by D L Sims
Grant and Ikar bowed their heads in recognition.
Master Roxell waved Ikar and Grant forward. He still looked as flawless as he did during the Trials, but a large scar ran the length of the left side of his skull.
“You two are the last remaining Champions of the 43rd King Trials. A Trial has been set up in three days’ time to claim the winner.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Grant said at the same time as Ikar said, “I have had enough fighting for a lifetime.”
“It’s tradition,” Master Roxell pursed his lips. “Tell me, Lord Grantham, why won’t it be necessary?”
“I forfeit my right to the crown. Ikar is king. I’m leaving for The Republic.”
Master Roxell turned various shades of red. “This is outrageous!”
“This is my choice,” Grant countered, unwilling to back down. “Ikar will be a better king than me.”
“Dishonorable,” Master Roxell muttered.
Lady Amadon stood, coming to the table. “Roxell, calm down. After everything we have been through, you’re really going to call Grantham dishonorable? He fought bravely in the Ten Day Battle.”
Master Roxell scoffed, but said nothing.
“Are you sure this is what you want, my son?” His father’s voice was soft, barely audible in the quiet room.
“I’m sure, Pa.” Grant stood. “Just give me the Deserter’s Mark, and I’ll be on my way.”
“You’re not getting Marked,” Ikar said.
“He has to be Marked!” Master Roxell pushed back from the table, running an agitated hand through his blond hair. “If he abdicates the throne, he has to be Marked!”
Grant shuddered. He could still smell the burning flesh of Arlen’s Marking, and could still see the look of despair in the other man’s eyes when Master Roxell reiterated he would never be allowed to step foot in Elthare again. Arlen was no longer an Eltharian or an Amadon. He was a man with no home and no name. Though that future terrified Grant, he would accept it. He looked at Arlen, sitting in a velvet chair, the red angry Mark barely covered by his rolled up sleeves. They would be men without a home. Without status.
Would he be able to survive never seeing Elthare again?
For Lonnie I can endure anything.
Ikar walked around the table calmly, standing toe to toe with the Trials Master. “Grant fought for this kingdom, and you want to kick him out? Tell him he can never come back? You won when we wanted Arlen to remain part of this kingdom and not get Marked, but you will not win this time, Vaslev. Grantham remains Eltharian. He will remain a Sinero until the day he takes his last breath. I am king now, and I say that Grant is not getting Marked.”
“You’re not king yet,” Christophe said. “But I agree. We can forgo tradition for a hero of the Ten Day Battle. He may not have lost his mind like my cousin, but we all lost something during those days.” Lord Christophe gazed at Arlen. “Sorry, chap. Seems ill mannered of us to talk about this in front of you.”
Arlen waved a hand. “It’s fine.” He stood and left the room, the door slamming behind him.
Ikar raised an eyebrow at Khett’s cousin. “I don’t know who you are, but I’m glad you agree.”
Christophe pushed up from the window and stood at the front of the room next to Ikar. “Does anyone object?”
No one argued, and Grant breathed easier.
Ikar came back around the table to clap Grant on the back. “You better stay for the coronation and come back for my wedding, or I’ll hunt you down.”
Grant laughed. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Ikar shook with nerves as he waited in the small atrium just off the throne room. The robes he wore were made of black fabric with fur lining the neckline. Red swirls and snowdrops had been embroidered on the velvet in sparkly red thread. His hair was styled to be pushed back from his face, so his ears stood out more than usual.
On the other side of the door, he could hear the people of Elthare--his subjects--as they settled into their seats. Master Roxell’s booming voice echoed through the throne room as he directed where people should go.
“Ladies and Gentlemen!” His voice traveled as the noise settled. “Welcome to the Coronation of our 43rd king. Today truly is historic. We have never had a Dominikov sit on the Elthare throne.” He paused for applause and raucous cheering from where Ikar imagined the Althanens sat. “This happy occasion comes out of dark times for our beloved kingdom. Many fell during the Ten Day Battle, including four of our six Champions. Let’s say a silent prayer for our fallen.” The last of the sentence was met with a long bout of silence, then Master Roxell spoke again. “Our new king showed great heroics during the battle, and I believe he is the light we need after a dark, heavy storm. Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of the 43rd King’s Trials, Lord Ikar of House Dominikov, first of his name.”
