My absence from the last summit sparked rumors that spread like a scourge. King Aodren’s too young. Soon he’ll be just like his hateful father and the blood-spilling regent. Malam’s people are divided, and the kingdom is weak. Under King Aodren, only time remains until the kingdom falls.
Malam’s history has more shameful spots than the sky has stars.
My father was a prejudiced man, whose fear of Channelers spread to his advisers and led to the Purge—a kingdom-wide Channeler eradication spanning nearly two decades. The feverish hunt for magic users turned neighbor on neighbor. After my father died when I was a child, a regent ruled until I came of age. He closed the Malamian borders so no one could leave or enter Malam. Trade halted and our economy suffered. This dark time was further blackened when, a year ago, the regent didn’t want to relinquish power. He led a coup, killing hundreds of citizens and half of Malam’s nobility.
The rumors hold some truth—I am the youngest ruler at the summit, my people are divided between support and opposition for Channelers, and Malam has been weakened.
But I won’t be my father.
I won’t allow Malam to fall.
When Leif and I are both aching and bruised, we stop fighting. I lean on my sword, breath sawing through my lungs. Leif tugs off his helmet. He swipes sweat from his beard and shakes out his hair. The usual amber color is now a slick mud-brown. “I could sleep till the first night of the tournament.”
My thoughts as well. However, “It wouldn’t do well to miss dinner.”
Leif mutters an unenthused agreement.
Once our gear is stored in the yard house, two guards follow me and Leif off the field.
“See how in sync they are?” Leif glances at the Shaerdanians before they’re out of sight. “If Baltroit would practice here, we’d have a better chance of winning the cup.”
I scratch the day’s stubble on my jaw. The summit, the tournament, and the jubilee are key factors in turning Malam’s tide. We must do well in all three. When Lord Segrande insisted his son be chosen as the second competitor, I complied. Segrande was integral in the negotiations to reopen trade with Shaerdan, and going forward, his support is necessary to boost Malam’s economy. While Segrande and I form alliances and trade agreements during summit meetings, Baltroit and Leif will be fighting in the Tournament of Champions.
Thousands of Malamians have traveled to Shaerdan to attend the events. A tournament win will inspire pride. It’ll give Malamians a reason to rally together. A reason to set aside their differences. And hopefully, later, a reason to spread unity back in Malam.
Baltroit is a fierce fighter, but he’s arrogant and refuses to train with Leif. While I could order Baltroit to the practice yard, it may offend Segrande, who has spent as much time training his son as I have with Leif.
“He won’t let us down,” I say, determined. “The two of you will do well.”
Leif shoots me a look that argues otherwise.
The castle’s grand hall is a clamor of voices, thuds, and scrapes, all under the aroma of rosemary and bread. As we pass through, conversation dims and everyone in sight bows. Our boots clack loudly against the stone stairs leading to the third floor, where Malam’s private rooms are assigned. The two guards who followed us from the practice field take up posts at our closed corridor, while Leif enters my chambers.
He points to the stack of letters on the desk. “The courier delivered these to the castle. Also, the welcome meal will begin in two hours.”
Half of Malam’s fiefs have new leadership, and the repeal of the Purge Proclamation has made it possible for Channelers to return to Malam. A difficult transition, to say the least. To stay abreast of brewing tension, each lord reports on his fiefdom. Even during the summit.
“Inform Lord Segrande and tell him to come to my chambers at a quarter till.” I start toward the washroom.
Leif lingers. “Your Highness, one more thing.”
Your Highness. Few dare meet my eye, let alone speak to me directly. Some decorum is expected, but Leif’s slip back into formality is aggravating. And isolating. “I’m scarcely six months older than you, and not a quarter-hour ago, you were trying to hit me with a practice sword. Call me by my given name.”
“You’re the king.” He coughs into his fist.
“I’m aware. Trust me, rigid formality isn’t always requisite. Understood?”
“Aye.” His gaze shifts to the door. “At tonight’s dinner, though, it’ll be formal. Yes?”
“Yes. But you may talk with the other dignitaries.”
“I—I’m not sure I can.” A maroon tint stains his neck. He yanks his beard. It’s hard to reconcile the man before me with the bear from the practice field. “Thing is, talking is not my strength.”
Leif has notable battle experience, good rapport with the royal guard, and is unfailingly loyal, but he is also new to nobility. Too busy trying to bring Malam out of the darkness, I’ve overlooked his greenness.
