Kingdom of Ash and Soot
The Order of the Crystal Daggers
C. S. Johnson
Published by Prodigy Gold Books, 2018.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
KINGDOM OF ASH AND SOOT
First edition. July 3, 2018.
Copyright © 2018 C. S. Johnson.
ISBN: 978-1386031451
Written by C. S. Johnson.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prologue
*1*
*2*
*3*
*4*
*5*
*6*
*7*
*8*
*9*
*10*
*11*
*12*
*13*
*14*
*15*
*16*
*17*
*18*
*19*
*20*
*21*
*22*
*23*
*24*
*25*
Further Reading: Gray Hawk of Terrapin
About the Author
About the Publisher
Dedication
First and foremost, this is for my darling children. The world needs more brotherly love and sisterly affection such as yours, and you are my inspirations.
Second, as always, this is for Sam. I have never forgotten your questions or our conversations, and I hope in some small way, you’ll read this and allow them to live on.
And finally, this is for all my favorite people I fangirl over.
To my favorite podcasters: Ben, Michael, and Drew. I love you all. And my video playlists are filled with Ravi, Dinesh, David, Dennis, and Nabeel. Thank God for you! I would not be anywhere close to who I am without all of you, and I am tremendously grateful for your wit, wisdom, and insight over the years.
As a special note, I would like to add Michelle and Ayah to my list. I am sorry for the late tribute to Nabeel, but I am grateful you are able to carry on his life’s work.
For the translation help, I must thank Riad El-Choueiry. Small as it is, your words have helped me so much.
Prologue
◊
My father’s hands, stained with darkened sunlight and roughened sores, were cold as I touched them for the last time.
As he lay still in his coffin, I rubbed my small hands over his, much as he had done to mine before I went to sleep each night when he was home.
“Night-night, Táta.” I said my final goodbye softly, my lips barely moving to form the words. Not even my hair stirred, the ebony curls stilled out of solemnity.
My gaze turned to his face, as the church’s robed pallbearers, silently but surely, came up beside me. I felt them surround my father’s body more than I saw them, as I continued to watch his face, searching for any sign his eyes might open and wink up at me once more.
A sleeve tickled my neck. “It’s time to let go, miss,” one of the pallbearers whispered into my ear.
“Not yet!” I objected.
“Eleanora.” The sharp voice of my stepmother, Cecilia—officially Baroness Cecilia Haberecht Chotek Svobodová of Bohemia—snapped loudly and harshly against the quiet sea of silence inside the church. “Let the men do their job.”
Only after I turned to face her did her hard expression melt into one of concern.
“Please,” she added more sympathetically, but I knew from the hard line of her jaw she was more concerned I would make a scene in front of the whole kingdom.
How impudent it would be of me to embarrass her with my grief.
“But Ben didn’t get a final chance to say goodbye,” I said, my nostrils flaring.
At the sound of his name, my brother, at twelve years of age, shifted uncomfortably on the hard pew bench. In the last few days, Ben had transformed from the smart and silly, fun-loving boy I grew up with into a cynical, unrecognizable man.
I did only what I could—I waited for his response. There was a long moment where the crowded church returned to its stifled silence, before finally, finally, Ben coughed discreetly, and spoke.
“It’s fine, Nora. I’ve already said my farewells to Otec.”
I grimaced at his tone; it was brusque and formal, and nothing about it suggested Ben was as heartbroken as I was.
“Come sit down, Eleonora,” Cecilia insisted once more. “Father Mueller is waiting to perform the last rites.”
“I’ll not come down until Ben comes and says a proper goodbye to our father.”
“You are embarrassing yourself in front of our family and neighbors. Even His Grace has come from Moravia to be here at your father’s mass.” Her voice was low and deadly.
Briefly, I glanced over at the stern-faced man who was standing next to Cecilia. The Duke of Moravia, Lord Franz Maximillian Chotek, was a cousin to both the Emperor and my stepmother. His thin, dark mustache twitched in irritation as Cecilia and I battled over the right to grieve.
“It is the honorable thing to do,” I argued.
My brother sighed. In his lap, I could see his fingers clench into a fist.
“Benedict, go. If it will let us move on before Adolf’s body starts to smell, then by all means, appease your sister.”
I held my breath, wondering what I would do if he did leave me to send Táta off all by myself.
I relaxed a moment later when he reached over, almost as if he was mentally reconsidering his reluctance, and grabbed his crutch; glaring angrily at me, he hobbled less than gracefully up to the altar. I was relieved when no one muttered anything about my brother’s crippled leg.
“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” he whispered to me. “You of all people know how I feel about Otec.”
I frowned. “Táta was a good man. Even the king said he was a good man who protected him during the Revolution.”
“Kings are quick to reward those who would die for them.”
“Not all of them.”
“Nora, what do you know of war or any soldier’s duty?” Ben hung his head at my childishness. “It doesn’t matter anyway, does it? The Germans are still in control of the Diet, and the Emperor is in his palace in Vienna, while King Ferdinand is playing with his posies all day long.”