Loud cheers met Ikar’s ears as the door to the atrium opened, and he stepped out onto the dais. In front of him sat thousands of Eltharians; Palmans dressed in their colorful harem pants, their faces painted, and their hair wild. Oszerackians with vests and trousers. The Odemalians with their leather pants and tunics. The Rivs with their conservative high, stiff collars. And last, the group that cheered loudest of all--the Althanens with their thick cloaks and fur lined boots, stomping on the marble and Opal Stone floor. Each Eltharian had a Snowdrop pinned to the collar of their tunic, coat or dress.
Ikar turned towards Master Roxell, who held a scepter in one hand and a pillow holding the Dominikov crown in the other. The gold and rubies shimmered under the light of the sun streaming through the high windows around the room. Behind Master Roxell were Ikar’s parents, both scarred and armed. Pride etched into the features of their rough faces. His mother held his daughter in her arms. Next to them were the royal families from Soldare and Lysic. None of them clapped, but Queen Selia was smiling. President Lishu from the Republic stood with his daughter, Jineya. The Kereshi and Kunai leaders had turned down the invitation to the event.
Ikar’s feet felt like lead as he moved to stand in front of the throne. The Dominikov throne was framed with Opal Stone and steel carved to look like filigree with a red velvet cushion.
The Master handed Ikar the scepter, and the Temple Priest held out the Gods’ Script for Ikar to place his right hand over. Master Roxell removed the crown from the pillow, holding it over Ikar’s head.
The crowd fell silent, and the room built with tension as if it were holding a collective breath.
“Ikar Dominikov, do you vow to protect the kingdom and rule with a fair, but stern hand?”
“Aye, I do.”
“Do you vow to be guiding light for the Eltharian people?”
“Aye.”
“Should the time arise, do you vow to lead the Eltharian soldiers in battle?”
Ikar swallowed. “Aye. I have done it, and I will do it again.”
Master Roxell’s smiled. “May the Gods bless your reign. May your rule be long and prosperous.” The Master sounded as if he were reciting the words from a text.
Master Roxell placed the crown on his head.
He lowered himself to the throne, looking over at his parents, still not accustomed to Yvney being absent. He turned to the crowd, catching Grant and Lonis, and then Roslen’s eye. Ikar’s mouth ticked up into a broad smile as he gazed at Roz. His daughter, Freja Briar Dominikov, rested happily in Roz’s arms.
The moment would have been perfect if he could find Briar’s face in the crowd. Or if Yvney stood with his parents, wallowing with envy.
I never truly hated you. The words continued to haunt him.
Ikar stood from his throne to address the people of Elthare. Silence fell over the crowd, and he cleared his throat.
“During the battle I had to watch people I had come to consider my friends die.” His eyes met Grant’s, and his friend gave him an encouraging smile. “As an homage to the people we lost, I have made the decision to build centers for those in need in every city. There will be four centers named af
ter each of the Champions lost in battle.” He paused, clearing the emotion from his throat. “The Oszerackian people have graciously allowed me to name the center that will be built in their city after someone I lost, my dear friend Briar Shaden. And I humbly thank them for their gratitude.
“May these centers remind us that even in the darkest times we are stronger together. Let us work together on rebuilding our kingdom, making it a stronger, brighter place for all to live.”
Grant smiled at him, and Roslen cried as she clapped along with the rest of Elthare.
I hope I made you proud, Bri.
Ikar sighed and sank back onto the throne. He felt hopeful for the future, for new beginnings.
But he couldn’t help feeling something lurking on the horizon.
Epilogue
Prince Hektor picked at his pristine cuticles as he waited for his father to stop fawning over the new king of Elthare.
King Ikar of house Dominikov. What a joke.
Throngs of people shuffled out of the throne room and into the great hall, where a feast had been set up to ring in the new king’s reign. Hektor turned away from the people and walked in the opposite direction to the large wood and iron doors that led to the front of the castle.
Outside, the sun was beginning to set, painting the Opal Stone and marble gold and bronze. Hektor had to admit the effect was rather pretty and much more pleasing to look at than the tan bricks of Soldare.
“Are you not in the mood for a feast?” a soft voice came from behind him.
His sister, Princess Iliana, leaned against a marble pillar, smoothing out her dress. Her dark hair was gathered in an elaborately braided bun. He sneered at her.
