The King's Sons (The Herezoth Trilogy) (2 page)

PROLOGUE

Francie Rafe

Francie Rafe
had worked on the king’s Magic Council for ten years now, so the budgets she
studied, all for the school the council had founded as its first project, were
nothing unfamiliar. If anything, she deemed them mundane. They lay amidst a
clutter of dishes, glasses, inkwells mostly empty, and a roll of clean
parchment on the only large table she owned. The high summer sun was bright as
its warmth filtered through the thin curtains set before the windows.

Francie had
lived alone in one of Podrar’s newer lodging houses for some twenty-odd months.
She held no affection for the building, and wished such large and impersonal
monstrosities had kept to Yangerton where they belonged. Yangerton, Herezoth’s
largest city, needed them to house its vast population, but Francie couldn’t
deny Podrar’s numbers had been growing, and quickly. Renting an apartment in a
lodging house was cheap, was all Francie could afford after paying for one of
her school’s poorer students to study at the Carphead Academy.

Her long,
strawberry blonde hair, which had dulled as she approached thirty years of age,
kept from her face thanks to a thick cloth tie that hit the back of her neck
each time she lifted her head. She studied the various budgets with large, dark
eyes; she had to determine which proposal to support, and thought the one that
cut funds from groundskeeping was probably the best. It used the extra coin to
pay teachers a larger salary, which Francie liked. The increase wasn’t as much
as they deserved, but it was something, and would show the crown and council
did not take their work for granted.

Francie
certainly didn’t. She knew how important the Academy was. Many of its students
had magic, which wasn’t an easy talent for a child in Herezoth to possess.
Francie would know; the sense of touch had always been a problem for her. She
was far too sensitive to it. Upon touching an object, any object, she routinely
felt overwhelmed by the emotions of the last person to have done the same. She
felt what they had felt. Their anger, fear, confidence, or insecurity might
well have been her own. Francie loathed the power she could not escape, but it
was her qualification for the Magic Council. The king had only appointed
empowered individuals, due to the nature of the work and the council’s aim to
give a repressed sector of society a voice in his court.

The school
needed more scholarships. That was the real trouble. Luckily, the Magic Council
was finding donors: well-to-do merchants from Yangerton, or owners of the
flourishing pulp mills north of Podrar. Francie was meeting with a banker in
two days; she hoped he might agree to fund a student’s education. People were
finally acknowledging the value of educating students with magic powers
alongside classmates who had no more magic than a wooden beam, after years of….

Francie
jerked her head toward the door. She thought she’d heard something. More
precisely, she’d heard some
one
, a
footstep on the wooden floor before the edge of her tattered green rug. She
could see no one, though, and her door hadn’t budged.

“Vane?” she called.
Her sorcerer coworker. Only sorcerers could turn invisible. She wasn’t
expecting him, and he’d never called on her unannounced, let alone transported
himself in. Was somebody with her? Francie tensed for one dreadful, prolonged
moment.

Utter silence.
She must be imagining things. She had hardly slept last night, hardly ever
slept as much as her body told her she should. There was so much work to do….

Francie
would never know whether the force that struck her hard across the face, like a
fist, was actually an invisible, clenched hand or the result of a whispered
spell she hadn’t heard. It knocked her sideways, off her chair. When a similar
punch slammed into her stomach, pushing the air from her lungs, she banged the
back of her head. The worn rug between her and the floor provided little
padding. Her mind would have been racing, in a panic, but thinking hurt too
much. She groaned, her pounding heart making her chest throb. This wasn’t
Vane….

He had
auburn hair like Vane, though. And was definitely a sorcerer. He made himself
visible with a word that sounded like nonsense to Francie; she studied him as
she scooted away, toward her second-hand sofa and the open bedroom. He towered
before her, between her and the front door. He was bearded, and one of the
tallest men Francie had ever seen. His nose was pointed, majestic, and to judge
by his unlined face, he was not much older than she was. The clothing he
wore—a cotton shirt and breeches—was worn, artisanal, and
unremarkable. Francie had never set eyes on this man in her life, but he glared
at her with enough hatred in his face that they could have been lifelong
enemies.

Through the
tremors of fear that shook her, and then of pain as he kicked her in the side,
Francie couldn’t reason a motive for this attack. The man was a sorcerer. The
king had created the Magic Council to serve the needs of people like him. Why
would he assault a councilor?

Francie
couldn’t keep pace with her swift, shallow breaths, each riddled with aches.
“Please,” she gasped, “Why are you…? What do you…?”