“Talk about the tournament,” I suggest. “King Gorenza will no doubt have much to say, since his youngest son is competing.”
“Could work.” He focuses on the floor stones for a long minute. “I won’t be skilled like Captain Omar was with conversation. But I’ll try.”
I laugh, loud and irreverent. The long day is bringing out Leif’s wit and humor.
But he doesn’t join in, his mouth is pressed into a grim line.
Oh gods. Is he serious? My previous captain spoke in monosyllabic sentences.
“Leif.” I restrain my laughter. Composure has been drilled into me since birth. “Omar used to say it’s the message that matters. Remember that. Treat this dinner like those at Castle Neart.”
“I mostly talk to Britta at Castle Neart. She’s not here.”
The comment comes unexpectedly.
The words settle over me like a scratchy wool throw. Britta and her husband are on their wedding trip instead of attending the summit. It’s odd to consider her married, since I once hoped she would share my life. But . . . Britta is on my council. We will continue to work together. She will still be a friend.
“You’ll do fine,” I say, tone clipped.
Silence, and then, “Certainly, sir.” Leif bows and leaves my chambers.
So much for convincing him to use my name. I walk to the desk and study the letters, though it’s a fight to focus on any one of them. Perhaps Leif is right to remind me that friendships should be the furthest thing from my mind right now.
My focus must be Malam.
Correspondence to Aodren Lothar Cross, King of Malam:
March 25
To the King our Most Sovereign Lord,
By dictate of your wise council, I begin my monthly report of the affairs concerning my humble fiefdom. The abolishment of the Purge Proclamation has been posted in the markets and common areas, and all countrymen have received notice of the new law sealed by your great hand. May the news be received well. Or perhaps I should write, may the news be received better than it has been thus far. I’m certain those displeased with the return of Channelers will soon welcome the newcomers.
Last, Sir Chilton, who inherited the bordering fiefdom after Lord Chamberlain was killed in the tragic attack on the castle, has struggled to manage his lands. The poor lad. If he needs to be relieved of his land, I offer my guardianship.
Your servant,
Lord Wynne of Jonespur
April 19
To the King, Lord of Malam,
This past month, four Channeler families returned from Shaerdan to reclaim lost lands. Unfortunately, their return was met with opposition—one barn fire, three travel carts destroyed, and numerous fights in the market square. I wish I could report these numbers amounted to less than last month.
In addition, the ore mine can no longer keep men employed until trade demand increases. The line of needy outside the church has doubled. And yet traders continue to come from Shaerdan. Considering Malamians have no coin to buy Shaerdanian goods, the traders must be foolishly optimistic.
Regardless, I hope the bordering kingdoms will welcome our trade soon. They cannot turn us away forever.
Your loyal man,
Lord Xavier Variant
April 24
To King Aodren Lothar Cross of Malam,
Difficulties have arisen as returning Channelers have declared ownership and sought possession of land that has been in another’s hand for nearly two decades. Last week, a disagreement led to the destruction of two alfalfa fields, a Channeler booth in the marketplace, and a clergyman’s entire cart of bread for the needy. It’s impossible to say if these actions were meant to harm. I believe they were intended to scare.
Scribe for the Lord of Tahr,
Sir Ian Casper
May 5
To the King our Most Sovereign Lord,
Though your wise changes in the law dictated that the market be open to all, the appearance of Channelers has caused disturbances. Truly, I do all I can to keep peace. Channelers have been so bold as to ask friends and family to boycott the merchants that have refused business to persons of magic.
However, not all merchants have excluded Channelers. A new trader in the market square has been selling Channeler-made healing balms. A portion of townspeople have shown interest in his goods. One remedy gaining popularity is called Sanguine. It is a healing oil, and quite effective from what I’ve heard. Perhaps it could be a boon to our economy.
As always, I am humbly dedicated to overseeing my fief’s needs, just as I could be with any additional land you might wish to grant upon me.
Your servant,
Lord Wynne of Jonespur
May 22
To King Aodren,
Calvin Bariston of Fennit passed on from injuries sustained in a tavern fight. It’s uncertain who stabbed him, since he first stabbed two other men and one woman. Calvin was acting erratic, and was, we believe, possessed by a devil.
Rumors started that the cause was the Channelers. Those rumors were quickly proved unfounded.
