The Windward King, page 23
Two days.
He tripped over nothing and caught himself against the wall, then forced his feet to move again.
But after a dozen rounds about the room, he could no longer ignore the fact that the words he was rehearsing were Gepar’s as well, and the rest of their conversation sank its claws into him.
Keep your mouth shut and remember who you are.
Shara almost scoffed. How could he forget?
Giving up, he returned to Korith and removed all the game pieces from the board.
“You’d have lost anyway,” he told his cave-brother, setting the board aside. “All right. This.” He lifted the magician and put it in the center of the table. “This is me. This”—the prince—“is you.”
He placed Prince Korith beside the magician and knocked it on its side. Might as well be accurate.
The lady became Nashai, the unicorn Lady Masar. The two soldiers were Tishel and Thosena. The black bull for Faresh, the red one for Gepar, and the butterflies for Oshari and Fethan.
Piece by piece, he positioned them at various points around the table. He clustered Tishel and Thosena together and reluctantly added Gepar. On second thought, he removed Thosena because she didn’t know his secret. But did that mean Nashai and Lady Masar should join Tishel and Gepar? No, Thosena should remain. But then it was Tethamari against Barathi, the very conflict he wanted to avoid. He could organize them based on trustworthiness—it would be satisfying to knock Faresh off the table and watch Gepar teeter on the edge—but that would be guesswork and wishful thinking more than fact.
Never mind that he had a whole collection of unused pieces. The palace staff, the entirety of Barath, all of Tethamar. Lady Pareth, the two merchants, the sunspot vendor. People he’d never spoken to, with grievances he couldn’t imagine.
“This,” he told Korith as he swept all the pieces from the table and grabbed a slice of apple, “is an empty den.”
An empty den. He snatched up the black king and set it in the center of the table. “Iliath is here in his study. You—well, me. We’re coming to the gifting. He’s already met with a whole herd of people today.”
Tishel and Malothi had spoken to them all, but no one had remembered anything unusual about that day. Nothing to suggest a kidnapper was coming.
Mumbling to himself, he placed the two soldier pieces outside the imaginary outer door and walked the red bull toward it. Paused. The guards had been killed inside the office. Had the fight broken into the front room?
“Or did you know who it was? Someone you thought was trustworthy.” Until it was too late.
He laid the guards gently on their sides and moved the bull into the study with Iliath, but again he stalled. Tishel’s search of the room had identified the alsum as Iliath’s. Shara supposed he couldn’t blame the king for wanting relief from the headaches of rulership.
“So they knock him unconscious,” he muttered, tipping the king piece over, “and find the alsum. Or maybe it’s already out. Add it to the tea, soak the cloth, and hold it over his mouth. Then somehow carry him out without anyone seeing.”
As if he hadn’t been through this a dozen times in the last week.
He braced himself against the table and sighed. This was useless. He might as well go door to door through all of Farna, sniffing for Iliath’s scent.
“Iliath.” He frowned at the prone game piece. “Iliath faked his own abduction because he needed a rest.”
It was as good a theory as any, not to mention an idea that became more tempting with every passing hour.
“. . . pick . . .”
Shara leapt, knocking into the table and sending the game pieces rattling like his heartbeat. “Korith?”
“. . . pickles . . . escaping . . .” He slurred something that sounded like wuffles and settled back into silence.
Slowly, Shara’s pulse steadied, and he let out a breathy laugh. Escaping pickles. Humans were—
Well, no. This was just Korith.
He prodded his cave-brother’s arm gently. “Next time say something useful, will you? Like a name.”
His reenactment of Iliath’s abduction lay in shambles, as did all desire to reconstruct it or try something similar with the coronation. Seizing the fruit bowl, he resumed pacing, gnawing as enthusiastically as he liked on the sweet, leathery pieces. No one to stop him, judge him, doubt him.
