The King's Trial: The King Trials, #1

1

THE SHADOW DOES NOT CRY OUT WHEN TRODDEN UPON

YOSYPH

I discovered I was a prince the day they sentenced my best friend to die. Not the prince of this land. No one would mistake me for him. Prince Halavant is the meat of every woman’s gossip—muscular, fair-skinned, golden-haired, and an intolerable spoiled brat. He’ll be appointed our king next year when he reaches the divinely appointed age of eighteen. If his mother, the ‘glorious and beloved Queen’ of Lansimetsa, allows him to take her throne. I doubt he’d cross her in anything.

No, I’m not that prince. I’m not handsome or popular. I’m opposite of Prince Halavant in every appearance, and most don’t even notice me. That’s why I hear the gossip. No hushed titters when I walk by. I don’t mind being invisible, except when it gets the hangman’s noose around Jack’s neck.

It was hot that day. I hefted a sack of barley from the wagon onto my back, then onto the growing stack in the White Goose’s courtyard. A breeze cooled my sticky, sweaty clothes and brought the scent of baking bread, horse, human waste, and the gallows.

Three days, I signed, and still they leave the fellow to rot.

May he rot there forever, Father’s mellow voice belied his words, if it means they never hang another.

Unlikely. But I nodded.

Did you bring the herbs from Devron’s farm? Father asked.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead and dried my hand on the hem of my tunic. It wouldn’t be good to mix fine spices with salt water. I opened a small barrel. Ginger and coriander tickled my nose and pushed out the other scents. In the middle of the nest of spices sat a purchase list—apples, barley, grapes—it continued with more items and prices. Curling doodles flowed around the words.

He didn’t have— I started, then stilled my hands at the sound of bare feet slapping the cobble. Timothy, my towheaded brother, burst into the courtyard.

They’ve taken Uncle Jack! he gasped, his feet already turned back the way he’d come.

Not Jack, too! I launched after Timothy.

Yosyph, wait! Father’s heavy boots thumped behind me in an unsteady rhythm.

Timothy skirted the crowded square and the gallows, then ducked into an alley. He darted like a mouse around barrels, under hanging clothes, and over a dead dog before disappearing around a corner.

I pushed through the wet linens. A yellowed sheet clung to my arm and pulled from the line. I flung it to the side and rounded the corner.

Ten paces ahead, the alley opened. Five men in the Queen’s red surrounded Jack. His chestnut hair tumbled over his down-turned face. Rope bound his legs and arms. Two other soldiers dumped arm-loads of arrows onto a pile of bows next to him.

One soldier shook Jack by his shoulders. Why does a cobbler need fifty bows and hundreds of arrows? Traitor! Then he spat. A tobacco-yellowed glob hit Jack on the forehead and rolled down his nose.

It was for— Jack began.

I don’t need to hear more of your lies. The soldier kicked him behind the knees and sent him tumbling to the ground.

My hand flicked to my side for my sword. It wasn’t there. I never wore it in the daylight. Even if I had it, they’d kill him if I rushed in.

I slackened my jaw, uncurled my hands, and slumped my shoulders—sliding into the role of a dumb, harmless, half-wit.

Timothy jumped from foot to foot in a doorway a short distance from the men. Father panted up beside me. I felt his hand on my shoulder, and I let out a slow breath. Ready, I signed. Timothy looked at us, Father nodded, and Timothy darted toward the guards.

I hated when he did that. Even though he was a scrawny kid, the Queen’s men could be unpredictable. I forced my shoulders to slouch again.

Get out of here, you brat! The soldier snatched Timothy’s ear.

Father strode forward, and I shuffled after him.

Timothy! Father said. What are you doing? Then he turned to the grizzled soldier. Please forgive my son’s interruption. I know it’s not much, but to pay for his bothering you, may I offer a tankard of ale?

The soldier shoved Timothy away. One for each of us.

Of course. What flavor would you have?

Make mine spiced cider.

Anise beer, shouted another soldier.

Thank you, Father. Now my part. I scuffed a boot on the cobble twice. Jack turned his head.

His face was puffed with purple bruising, one eye half closed, and his front teeth were missing.