Scribe for the Lord of Tahr,
Sir Ian Casper
June 1
To the King of Malam,
Rumors about the Channeler oil have spread after an occurrence last week. Onlookers reported that Mr. Erik Bayles met a passing trader in the market square to purchase Sanguine. For unknown reasons, Mr. Bayles became angry and struck the trader, who then hit back, punching Mr. Bayles once and killing him. The trader left town before he was questioned. I’ve sent men after him.
Without answers, many blame Channeler magic. Either Sanguine gave the trader unnatural strength, or it caused Mr. Bayles’s death. Those who knew Mr. Bayles best have insisted he was a hard man to kill. I did not inquire how many times they tried.
The dispute has divided the town. Some businesses have refused service to anyone associated with Channelers. While I could force businesses to open their doors to all, I fear it will not end the division.
I must know, is Sanguine truly harmful? Please advise on how to restore order to my fief.
Your loyal man,
Lord Xavier Variant
After I dress for dinner and Leif returns with Lord Segrande, I scan the letters I received over the last few months and compare them to the newest batch.
“Anything promising, Your Highness?” Segrande surveys the letters. His salt-and-sandy hair has taken a severe combing, unlike his untamed beard that twists and curls over the starched collar of his dinner coat. The mismatch suits Segrande, who is known for earning as many calluses as the people working the fields of his fief.
“More reports of division and opposition. Poverty in the ore fiefs. Destroyed property, disturbances in the market. More rumors that feed wariness of Channelers.” The chair scrapes the floor as I push back from the desk and pace away.
Our retinue spent two weeks traveling through Malam. Two weeks of passing through towns and farmlands and seeing firsthand the chasm between countrymen that should’ve been mended by the Purge’s abolishment.
Those two weeks confirmed that decrees don’t assuage distrust.
We are a gray, threadbare tapestry in desperate need of new threads to strengthen us. But my people have spent two decades fearing the very color we need now. Regardless of the abolished Purge, our factionalism leaves us weak.
Ignoring the powerlessness dragging through my veins, I stalk across the room, drop down on a bench, and fasten the buckles of my boots tighter.
I remind myself that this is why I’m here. The summit, the tournament, the jubilee—they will be the start of change for Malam.
“What of this one? Sir Casper mentioned Sanguine, the Channeler oil. That’s a pebble of good news.” Segrande leans over the desk. His dinner coat bulges around his buttons. “More people buying the oil means more people are trusting Channelers.”
“Look at Jonespur’s letter. Or Variant’s.” I stand and scrutinize my shirt for lint, finding none. “Two men have died, and rumors link them to Channelers and the oil. People believe the oil is dangerous.”
“Fools,” Leif grouses from where he sits on the hearth’s edge. “If they knew anything about Channelers, they’d know there’s no danger. They’re not going around killing anybody.”
Segrande abandons the desk to wait at the door. “Some ideas are hard to bury. Those people have feared Channelers all their lives. That rock won’t be turned over easily.”
It’s always rocks with Segrande. In this case, he’s greatly underestimated the size of the problem. The prejudices dividing Malam are mountains. I look out the window at the city of tents stretching across the land to the southeast where thousands of foreigners have come for the Tournament of Champions and the jubilee.
“Has the Archtraitor reported anything?” Segrande asks.
“Millner.” Leif mutters something more about unturned rocks.
“Slip of the tongue.” Segrande chuckles. “We’re the only three Malamians who refer to Millner by his given name. Most still consider him an enemy of Malam.”
Irritation hardens Leif’s face. I hadn’t realized he had an opinion about Millner. He said nothing weeks ago when I mentioned my choice to hire the man. But perhaps Leif’s insistence on respect is because he and Millner share a commonality. Millner was once captain of the royal guard. Years ago, he protested the Purge. Because he was nobility, his defiance was considered traitorous. Guards burned his home, killing his wife. In retaliation, Millner ended those men’s lives and became a fugitive in Shaerdan. Over the years, rumors have twisted the story, marking him as Malam’s enemy—the Archtraitor.
But I know better than to put much weight in rumors. I’ve always admired Millner for standing up for what was right.
“He’s sent no word yet,” I admit, albeit reluctantly. I hoped his information would shed light on Sanguine and give me something positive to report to the Channelers Guild. It would be remiss of me to put off informing them. I tug on my dinner coat and turn to Segrande. “Draft a letter to Seeva. Explain the situation.”
A cough sputters out of him. “The entire situation? The men who died? The rumors?”