He wouldn’t
tell her what he wanted. His response was another kick, one with enough
momentum to turn her to her stomach. Francie reached a hand to her head; she
felt a knot and the sticky wetness of blood before he ripped away the cloth
that bound her hair, flipped her back over, and gagged her. He held her down
with a knee on her gut and made sure she saw him clutching the fabric for a
full thirty seconds before he forced it in her mouth. She knew better than to
scream, to alert others. He could slay any neighbors who tried to help her with
a simple incantation as they opened the door, assuming they progressed that
far. Francie had the entrance bolted.

The gagging
was when she realized what she was facing. She might not know this man, but he
knew her. He could easily have silenced her with a spell. Most any sorcerer
would have; that would have been faster than a physical gag, and less risky.
This man, though, bore a personal grudge against her, whoever he was. She knew
by his vile, triumphant smirk what his intention was in using that cloth to
subdue her. He would torment her with her own magic.

With the gag
pressing against her swelling face, Francie felt the purity of this man’s
hatred like a toxin in her blood. His jealousy numbed her fingers. She hurt too
completely to wonder what he might envy about her. Her place on the council?
All she knew for certain was the extent of her peril. With those emotions
raging he would want to cut her down, to show her she was nothing and meant
nothing, her and her piddling magic that was more of a liability than an asset.

The numbness
in Francie’s hand spread up her arm. Her gut convulsed, and the sorcerer,
whoever he was, removed her gag so she wouldn’t choke on the contents of her
stomach but instead spew them across the rug. The saving gesture was no
assurance he would not kill her; he just wanted his way with her first.

When she
stopped heaving, the man spoke a second incantation. Francie was no sorceress;
she had little knowledge of spells, no concept of his magic’s intent, and she
cried out in a panic despite her previous determination not to.

No sound
issued from her. When gagging failed, he’d resorted to a muting spell to keep
her quiet. Now he slammed her head against the floor as she struggled in
desperation, which worsened her previous injury and almost knocked her
unconscious. She resisted no further after that. She had no strength to. He
bound her hands behind her back with the cloth he’d removed from her mouth, and
a prideful gloating now, in combination with the previous emotions, made her
feel feverish as he fell upon her.

CHAPTER
ONE

A Daughter
Without Magic

Kansten
Cason bit down a testy observation, because she knew her leaving home would be
difficult for her family, for her parents in particular. Swallowing her
sarcastic nature required all the nineteen-year-old’s power of will, because
Kora, her mother, kept shooting off questions as quickly as Kansten imagined
she once had incantations. The women were in Kansten’s room, where two large
travel bags lay open on the bed.

“You packed
enough dresses?”

“I’m not
leaving a single one.”

“A decent
coat? Herezoth’s colder than here.”

“I have two,
Mom.”

“The
pictures your sisters drew you?”

“Like I’d
leave those!”

Willpower
was the only power Kansten had. Though they had raised her on the kingdom of
Traigland’s coast, both her parents were natives of Herezoth, and her mother
had been born with the attribute Herezoth was most noted for overseas: sorcery.
Kora lived in exile for her talents. Magic had been a painful subject—and
a dangerous possession—in Herezoth a quarter-century before.

Kansten
tucked a strand of long, straight hair the same shade as Kora’s chestnut curls
behind her ear and away from her freckled face. “Listen, Mom, I’ll miss you
guys. But I need to do this. I’ve always wanted to see Herezoth.”

Kansten
would never accept that she, the only one of Kora’s children not born a
sorcerer, was also the only one with a passion to discover the place where
magic originated. She was always raiding her uncle’s library for books about
Herezoth’s cities, its culture, and its ancient history.

Kora
understood Kansten’s fascination. Even more than Kansten’s father, Kora
understood, though Kansten hated discussing Herezoth with her mother; she
always walked away feeling guilty for turning Kora’s attention to the land that
had forsaken her. Kora never spoke of any longing to go back, but her daughter
suspected she would return to Herezoth in a heartbeat if she wouldn’t pay for
the deed with her life. And return in a heartbeat Kora could: through the use
of a transport spell. That was how Kansten would reach Podrar, Herezoth’s
capital. A family friend would transport her.

After
adjusting the bandana she used to cover her forehead, the sorceress placed a
hand on Kansten’s shoulder. “I’m so glad you can go,” she told her daughter.
“Kancat, I know what this means to you. For a while I didn’t think you could
ever visit Herezoth. I never thought it might be safe.”

Kora had always
called her daughter Kancat, since the girl had been an infant and developed the
habit of pumping her fist as she slept like kittens did while feeding. Kansten
didn’t care for the nickname, but she would never convince her mother to stop
using it. Rather than protest, she shrugged.