My brother was clever. In ducking his head, it looked from behind as though he was sad or even crying. The church’s audience murmured a quiet approval as Ben grasped onto his crutch with one hand and put his other hand over mine, while I continued to rest it on Táta’s.
As we stood there, I saw there was a bluish tint to my father’s stiffened hands, and I wondered if death had chilled him even in the afterlife, so much that his veins had swelled. I looked back up at his face, surprised to see there were similar lines around his lips, although his beard and mustache helped to hide the unsightly marks.
“There.” Ben squeezed my hand. “Are you satisfied?”
“Yes.” I nearly choked out a response. “He was all we had, Ben, no matter what you say.”
I slowly released my father’s hands and whispered one last prayer toward the heavens for his soul as I headed back to my seat in the pew.
But when I turned around, I suddenly stopped, as a flurry of sound and movement in the back of the church caught my attention. Ben, with his uneven steps, bumped into me from behind, and I heard his mumbled curse.
Fortunately for Ben, everyone else, including Father Mueller, was too busy staring at the back of the church to chastise him.
My own mouth dropped as I saw a kingly procession entering the chapel. Men wearing fine livery made from shining threads, woven with the proud red and
white colors of Bohemia, dotted the small crowd.
It was only when they parted that I saw the king.
King Ferdinand V, the former leader of the Austria-Hungarian Empire and King of Bohemia, and a string of several other titles, had arrived.
“His Majesty!” Cecilia gasped. I might have laughed at her expression at any other time, but she was right to be surprised.
The king didn’t come out in public very often, and at once I could see why. My eyes took in his large forehead, his wide-set eyes, and his aged, enlarged face. His robes were grand, and his jewelry ornate, but there was nothing ostentatious enough to hide his shaking discomfort. He walked slowly, with a cane in hand and two young attendants immediately behind him for support. I, along with everyone else, including Father Mueller, stared as the elderly figure proceeded toward the front, where my father’s casket was waiting.
I’d heard the rumors of the king’s precarious mental state—of his simplemindedness, his mental fits. I wondered as he passed, only giving me a light glance, if he was here against his doctor’s wishes.
King Ferdinand V used to be our king. In 1848, the same year Ben was born, Ferdinand was forced to abdicate his throne to his nephew, the current Emperor, Franz Joseph I.
But, as the king bowed down before the altar and made the Holy Cross over my father’s corpse, I remembered King Ferdinand’s informal title, Ferdinand Dobrotivý, or “Ferdinand the Good.”
It seemed to suit him.
I blinked back tears, remembering Táta telling me that even kings had to bow to something greater than themselves in the end. Many of them submitted to God, in life and in death, while King Ferdinand had submitted to the power of the people. My father had remained at the king’s side, protecting him from physical harm during the Revolution of 1848, when King Ferdinand’s power was revoked.
Maybe that’s why the king decided to come down out of his castle in the city to see him.
Father Mueller continued with the Funeral Mass, reciting the familiar lines of liturgy, along with the occasion’s additions for the deceased. I barely listened to the service for my father. While grief was not preferred, it was familiar; Ben, Táta, and I had all been through it four years prior, when my mother was lost at sea.
As we responded to Father Mueller’s reading of the twenty-third Psalm, I glanced back over at the king. My grief was great, but my curiosity was proving itself the more demanding of the two.
“I can’t believe the king came,” I whispered to Ben.
“He didn’t come for Máma’s funeral,” he whispered, “and she was the better one between the two.”
“Táta is with Máma now. They are together again at last.”
“If Otec even made it to heaven,” Ben retorted.
“Ben! That’s terrible to say.”
“He was a terrible man.”
“To you, maybe.”
“Exactly.”
At the bitterness in his tone, I decided to discontinue the conversation.
But I stopped for other reasons as well—two of them, to be more precise. Priscilla, my stepsister, was earnestly tugging on her mother’s skirts as she glanced over in our direction, and my stepbrother, Alexander, glared menacingly at Ben.
How can they be the same age as us, but act like such little children?
It was not hard for me to make that deduction; they had never known pain as Ben and I had. It seemed that for every burden my family had borne, our stepsiblings had only brushed theirs aside.
In addition to our mother’s death, there was Ben’s injury. Táta never forgave Ben for getting crippled two summers past, falling off the stable roof after trying to fetch one of my cats for me.
Priscilla and Alex’s father, Cecilia’s second husband and the one before my father, had died serving in the armed forces abroad. Even at our first meeting, Alex had been eager to boast of how his father’s shield had saved the baby prince, Leopold, and his mother, Queen Victoria, and subsequently, the entire kingdom of Britain, from death and destruction. When I asked if his father was acting as a nursemaid, he nearly cried.
I think that was the moment when he began to hate me.
Quickly, so Cecilia would not see, I stuck my tongue out at Alex and glared a warning to Priscilla, before turning away from them completely.