I understand his apprehension. As a member of both the Channelers Guild and my advisory circle, Seeva Soliel won’t be pleased to hear the rumors. And even less pleased to discover I waited to tell her. The Guild was reluctant to pledge their support to Malam, and though Seeva serves me, her loyalties still lie with Channelers first.
“Tell her everything,” I command as we exit the chambers.
The guards escort us through the winding halls of the castle to the dining hall, where the other delegations are already seated around a mammoth oval table. The chief judge of Shaerdan, the queen of the Plovian Isles, the king of Kolontia, and their dignitaries sit on the far side, while I take a place beside Ku Toa of Akaria and her dignitaries, with Leif and Segrande at my right. Our guards remain in the room, their five different types of armor matching the flags hanging behind them. The mesh of kingdom colors serves as a reminder that not so long ago, Malam was headed to war with Shaerdan.
And now Shaerdan is the hosting kingdom and Chief Judge Auberdeen is the summit officiant. He makes formal introductions and then speaks about the upcoming summit meeting schedule, the Kingdoms’ Market, the jubilee, and the tournament.
When the latter is mentioned, Leif shifts forward, eager and ready. The motion doesn’t escape notice. King Gorenza scowls at my captain, likely because Leif will be competing against his son.
“All competitors fighting in your name must be declared at the March of Champions tomorrow.” Auberdeen sets down a leather tome, thick with a hundred years of rules.
A murmured agreement rolls through the room, and then the meal is served.
The other leaders launch into a conversation, showing their familiarity with one another. Auberdeen boasts about a new ship design that will make it possible to double the size of a trade shipment.
“A ship that large will give you freedom to introduce new imports,” says an Akarian dignitary.
“True.” Auberdeen nods to the Plovian queen. “Like silks from the isles.”
“How fortunate for Malam that we’ve reestablished trade with Shaerdan.” Segrande thumps the table, drawing light laughter. “In fact, we’re already seeing the benefits.” He turns to me.
“Yes.” I lower my fork and seize the transition to discuss Sanguine. “I’ve heard word of a new import in our markets.”
“You’ve snared our attention, Young King Aodren. Tell us more.”
Young king? King Gorenza’s booming delivery in a brisk Kolontian accent doesn’t lighten the dig at my age. He sits languidly on the other side of the table, a head shorter than me, shoulders twice my width, nose like a hawk’s. He has one arm draped on the chair’s back and the other resting on the table. A casual domination of space.
“What item of trade, specifically, are you talking about?” he asks.
“Channeler oil,” Leif answers.
“Oil for Channelers?” Auberdeen’s confusion is mirrored by others around the table. He takes spectacles from his pocket and holds them beneath his unkempt eyebrow hedges. “Is that the new import?”
“Yes. No . . . I mean, no.” Leif’s face is the same color as the beets on his plate.
“Captain O’Floinn is referring to Sanguine,” I explain. “It’s said to be a Channeler-made healing remedy. Have you any experience with the oil?”
“Sounds familiar,” murmurs a Plovian dignitary.
“The oil comes from Akaria, no?” King Gorenza focuses on the Ku, who is sitting to my left. “What do you know of it?’
Ku Toa is older than me by four or five decades, small in stature, and has a shorn head—as is the custom for the southern kingdoms’ leaders. I turn to her, curious about her answer. But her dignitary, Olema, answers. “We have an oil in our land called Sanguine.”
“Are they not the same, Fa Olema?” Gorenza props both arms on the table.
Olema is an ancient man, older than the Ku, with a face mapped in wrinkles. He exchanges a look with the Ku. “I cannot say.”
“It’s the most potent of all Channeler healing aids. Is it not?” asks Judge Soma, second in command to Auberdeen.
Everyone turns to the thin, lanky man.
“That so?” Gorenza stabs a roll with his knife.
Soma nods. “It’s similar to Beannach water, but more potent. Are you familiar with Beannach?”
Earlier this year, Judge Auberdeen sent Soma to Malam to draft a treaty between our kingdoms. Soma was earnest and well informed. His contradicting opinion on Sanguine confirms that the rumors were fueled by prejudices. I know I should be pleased that Sanguine isn’t hurting my people, but the hatred that must exist in my kingdom to start such a vicious rumor gnaws at me.
“Beannach means ‘blessed,’” says Leif, jumping in when he can. “It replenishes.”
A flicker of a smile twitches on the Ku’s face.
“I know what it does.” Gorenza shoves pieces of the impaled roll into his mouth, chewing viciously before adding, “Even if we don’t use Channeler magic up north.”