I stepped back. Stop being a ninny, I told myself. You’ve seen worse. But never on the face of a friend.

I flicked my fingers. Small movements disguised as mere fidgeting. Please Jack, remember the code. Even after eight years, he still struggled with it, though he was six years older than me.

I’m getting you out, I signed. One hour.

His eyes widened. He signed, his movements hampered by the ropes. No. Wife, children. Out—city.

I’ll get them out.

His shoulders relaxed.

But I’m getting you next, I signed, flicking my pinky against my thigh in the sign of my most solemn oath.

A soldier hauled Jack to his feet and shoved him forward. He stumbled against the ropes that held his feet, then settled into a shuffle. Wait, wait, wait—my blood thumped in my neck. The last soldier turned the corner. I turned in the opposite direction and sprinted the two blocks to Jack’s home.

Anna opened the door to my pounding.

Yosyph? She wiped her flour-covered hands on her apron. What brings you here?

She knew my signing even less than Jack. I opened my little-used voice. They’ve taken Jack. Get the children. We have to go now.

Anna blanched. Samuel, Susan. Her voice trembled under the soft words. Get Charlie.

The dew of the pre-dawn hours made the stones of Fairhaven’s outer wall slick. I bit my tongue as my hand slipped and my chin hit the top of the wall. It’d been years since I’d slipped going over this wall. Nervous? Ridiculous! I’d gotten Anna and the children out of Fairhaven, and they’d be sailing to safety instead of sold into slavery. Soon, I’d get Jack out, too.

I crouched on top of the wall and looked over the crumbling adobe buildings and rambling alleys pocked with the still forms of homeless and drunks, their hopeless ranks growing daily. My efforts did little to stem that tide, at least for now.

Beyond the brick homes and the sleeping market square stood the inner wall, twenty feet of masonry wide enough for two men to walk abreast. The prison nestled against the inner wall, a squat windowless building stretching hundreds of feet along the curving wall, hidden from the delicate eyes of the nobles, but not from their noses.

Mansions sprawled behind the inner wall with their domed roofs, gardens and broad avenues. Beyond them rose the fortress wall and the palace—a granite castle matching the wall, ghostly gray in the last of the moonlight. Limestone cliffs backed the city to the east, stretching far to the south and gradually falling level with the ground to the north. Each of Fairhaven’s three walls curved around to meet the face of a two-hundred-foot cliff, forming bands of a gray rainbow with the palace as its dark heart. I clenched my fists.

Stop it. Jack needs me.

I flicked my eyes back to the prison. Guards, wall, more guards, locked doors, and shackles to pass by and unlock unseen. I pulled my mottled cloak closer. Father told me that when I stood still at night, my dark hair and skin blended with the shadows, and with my cloak I became a shadow. After years of practice, I’d learned to slip around the edge of a lighted door without notice.

I could get into the prison. But leaving with a non-shadow proved more difficult. I’d only succeeded thrice. With so many condemned to death, I had to calculate how many lives could be spared and how much of a coward I could stand to be.

I leaped down the eight feet from the outer city wall and rolled to absorb the impact. The moon followed me through the rambled streets past Jack’s home. I touched the wall where I’d played wall-en-ball with him and his children. The paint was worn thin from the repeated thumps.

Torchlight flickered in the market square. I raced forward, my leather shoes shushing against the ground.

For the last time, a nasal voice whined, who else is plotting against our kingdom?

I clung to the wall and glanced around the corner. Jack stood on the gallows with a noose encircling his neck. The judge, with his powdered wig askew and his black robes rumpled, stared at Jack. The flickering light played across the judge’s long nose and sneering mouth. Ten guards surrounded them, and a full-bearded guard gripped the trapdoor lever.

A guard raised a whip. I’ll make him talk.

I dashed from barrel to crate.

No, no. The judge yawned. I’ve had enough of him. You tortured him all night long, and he’s still as closed-mouthed as a turtle. It’s enough he’s admitted to being the Yorel. The others will fade without him.

I darted forward in the scudding shadow of a cloud.

The morning won’t come soon enough. The full-bearded guard rubbed the trapdoor lever. We’ll string the Yorel up where everyone can see what color their ‘hero’ truly is. Nothing but a yellow, broken coward.