“Leave me be, Iliana. Shouldn’t you be drooling over the new king like father and Queen Selia?”
Iliana shrugged and looked out across the gardens to where the apple orchard began. “If Ozkur were still alive, he would love this sight.”
Hektor stiffened at the mention of their deceased brother. “Do not mention Ozkur.”
Her large eyes swung to him. “Why not? You wish to forget him?”
Hektor climbed the two steps until he reached Iliana, his face mere inches from hers. “More than I wish for anything.”
Iliana smirked. “Well, maybe--”
“Ah,” came their father’s voice from the door, “here you two are. Iliana, head on to the feast. Hektor and I have matters to discuss.”
King Pytir hobbled down the grand stairs, his bad leg nearly giving under the weight of his portly belly. Hektor leaned against a pole, waiting for his father to come to him.
“What is it, Father?”
Pytir lowered himself onto one of the iron benches along the front of the castle, rubbing his swollen, gout infested leg. “It’s time I abdicated the throne, Hektor. It was meant to be your brother’s, but after his untimely death--” Pytir trailed off, his throat croaked. The only time Hektor had ever seen his father show vulnerability was when he talked about Ozkur.
Hektor stiffened again at the mention of his brother. Would the bastard ever stop haunting him?
“You’re giving up the crown?”
“I’m getting old, Hektor. It’s time.”
Hektor’s smile broadened, cruel and wicked on his handsome face. Soldare is mine at last.
Khett paced the small room of his aunt’s cottage. The entire house smelled of goats and wheat. He found himself constantly wrinkling his nose when the wind blew a certain way, and the stench became stronger. He never understood why his Aunt Naideen had given up the large manor near the forest in Rivland after his uncle died. Surely, she would have been more comfortable there.
The only positive thing about his aunt’s cottage was that the building was away from the large city. It was away from the memories of Andalen, away from the castle he had grown up in. It was away from his traitorous cousin.
Khett could not find it in his heart to forgive Christophe for what he had done. Even if his meddling had saved Khett’s life.
He never had a desire to be like Christophe. He had no desire to have his soul linked to someone else.
No, not someone. Something else.
He felt the darkness in him. The thing that had been tethered to his soul to keep him alive.
The mondin, an evil spirit from the Infernal Flames.
No one knew what Christophe and that witch had done. Khett feigned his insanity, locking himself away in his aunt’s cottage. Even his mother, who only roomed down the hall, thought him mad with the grief of losing Andalen.
He had grieved Andalen. He missed her as he missed Fresia. As he missed Arlen. He wished he could find the woman he had been falling for and his old friend. He wished he could bring back the woman he had loved more than life.
Well, aren’t you particularly melancholy today, the mondin hissed in Khett’s mind. I thought we were over this melodrama.
Fuck off.
The mondin laughed, making Khett wince. Can’t fuck off, my dear human. You and I are one.
Acknowledgments
A huge thank you to my beta readers, especially Dai and Jordan, who I went to every time I changed the smallest detail in the book. Your feedback was given with honesty and kindness, and you two are the sweetest beans I have ever met. Your help and input on The King Trials means the world to me.
Another enormous thanks to Rebeca and Charmaine, without the two of you my book would not be the visual and edited glorious thing that it is.
Thank you to Jenna Moreci. Your videos were a guiding light as I worked on my novel. Without you my world and characters would not be what they are today. And without you, I never would have met Dai and Jordan.
The biggest thanks goes to those that I hold the closest in my heart. My family and my bestest bud. Without your unwavering support I would not be here. Bob, thanks for listening to me ramble about my characters and world for hours on end, and helping work out kinks in the plot. I love you!
And lastly, thank you to the person reading this. Thank you for purchasing The King Trials. I hope you enjoyed what I created. This book, these characters, this world are all for you! Thank you.
About the Author
D.L. lives in the southwest where she has a great view of the Sandia Mountains, and an even better view of the enchanting sunsets. When she’s not writing D.L. can be found reading, cuddling with her dog, drinking tea or shopping at thrift stores. The King Trials is not D.L.’s first novel, but it is the one she has been most excited to write about to date. You can find D.L. on Instagram @dl_sims_books, Twitter @DL_SIMS_BOOKS and on Facebook at D.L. Sims.