“The king’s
done a lot to bring the magicked back into society. His Magic Council, its
school…. Guess I can thank Uncle Zac and Vane for this trip.”

“You’re
quite welcome,” came a male voice from the doorway. It belonged to Vane, the
spokesman for the Magic Council Kansten had mentioned, on which her uncle also
served.

Vane Unsten
was the son of Kora’s sorceress mentor. Kora and her brother had helped raise
him, as he’d found himself orphaned by the civil war that had seen Kora
banished; they had taught him magic, because even Vane was a blasted sorcerer….
That seemed fitting, somehow. Though his father had been a duke and Kansten’s
father was a smith, Vane was family. In that family, Kansten and her father
alone lacked the power to cast spells.

The current
Duke of Ingleton was nearing thirty. His auburn hair was thick and well
groomed, and the large, dark eyes set in his shaven face shone with genuine
excitement to give Kansten a home in his manor, Oakdowns, as she apprenticed
with an architect. His garb was casual—a tunic-styled shirt and trousers
with shining boots—but it fit him well, and did nothing to subtract from
the air of confidence he had developed over the years. Kansten was always
amazed to remember him as the quiet, awkward teenager he had been in Traigland.

Kora threw a
protective arm around her daughter, and asked her surrogate son, “You’ll take
care of her?”

“Like my own
girls. I doubt Kansten will need me for much, though. She knows how to get
things done.”

“Mom, you
have nothing to worry about.”

Kora kissed
her daughter’s cheek. “I know I don’t. And I’m sure you’ll excel with that man
as your teacher. I’m so thrilled for you.”

Vane had
arranged the apprenticeship, and he told Kora, “You should be. Cline Dagner’s
made a name for himself, and he wouldn’t take just anyone on. Especially not
any female.”

“I’ve no
doubt you’ll excel, but if you want to come home, Kansten, at any point….”

Kansten
shrugged off her mother’s arm. “I know I have only to ask. Vane will bring me
straight here.”

“You’ve my
word, Kora,” said the duke, and Kora thanked him.

 
“Listen, Mom, I’ll visit tons. I just…. I need
to see Herezoth. To live in Herezoth. This place….”

Triflag was
a beautiful coastal town, but dull: no real culture to mark, no culinary
specialties or music, and one small theater known for the failure of its
productions. Then there were the people. Traiglanders, they didn’t look like
Kansten. Traiglanders had rich, dark complexions, nothing like Kansten’s pale,
freckled skin.

“I’ve never
fit in here, Mom. Wilhem, Walten, they get on fine, but me….” Kansten’s
brothers had always had more friends than she did. “I have to get out of
Traigland.”

Kora smiled,
revealing crow’s feet around her eyes. “I’m so relieved you can. I thought I’d
ruined any chance of that for you, for your siblings.”

“You’ve
ruined nothing for me, all right? I’m damn proud to be your daughter. You saved
that place. Somehow you can speak of it with kindness, even after they tossed
you aside like last week’s fish. Well, I know there are rumors about you. I
know people say hateful things. They’d better keep their mouths shut in front
of me, because….”

Kora and
Vane spoke as one. “You will keep your head down.”

At that, Kansten
let out a shocked little laugh. “Well, that was interesting.”

Vane began,
“Listen,” but Kansten cut him off.

“I’m not
some stupid child.”

The duke
marched into the room. He grabbed her arm and slammed her next to the travel
cases on her bed, on a pile of unpacked dresses. Never in his life had he been
so rough with her, and Kansten leaned away, grabbing her aching tricep as he
demanded, “You will listen, or I’m taking you nowhere.

“Herezoth’s
not like Triflag. Things have improved from what they were, but the very idea
of magic still causes tension. Palpable tension, you understand? Podrar’s
dangerous. You’ll be safe enough if you don’t draw attention to yourself, so
you
will not draw attention to yourself
.
I don’t care what you overhear. If people call sorcerers dogs, you’ll ignore
it. If they name me a butcher or your mother a hag, if they call her the king’s
whore or courtesan, you won’t retort. When they insult your uncle’s
intelligence and dismiss the articles he’s written, you will treat it as a
joke. I’ll have your solemn word on that, or you’re not staying with my
family.”

Kansten
forced herself to speak. “What’s gotten into you?”

“You won’t
endanger yourself while you stay with me. You won’t put my family in peril. I
was nearly killed once for my magic, and that won’t happen again.”

“What?” said
Kansten. “What are you talking about? When…?”

Vane said,
“You remember when I came back to Traigland? After my marriage? August was
pregnant with the twins.”

“Of course I
remember. You were sick.”