Fifteen feet away. I wanted to race across the open square, but if they saw me, they’d pull the trapdoor lever, and his neck could snap. I dashed along the edge in the shadows of the market awnings.

The judge straightened his askew wig. He hangs now. I’ll not risk him escaping. He’s a slippery one.

The guard reached for the lever.

Stop!

Wait! The judge’s voice jumped an octave. Wait until I get off the platform.

The men chuckled as the judge scurried off the platform. I lunged forward. It didn’t matter if they saw me now. I leaped onto the platform and barreled into the man holding the lever. His weight worked against him as I pivoted him over my shoulder and tossed him.

It’s a shadow demon, the judge screamed.

The guards drew their swords, but several stepped back.

Thank you, judge, you are actually helpful tonight.

I darted between the guards to where Jack sagged, half hanging himself in weariness. Swords slashed. One nicked my cheek, another ripped my cloak. I wrenched the wrist of one of the guards. As his wrist snapped, he bellowed and dropped his sword. I grasped the back of his quilted vest with my other hand and flung him into the soldiers behind me. Grunts and thuds let me know several fell from the platform.

I caught the rope above the noose and hacked it. Jack crumpled with the frayed noose still around his neck. I slung him over my shoulders as the ground dropped from beneath us. One soldier stood on the platform, his hand on the trapdoor lever.

My knees protested falling six feet and landing with Jack’s added weight. You’ll survive, I told them as I sprinted across the market square. The judge squealed and scuttled away from me. I disappeared into the darkness, angry shouts of men fading behind me, and Jack’s breath wet against my neck.

2

DUSTY MEMORIES LIE BENEATH THE LONELIEST NIGHTMARES

YOSYPH

I don’t know how I got Jack over the wall and to Gaven’s. The moon slipped behind the trees as I stumbled through a tangle of herbs to a vine-covered door, set deep in a hillside. A raven croaked, and Gaven ushered us in, putting me to work setting Jack’s bones and bandaging wounds.

Nightmares usually end with the coming of day, but this one bled into the morning hours. Sunlight filtered through a vine-smothered window. It danced across Jack’s foreshortened fingers wrapped in bandages and broken arms set in splints. Yet he lived.

At dawn, Gaven went to bed, and I sat to watch over Jack. The mid-morning sun shifted to fall across his face.

Anna, Jack moaned, turning his head away from the light.

She’s safe and so are the children. I touched a cloth to his feverish brow.

He opened one eye; the other had swollen shut. You saved me.

I wish I’d gotten to you before they did this. I vaguely motioned to his fingers.

Jack’s hands flinched. Queen’s Wrath! I can’t feel my hands!

I touched the back of one of his hands but he didn’t react. It should be temporary. I hoped. Gaven rubbed a clove ointment over your injuries and forced drugged ale down your throat to help you sleep and take the edge off your pain. I’m glad you don’t hurt.

Oh, I hurt, Jack laughed and then coughed.

I forced a smile. You should sleep.

I can’t. My body is prickles and itches and numbness. My mind is racing in a hundred directions at once, like the time we got into your father’s coffee supply and brewed up a triple-strength cup with enough sugar to turn it to sludge.

Stimulated by a sedative? That was Jack, always in motion. Slow down. I’ll listen as long as you want to talk.

I didn’t tell them anything. Jack closed his eye. Deep lines creased his forehead. I screamed and swore. But I didn’t tell a single thing.

I know. I shuddered and bathed his brow again with lavender water.

I even led them astray. He grimaced. I told them I was the Yorel. Thought they’d stop removing parts of fingers and just kill me. It worked. Don’t know why they believed me. I’m nothing like you.

You’re a far better man. I’d have cracked under the same torture.

No, I’m not, Jack raced on, his speech slurring even more. I’ve never saved anyone’s life. I haven’t given up a kingdom to be a servant to foreigners. I’ve—

What kingdom? I cut in, my voice rough in surprise. The drugged ale addled him.

Your kingdom. He opened his eye again. The one your mother came from. The desert people, you know, from her letter.

What letter? I had no idea what he was talking about.