A small mirror hung on the wall, and after another four turns about the room, he stopped in front of it. After a glance toward the still-closed door, he shifted away Iliath’s form. The royal grandeur faded like fog clearing into daylight, and a familiar face greeted him, birch scales and horns and all. The face of someone who could look like anyone. Be everyone.
But he wasn’t everyone. Just Shara.
Always just Shara.
His toes curled, and he met his reflection’s eyes. “Two days.” Korith’s bed loomed in the corner of the mirror’s reflection, and beside it, the table and scattered malir pieces and the Guide watching it all. “What are we going to do, just-Shara?”
Just-Shara vanished. His nose lengthened, his horns darkened to pine, his eyes seemed to fill with arrogance. “Stay out of the way and try not to burr anything up.”
A confident grin and white hair glinting in its owner’s natural light. “We’ll make better mistakes next time.”
Sharp blue eyes and sea-weathered skin. “Sometimes you leave it all behind and start over.”
One by one he drifted through forms, first in search of advice, then for the comfort of seeing them. Maybe someone would spark an idea or reveal an overlooked clue. The effort of shifting kept his thoughts from straying too far, and soon he’d developed a rhythm. Lethir often compared Shara’s shifting to a human timekeeper, all jarring ticks and individual steps and no toresh, but now Shara relied on it, the push and pull, like a bird’s steady wingbeats keeping it aloft.
The door clacked, and Shara jumped, his features blurring with the speed of his panicked shift back into Iliath. He spun to see an apologetic servant delivering a cart of clean bandages, and as soon as she’d ducked back out, he returned to the mirror with a relieved sigh and a roll of his eyes. His fastest shift ever, all for . . .
His body seized. His fastest shift, so fast his face had blurred.
Arms tightening around the fruit bowl, he tried the sequence again, but faster this time—as fast as he could make himself shift, until he was no longer chasing a form but fleeing his current one, no longer trying to become someone specific but simply changing what he was. His face stretched and pinched, contorted and lengthened, swirled and solidified and swirled again.
At last he staggered back and closed his aching eyes, steadying himself against the nearest bed while his mind ran on ahead.
What if it wasn’t wind sense? What if—
He hurried to Korith’s bedside and dropped the fruit bowl amidst the malir pieces. “Watch that, will you?”
He needed a second look in the storage closet.
>><<
Shara hurried through the corridors toward the palace courtyard, a pair of guards striding along in his wake. For once being Iliath offered some benefit—no need to explain his haste or apologize for whatever ridiculous things he did while he waited for Nashai and Tishel and the rest to complete their search of the Rosette. They ought to be returning soon, and he’d use the wait to pick apart his theory and decide whom to tell. Whom to trust. Because if he was right . . .
Clattering weapons and footsteps on stone met him as he emerged at the top of the stairs leading down into the sunlit courtyard. A blur of red-garbed royal guards surrounded a small group of people, all jerky movements and sharp voices as they shuffled across the courtyard. Special guests arriving for Iliath’s speech?
But as the glare of sunlight faded, he saw it for what it really was: Nashai, Lady Masar, and Lord Fethan in the middle of a contingent of Barathi guards.
Not an escort. An arrest.
He plummeted down the stairs and pinned his most royal frown on the nearest guard. “What is this?”
“Iliath!” Relief filled Nashai’s voice, but fury blazed in her eyes.
“What’s going on?” Shara demanded.
The guard—it was Lieutenant Mereth, Shara realized through his spiking panic—coughed uncomfortably and rolled his shoulders back. “Your Majesty.”
A hand clamped on Shara’s arm and steered him from the group.
“Carry on, Lieutenant,” Tishel snapped over her shoulder. “I’ll explain matters to His Majesty. Don’t stop for anyone else.”
“This is a mistake!” Nashai’s voice pierced through Mereth’s orders and the slapping of shoes on stone. “King Iliath, I demand to speak with you at once!”
Tishel’s hand spasmed on Shara’s arm, stalling his attempt to turn around. “His Majesty is indisposed,” she said crisply, pulling Shara through a side door. The creaking hinges drowned out the last of the courtyard chaos.