“And yet,” says Soma, “at every summit, a Channeler from your kingdom performs in the jubilee.”
“We don’t use their magic, but they live among us.” Gorenza yanks his knife free. He swings the point to face me. “Kolontia hasn’t outlawed and hunted Channelers as Malam has.”
Lord Segrande develops rigor mortis.
Queen Isadora’s fork clatters on the table.
“Now that the stone’s been thrown, we can move on,” I say, having anticipated this reaction from the other leaders. “After all, Malam has. There isn’t one of us whose kingdom has a spotless history. My people’s shame is merely more recent.”
Judge Auberdeen and Ku Toa’s eyes slant to me, assessing.
Gorenza scoffs. “Will we actually see Channelers representing Malam at the jubilee this year?”
“Of course,” I say. They think Malam will have no representative in the Channeler show, like the last four summits. They’re wrong. The jubilee is one event in which I can rest easy. “Katallia of the Channelers Guild will wear Malam’s colors. I’m honored that she calls Malam home.”
Katallia became an ally when she fought alongside me to defeat Lord Jamis. When she performs in the name of Malam, she’ll inspire pride in all Malamians.
“I’m sure it would’ve been difficult to find another willing Channeler,” Gorenza says, oddly quiet. “How fortunate for you that Katallia’s life was spared during your kingdom’s extermination, which you did nothing to stop when you first came into power.”
The room goes silent.
If a rat scuttled across the floor, its steps would register louder than a drumroll.
The pommel of my sword digs into my hip. A call to arms against such an appalling insult to my honor. I drag a breath through my teeth, tempering the wave of intense loathing, and bridling the urge to cut Gorenza down.
The smallest movement catches in my periphery. A Malamian guard has edged forward. Gorenza stares at him, nostrils flared in a look of daring that says he’s primed to shed blood. Any guard in this room wouldn’t hesitate to kill a person for caustic remarks made against their leader, but because Gorenza is the king, my guard waits. As does everyone else, sitting with bated breath.
I’m not here to start a war. I’m here for Malam, I remind myself.
For allegiances. For unity. For my people’s future.
I flick out my hand, low to the side in a staying motion.
Auberdeen bangs the table with his fist, though he keeps an eye on me. “Enough talk of trade. King Gorenza, you have a grandchild on the way, do you not? Let me tell you about what my granddaughter said to me just this morning.”
The single lamp illuminating my chambers is not enough to give shape to the clothing chest or prevent me from slamming my shin into the corner. I hop back, cursing, and yank off my coat. My boots come off next. One tumbles beneath the desk. The other hits the curtain. For a half second, I swear it’s followed by an oomph. I pull the tunic over my head and let it drop, welcoming the cool evening air.
A shadow moves from behind the curtains. An intruder.
Pulse ricocheting through my veins, I snatch the sword at my hip.
The man grabs for something behind him. I lunge, thrusting the blade’s point at the intruder’s chest. He lets out a squawk. Hands hang at his sides, frozen.
“Don’t move or I’ll kill you.”
A blast of wind slams into me, knocking me to the ground. I manage to keep a hand on my blade. I jump to my feet, but the distraction has given the intruder the advantage.
“I’d apologize for using a wind gust to knock you down,” he—no, she says. A woman? A Channeler. Shock has me frozen in place. How did she get in here? “But you had a blade digging into my heart.”
She shakes out her hands and steps into the lamplight. Blue eyes rimmed with stripes of black lashes stare at me from under a boy’s cap. She looks like a scrawny stable boy. “You don’t recognize me?”
The scrawny-stable-boy disguise throws me off. But a memory emerges of her on the same battlefield as me. Last year, she came to Malam seeking her friend, and she ended up fighting beside me to stop the army of traitors from taking Malam.
When I don’t answer immediately, she huffs. “Figures.” And then she tugs off her hat, releasing a coil of raven hair. “It’s Lirra Barrett. I saved your life earlier this year.”
She mutters under her breath about me not remembering, and then adds something that sounds like “arrogant arse.”
Any shock still chilling my veins quickly heats with anger. Regardless of our past, how dare she be so brazen as to sneak into my room, use her Channeler magic on me, and then disrespect me?
“You’ve trespassed in my chamber. State your purpose.” My tone is terse and cold.
She blinks at me. Her mouth pinches like she’s tasted something bitter, and then she withdraws a letter from her pocket. “This is from my father.”