Gaven poked his head through the doorway. A rumpled nightshirt hung on his slight form. His gray eyebrows formed a storm cloud over his eyes. Why are you agitating the patient? You’re always playing a mute, except when I ask you to be quiet. Now let him rest! He grabbed a pestle and bowl and crushed herbs while glowering at me.

I nodded and turned back to Jack, flickering my fingers in apology.

You don’t know about the letter? Jack asked in a quieter voice. The one hidden in the cellar wall?

I shook my head. I would find it as soon as I got back.

I was sure you hid it there. It’s two stones down from the one where we hide the logistics. I found it by mistake one day. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. He shrugged and then winced. I didn’t want you to know I’d read something so personal.

Gaven poured the herbs into a mug and mixed it with water. He held it to Jack’s lips. Drink this. It should help you sleep. He touched Jack’s brow, creased his own, and turned a stern eye on me. I’m awake now, and you have work to do. So get going.

The crush of the market-goers filing through the city gate almost matched the stampede of questions pounding through my head. I ducked into the White Goose taproom. The fumes of alcohol enveloped me. Father stood behind the counter and glanced at me with question-filled eyes.

A drunk voice rose above the hum of voices. A devil, he was. A soldier, the one I’d tossed from the hangman’s platform, hunched over his tankard. Took that yellow slinking coward straight down to where he belongs.

I heard, said another soldier, the Yorel called up the shadow demon to free him.

I coughed to cover my laugh and nodded to Father to follow me.

The door slammed against the wall. General Jonstone strode into the tap room, followed by two others, each in richly ribboned uniforms. Ho, Hadron! Prepare my room and bring forth the Shiraz, the one from the year the king died. He turned to the others, and chuckled, What a joke it will be.

Why did the general come now? Any other time would be welcome, but why now?

Father hurried over to him, bowing. I am pleased you grace my humble tavern again. He then turned to me. Yosyph! Go prepare the General’s room! He pointed upstairs, his eyes full of questions. I’d not even told him Jack was alive, though I supposed he guessed it from the tavern talk.

I snatched a dust rag and climbed the stairs to the second-floor drinking room. It had been months since the general had visited the White Goose.

Hurry, General Jonstone thundered from the door, I have a mighty thirst to slake. Then to the younger officer I’d not seen before, the general confided, You’ll see, best wine in the kingdom.

But is it wise? The boy-faced officer’s gaze darted around.

Tush. Look at these walls. Thick. Jonstone pulled the young officer in and shut the door with a resounding thump. Listen. Can’t hear the ruckus below. And, he pointed to me, a mute, half-wit serving boy. Been serving me for years. Never a safer place, nor better drink.

But he’s a desert savage!

Come now. Half-breed, half-wit, it amounts to the same thing. He held up his cup. Here boy, my Shiraz!

I poured the Shiraz, then stood off by a corner, my face blank.

See, like a dog. He’ll wait until I call him to get us something else.

I smiled inwardly. If you only knew.

Jonstone downed his goblet of wine in a few swallows, then turned to an older officer with a thin goatee. Evans, having much trouble with the census?

The census? The last months had been full of soldiers knocking on doors, counting children, asking their ages, and moving on. It was a bother, an invasion of privacy, but something done by many rulers before and innocuous enough. The worst of it had been an increase in taxes and imprisonment for those who resisted. The census was one of the lesser evils in this land.

Why was Jonstone interested in this menial number taking? He oversaw a cancerous network of spies who kept tabs on the people of Lansimetsa, making some disappear, and bringing others to an unjust trial—those I didn’t get to first. None of the census info would be new to him, would it?

Evans stroked his goatee. The people don’t like it. Most ask what business is it if their ancestors come from east, west, north, or across the sea. And they look even further askance at the religion question. It’s a touchy thing, and some have gotten violent.

They asked about ancestry and religion? Father answered for me when the soldiers asked at our door. Witless mutes can’t answer questions. Father, you are supposed to tell me those things.

Of course they do, Jonstone said. Who wants their gods questioned? But you’ve given them a good cell to say their prayers in, I hope.

Always. Thankfully, we only have to wait for the soldiers to return from the villages at the edges of Lansimetsa. Then I can leave this headache behind. He rubbed his temples, then glanced at Jonstone. May I ask, why does Her Highness desire this information?