“What happened?” His voice came out more pleading than insistent, and when Tishel ignored him and continued dragging him down the hall, he cleared his throat and tried again. “Tishel, what—”
“Not now.”
He craned his neck as though he could see through the walls and follow Nashai’s progress—where? To the prison?
His churning stomach grew heavy. What had they found on the ship?
Had he been wrong about Nashai this whole time?
They rounded a corner and practically jogged up several flights of stairs, emerging in a deserted hallway. Shara recognized the place; the balcony where he’d deliver the speech was at the end of the corridor. Midway down the hall stood Gepar, who gestured them into a small room.
Shara didn’t wait for him to shut the door. “What happened? Why did you arrest Nashai?”
“There’s been a change of plans.” Gepar handed him a piece of paper. “A new speech for you to deliver. Learn it quickly.”
It was not much longer than the receipt Gepar had asked him to sign on his first day as Iliath. It even had lines at the bottom for signatures. And the text itself—
His whole body went cold. “You want me to declare war?”
Chapter 35
Illusion
“No.” The speech fluttered in his shaking hands. He’d guessed it, but to see it on paper in those official words of state, with all of Iliath’s formal titles . . . “No, I—I can’t.”
“You can and you will.”
“No, I won’t. I mean . . .” He raised his eyes and met Tishel’s fierce gaze.
What if he was wrong?
His throat closed and his pulse quickened. He knew all about being wrong. What if he was right?
“You won’t,” Tishel repeated, voice lowering. She settled a hand on her sword and took a step toward him.
His body tried to fold itself into as small and submissive a posture as it could manage, and it twitched uncomfortably when he forced it to stand straight and unmoving. In the corner, Gepar snorted.
Teveth.
Maybe so, but he made himself speak anyway. “I think the assassin is alvithi.”
She blinked. Gepar blinked. Slowly they turned to one another. Shara knew that look. He’d grown up with it—in the expressions of others and in the mirror every time he looked at himself.
No, not every time. Not the last time. “Look, everyone you talked to described someone different or didn’t remember a face at all. So we thought it was a group of people. But apart from the woman who was killed, every single one of them escaped.”
Color rose in Tishel’s cheeks. “So?” The false carelessness in her tone didn’t quite mask the emotions below.
“So what if a single person was moving through the crowd, using the explosions and confusion and smoke to hide that they were changing their appearance?” He waved his hands in front of his face, and the words tumbled faster. “That’s why the attacker looked like a blur to me—my senses are sharper than yours, so I could tell something was wrong. Korith thought it was wind sense, but I think it was an alvithi constantly shifting individual little parts of their face. It makes sense!”
It did, didn’t it? He’d thought so a second ago, right before Tishel had folded her arms and given him a look that sent an apology crawling up his throat.
“Is that all the proof you have? One of them was blurry in the middle of clouds of smoke? Panicking witnesses couldn’t recall faces they barely glimpsed?”
Uncertainty flared, but so did the determination burning in his chest. Being right would mean nothing if he couldn’t convince them. “I know it isn’t much, but listen, I—”
“Don’t bother.” Tishel slapped a piece of paper against his chest, and something dangerously like pity flashed across her face. “We searched their ship. We found that hidden among Lady Oshari’s belongings. It’s—”
“A locking order.” Intricately cut edges, a swirling signature, a seal. The same sort of document he’d seen on Thosena’s ship all those weeks ago. The same reminder how little he actually knew, and at the worst possible moment. His free hand fisted around his mother’s coat. “What does it mean?”
Not even Gepar’s obvious dread that Shara would betray him could stop him from gloating. “They’re distributed to Tethamari agents given special assignments. Someone writes out the task and cuts the paper in half; the agent takes the bottom half and memorizes the contents of the top. The cuts are always unique, and both the design and the memorized contents must match when the agent returns to Tethamar. Keeps out impostors and meddling alvithi.”