Ben shifted in his seat uncomfortably again. I looked up to see he was giving silent warnings to our stepsiblings himself. Their derision toward us since the day we’d met had never been more inappropriate. Some part of me blamed Ben for that; he’d been angry, more angry than ever, the winter after his accident, and gaining a new family was the last thing that could have cheered him up.
“Stop fretting, Ben,” I told him, placing my hands over his as I had done to Táta’s just moments before.
“I can’t. I have to watch out for you now.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Cecilia’s children don’t scare me.”
“Lucky you,” he said. “There is no one to stop them from taking our inheritance now. Indeed, Cecilia has already begun raiding Otec’s estate. How else do you think she was able to get such a fancy dress made up from the seamstress before his funeral? And how else do you think she was able to get clothes and shoes for Alex and Priscilla? I also overheard her ordering a new carriage in the English style. She fancies herself to be Queen Victoria or Empress Elisabeth, cast out to far and foreign lands.”
I glanced over to see Ben was right; Cecilia’s dress was indeed much finer than my own. The gown was cut in a fashionable style, though from what I remembered of Máma’s wardrobe, I would have said it was French rather than British. The stitching was fine, and even from where we were sitting, I could easily make out the sheen of expensive silk.
“We didn’t get any new clothes,” I said.
“Clothes are one thing, Nora. But how will you be able to get married? You have no dowry to your name now.”
“I’m not even ten years old yet.”
“I knew after my accident I would never marry,” Ben said. His words were stilted, as though he had to chisel them off his chest. “But you, Nora. You could have had any suitor in the kingdom, just as Otec said Máma did.”
“I did inherit Máma’s looks,” I said, straightening my posture, momentarily forgetting my pain as pride took over.
“You dream of a family.”
“No.” I shook my head firmly. “You are my family. It is enough for me. I need no husband to be content.”
“I would not let you be alone with me if you could do better.”
“For all your trouble, there is no one better than you,” I said. “You have always watched out for me, even before Cecilia and the demon twins came to live with us.”
A small chuckle was smothered in his throat, but I heard its echo nonetheless.
“You’ve got Máma’s humor too, it seems. Hopefully you’ll have her strength as well,” Ben said. “Because these next few years may be hard.”
“Máma taught me to be brave, Ben. As long as you’ll face them with me, we will survive.” My hands tightened in his.
“We may survive, but we will not be free.”
“One day we will,” I vowed. “You’ll see.”
He could only grip my hand back in reply before Father Mueller, finished with the eulogy, harkened us once more to prayer.
“ ... And so, let us pray for Adolf Svoboda, a regal nobleman in the court of His Imperial and Royal Apostolic Majesty The Emperor of Austria, Apostolic King of Hungary Emperor Franz Joseph I, of the House of Hapsburg-Lorraine, his kind and generous legacy in service to His Majesty King Ferdinand V of Bohemia ... ”
Upon hearing his name, I glanced over at the king once more. He had his one hand resting on his walking stick, and the other nudged between his legs underneath a thick blanket.
I titled my head, watching him. Was he cold? I wondered. It was getting close to the end of summer.
When he began to twitch and moan a moment later, I felt my own body go still. “Ben, look!�
�
The congregation began to whisper voraciously as the king fell over in his pew, convulsing fitfully. Father Mueller faltered mid-prayer, and I saw another man, one I recognized as my father’s friend and medical doctor, Dr. Sigmund Artha, hurry forward to help.
“Your Highness,” Dr. Artha said. He patted down his bushy wave of gray-streaked hair, and I wondered if he had only just remembered he was in the presence of the former king of Bohemia. The faded, familiar rosary beads from the Church of St. Nicholas, the Kostel svatého Mikuláše, jangled against the small pack as I watched him hastily make a quick bow. “Let me assist you.”
I had seen Dr. Artha in our manor enough to know that he was deathly afraid of the silliest things, from spiders and dusty books to messy rooms and babies. On several of his visits with my father, he would excuse himself to go to wash his hands, and he would rub down his hair in both a nervous and necessary habit. I found it amusing and endearing that Dr. Artha had no fear of approaching King Ferdinand.
“We’re here, too, sir.” One of the young attendants, the shorter one, behind the king, stepped forward.
The first attendant, the one with black hair, began to issue orders to the king’s men. Meanwhile, the other one who had spoken with Dr. Artha, a slightly shorter boy with copper hair, stepped up beside the king and began to tend to him, whispering into his ear. I saw he had a small decanter in his hand.
“Stay calm, Nora,” Ben whispered beside me, as the king let out a loud moan.
“Father.” The second assistant suddenly yelped as the king fell to the side.
I frowned. King Ferdinand had no children.
“Father Mueller,” the black-haired boy called, his voice more confident and urgent, and I quickly realized my misunderstanding. He was calling for the priest. “Please, continue on. His Imperial Highness would benefit from your godly prayers.”
The other boy nodded, and the reverend complied. I saw Father Mueller’s face was white with slight panic as he stepped back up to the pulpit.
As the normal prayer resumed, this time louder and clearly more strained, I kept glancing over at the king.
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