It isn’t my place to guess at her inner workings.

You know, but you won’t tell us. Evans held up his goblet for more wine.

Jonstone thumped the table. You’re right! I’ve kept this under my belt for long enough. It’s time for you to enjoy it, too.

My stomach knotted.

The census is but the boring beginning to a desperately needed cleansing. It will show, by the people’s own words, who are truly Lansimetsian and who are but foreign leeches, draining our land, taking our riches, and spoiling our bloodlines. Do you know how many admit to impure bloodlines? His voice rose, A full third of the people! Another generation, and they will outnumber us.

The younger officer’s eyes grew wide. But what will you do to them?

"What should’ve been done long ago. Clean the land of them. At the end of the last harvest, we will harvest them, chain them together and send them as the animals they are to slave in the mines."

The knots in my stomach grew until acid burned my throat. How could they expect to succeed? The people wouldn’t stand by and watch their neighbors taken as slaves.

They might, a thought hissed. Hadn’t the last royal play showcased the superiority of the full-blooded Lansimetsian farmer and made the Northern minister a fool? The Queen funded its performance in every major city. The people loved it. And in the play before, a half-blooded prince of the desert murdered his wife. And before that? How long had this been going on—a year, two? All my life, I’d become so accustomed to the ridicule and ignorance, I’d been blind to the growing plague of prejudice. Fool!

"But, the younger officer continued, oblivious to Evans’ quick shake of the head, aren’t most of them farmers and laborers already? Who will feed the kingdom? Who will serve us?"

Jonstone focused his watery gaze on him, Farnsworth, do you always question so much? You’d do well to guard your tongue. This once, I’ll answer your question and forgive your impudence.

Farnsworth shrank back as Jonstone leaned toward him. Others, pure-blooded people of our land, will take over the farming. There won’t be any more poor because everyone will have enough land to support them and us. Oh, we’ll keep a few special ones around, like personal slaves and that idiot in the corner. He waved over his shoulder at me.

I stood with my head slumped forward.

See he doesn’t even comprehend what we are talking about—a slouched-shouldered, empty-headed specimen. That’s what happens when you mix blood. Besides, the gems the foreign scum dig from the mines will enrich our nation far beyond what the paltry farms do. Have you not heard of fireside tales of the Roc’s nest in the desert? We’ve found it. We’ll need thousands to excavate it.

Fools and criminals, the lot of them. A third of the people! I couldn’t fake the deaths and hide away the victims. I flickered my fingers in a silent prayer: May the plague fall upon these men and bless the Queen to choke on a bone. May the people be freed from her cursed shadow before autumn harvest. If only it was that easy. So far, all my prayers required earthly intervention.

Jonstone held his goblet out for more wine. I’ve answered your insolent question, Farnsworth. You owe me a favor, a trifle to prove your loyalty. I almost splashed him as my hands shook, but he kept his gaze on the shrinking officer. You know the young lady who visits the palace each year, the one with the bright red hair?

The one betrothed to the prince?

Yes. The Queen doesn’t approve. Your errand is to make sure she finds herself in a new and more heavenly world before the sun sets tomorrow.

I—I— Farnsworth sputtered, and Evans kicked him. Yes. I’ll do it tomorrow, when she goes out for her afternoon ride.

Good, because if you can’t do this small favor, you’ll lose my trust, and that would be a pity.

Farnsworth blanched as white as the towel over my shoulder.

I almost felt sorry for him, because I wouldn’t let him kill her.

A lone candle flickered in the closed drinking room. Dawn would come in a few hours, and the last customer had left minutes before. I unrolled the yellowed, cracking vellum and weighted it with stones. My eyes blurred as I read the delicate script. My mother’s script. The curling curves of my mother’s tongue, like water dancing across the page. It must be from the emotions with Jack and the planned enslavement. I didn’t cry. Ever. I blinked hard and blew out a quick breath, then read.

My son, I fear I will leave you soon. Lest you forget, I will tell you again what you must know. I am Tanyeshna, of the Kishkarish tribe. If you desire to return to my people, you must walk the King’s Trial. The way is difficult, but if you succeed, they will welcome you as the prince you are.

A prince? A memory formed, shrouded and indistinct.