“And before you point out the obvious fact that the assignment isn’t written on this half and could therefore be anything,” came Tishel’s voice between two beats of Shara’s pounding heart, “you should know that Oshari all but confessed.”
Confessed.
No. “All but confessed?” He was clawing at clouds, but . . .
Tishel scowled. “She wouldn’t say anything explicitly, but she said plenty nonetheless. Her Highness, however, was ignorant of the plot as you suspected. Either King Rhoda hoped it would ensure her safety, or he knew we’d demand answers of her after the coronation.”
“And didn’t trust her to lie,” Gepar muttered, as though he couldn’t respect anyone who wasn’t capable of lying.
Shara’s head swam. Confessed. The Tethamari . . . “But if Oshari confessed,” he asked, still grasping, “why didn’t you arrest her? She wasn’t in the courtyard.”
Finally Gepar’s disdain moved from Shara to Tishel. “If it weren’t for Oshari’s confession, I might suspect our own royal guard. Iliath is abducted, not a single attacker at the coronation is captured, and now Oshari.”
“She escaped?”
Tishel bristled. “The entire shipyard is searching. They’ll find her.”
“Not if she’s alvithi,” Shara pressed, though he could no longer tell whether he felt certainty or desperation. “How do you know that was the real Oshari? Tishel, I checked the storage room again. I went all the way to the back this time and found a cart covered in blood. What if someone killed that Tethamari guard and took her place before the coronation? And left her body for us to find. What if someone wants us to declare war?”
“The alvithi?” Doubt still laced her voice, but her expression cracked. “You’re really blaming your own people?”
“No, but it could be an alvithi. Maybe an imarth who grew up here.”
“Perhaps it’s you,” muttered Gepar, throwing up his hands and rolling his eyes. “This is ridiculous.”
“It’s no more ridiculous than the Tethamari royal family . . . what, having Iliath kidnapped, then ordering fake-Iliath’s assassination?”
Tishel shook her head. “They did not so much as hint at Iliath’s abduction. Difficult as it is to believe, I expect the two are unrelated.”
Gepar scoffed. “Give them a few days in prison and I’m sure they’ll remember where he is. In the meantime”—he jabbed a finger at Shara—“you are going to sign that for Iliath, and then you’re going to go out there and deliver it.”
His whole body trembled, but not his voice. “No, I’m not. Not until we know the truth.”
“The truth?” Gepar snatched the speech from his hands. “The truth is you’re drunk on power. His power. Hoping we won’t find him, are you? Hoping you’ll get his position and his future wife and—”
“I never wanted any of this! I’m tired of being stuck as someone I’m not! But this doesn’t make sense, and I’m not going to declare war just so you”—he jabbed a finger at Gepar—“can preserve your reputation and you”—Tishel—“can feel better about yourself!”
He was cringing before the last words escaped, but it was too late. Tishel had frozen, and her pale face flooded with color. Her hand settled on her sword hilt, the tendons standing out, and she drew a long, shuddering breath.
Shara did the same. “Tish—”
The flutter of paper sliced through the one apology he did need to make. Gepar set the speech on the table in the corner and, with a savage flourish, signed on the first line. Then the second.
Shara gritted his teeth. “No peace treaty, no arrangement.” And plenty of experience forging Iliath’s signature.
“Precisely.” He extended the stylus to Tishel, no waver in his movements now. “Captain.”
Her burning gaze fell to the paper, but she didn’t move or speak or even blink. Shara held his breath.
But Gepar had run out of patience, and with a final signature, he straightened and marched to the door.
Shara dove for the speech as he passed. “You can’t—”
“It seems His Majesty is still recovering from the shocking attempt on his life and will need a representative to deliver this in his stead. Captain, keep this brat from interfering—I trust you are at least competent enough for that.”
The door clacked quietly on his departure like polite applause after the sky had promised thunder. Shara stared, too shocked to move, until a sound from behind him cut into the stillness.