“If you call
the Duke of Yangerton stabbing me in the gut because my magic was a threat to
him
falling ill
, then yeah, I was
sick.”

Kansten’s
mouth fell open. Then she turned to her mother. “You told me he was ill. You
said…. I sent you to him with Pup!” The plush puppy her grandmother had sewn
for her in infancy. Kansten would cuddle with Pup when sick, and still owned
the toy. She had packed it at the bottom of her bag, in fact, though she would
never have admitted that.

Kora rubbed
her elbow, but displayed no other sign of unease. “That was ten years ago,” she
told her daughter.

“Mom! Vane
almost died, and you never saw fit to mention what happened?”

Vane said,
“It was better you didn’t know. I’m telling you now because if you come to
Podrar, you will have to control yourself. What happened to me, that could be
you or someone who’s with you if you can’t keep your temper. I swear you’ll be
safe if you keep to yourself….”

“I’m not
frightened.”

“But you
must
keep to yourself. Is that clear?”
The girl nodded. “You can control your tongue? You’re sure of that? You swear
to me and your mother that when some prejudiced fool says something like I
described, you won’t react?”

“I swear,”
said Kansten. Her voice was hardly audible. She still gripped the back of her
arm, and Vane gave her an apologetic shoulder pat.

“Didn’t mean
to be so harsh with you. But you have to understand….”

“I do,” said
Kansten. “I get it.”

Kora walked
up and hugged her daughter. “You’ll be fine there, Kancat, and you can have all
the success in Herezoth you want. I’ll never think otherwise. If you decide you
don’t want to be there, for whatever reason, just come home, all right? Don’t
make yourself miserable to prove something.”

“I won’t,
Mom. Can I just…? I need to finish packing. Then I can tell everyone goodbye.”

Vane
suggested, “Think things over. You’re a thousand times welcome to come to
Oakdowns, but you don’t have to.”

“Oh, I’m
going back with you,” Kansten assured him. The duke and her mother left her.

I’m going to Herezoth. There’s no way around it,
I….

I have to go. I can’t let this chance slip away
because I’m a bloody coward. All right, so some noble stabbed Vane ten years
ago. I’ve longed for this my entire life. I guess I just…. I pictured this
moment hundreds of times, and it wasn’t like this. I never saw myself scared
when I could finally leave this place.

Kansten
allowed herself a slow, steadying breath.

Dagner’s work, it’s world-renowned. I’ve read
about it even here, and he wants to train me. ME.

Kansten
brought herself to her feet and packed the last of her belongings. She gave her
small, untidy room a nostalgic glance. There was nothing remarkable about the
space, but it was hers. It had always been hers. Her brothers and sisters knew
better than to disturb her when she shut herself away here with one of Uncle
Zac’s books about Herezoth or her school materials. These plain, wooden walls
had been her haven.

In the
parlor, which had been a mess in years past but grown neater as Kansten’s
siblings aged, Kansten found her entire family: Ilana, her grandmother, in her
favorite rocking chair; Parker, her father, his face ruddied and his muscles
toned from the smithy, with an arm around Kora’s waist; her sisters Laskenay
and Tressa, thirteen and eleven, drawing together while they waited; her
brothers Walten and Wilhem, barely younger than Kansten, discussing a trip to
Traigland City while Vane listened.

Kansten’s
father said, “Your first trip back we’re going fishing. Just you and me.”

Kansten
smiled. “It’s a deal.”

Kora told
her eldest child, “Make sure Vane shows you the mural on the side of the king’s
palace.”

The Duke of
Ingleton glanced up when he heard his name. “The mural of the royal crest?”

“That’s the
one,” Kora said. “Your mother and I cast the spell that put it there.”

Vane’s large
eyes grew even wider. “I assumed it had been there for ages.”

“No, I’m
responsible for it. Your mother wrote the spell, the only spell she ever
crafted. It took her forever to get right.”

Vane’s
mother had not only been Kora’s mentor, teaching her magic to fight in the
resistance movement against sorcerer-dictator Zalski Forzythe. She had also
been Zalski’s twin, which made Vane Zalski’s nephew. Zalski who had killed all
members of the royal family, save one. Who had stolen the crown and ruled for three
years before falling to the king. Maybe, Kansten realized, Zalski’s legacy had
something to do with the Duke of Yangerton stabbing Vane.

The thought
made her want to vomit the cherry tart she had eaten after dinner, so she
diverted her mind from those contemplations and hugged both her sisters, who
ran up to her. Laskenay, who shared Kansten’s freckles but whose hair curled
more, said, “We’ll miss you.”

Kansten
smiled. “You’ll take over my room, is what you’ll do. Don’t think I don’t
know.”