Godfire

by Cara Witter

  “I didn’t mean to do it,” she whispered, her eyes still closed.

  “I know.”

  “I couldn’t stop.”

  “But you did.” His voice was so soft, and yet there was no doubt in it. Somehow, despite what she’d done, he still believed . . . what? That she might be able to control whatever this horrible power was? Or that she was worth being near even if she couldn’t?

  Either way, he was wrong, and her chest ached with the knowledge of it.

  “Not soon enough.” She forced herself to open her eyes. To look at him, to make him understand. “You all should stay far away from me. You—” her voice broke, and she started again. “You should, Jaeme. I’m a weapon. I’m my father’s weapon.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from that last bit.

  Diamis had done this to her. He’d made her into a killer. From the very beginning, given what Kenton had said about his father.

  Had she really done that to his father?

  Jaeme shook his head. “Whatever this power is, it isn’t you. You are brilliant and kind and beautiful and you know a shocking number of bawdy Mortichean tavern songs.” His lips twitched up into a smile.

  A smile she wanted to share, so badly. But she couldn’t.

  “I’m a weapon,” she repeated.

  “You’re Daniella,” he said, holding her face in both hands now, his own face so close to hers she could feel his breath against the tracks of her tears. “And that’s all that matters to me.”

  And then, before she could think to counter, his lips were on hers—soft at first, tentative, quickly becoming something more than comfort. Something more like longing.

  All the thoughts of fear and death and blood scattered, stolen away by the heat of his kiss, by the touch of his hands on her face, in her hair.

  All those thoughts would come back. Because no matter what Jaeme said, she was a weapon, and a terrifying one. But for right now, in his arms, she let herself believe that maybe she was also something more.

  Saara moved down the corridors toward the throne room through the billowing mystical flames. The fire was cool to the touch and ignited nothing, but still burned brighter around her, as if Saara herself were the air fueling the flame, such that Sayvil and Talia shielded their eyes. In her hand, Nerendal blazed brighter than ever, his bloom dancing in sync with the fire on the walls.

  Bodies lay outside the throne room—many of them. Saara’s throat caught, and she looked into the room. There were more bodies, and blood covering nearly every surface. Sayvil’s face contorted in horror as she took it all in, and Saara imagined that hers looked the same. By the gods, what happened here?

  Even with the bodies mutilated as they were, she scanned the room for mainlanders. With even the most mutilated, she could tell they wore guard uniforms and had dark skin and hair. Some of them were people she knew, surely. Cousins, women she’d sparred with and served with.

  But none of her traveling companions were here.

  She was about to check the room with the sewer entrance when she saw them. Bloody boot prints leading away down the hall—one set of large ones, definitely a man, and therefore not guards. A woman had walked beside them.

  Was it Perchaya or Daniella? Kenton or Jaeme? And where were the others?

  “This way,” Saara said, and she ran down the corridor in the direction her friends must have gone.

  Moments later they came upon them. Perchaya was covered in blood, but she didn’t appear to be wounded herself as she retreated up the corridor, her eyes widening when she saw Saara approaching. Ahead of her Kenton had drawn his daggers and held them at the ready for guards who were just about to reach him.

  “Stop!” Saara shouted.

  The guards’ eyes widened, the light of the flame reflected across their faces as she held up the Sunstone for all to see. More guards moved up behind them, all of them gaping, one even releasing Nikaenor in her surprise.

  And behind them, looking like all hells, was Aiyen.

  “Hello, Auntie,” Saara said. “Looking for me?”

  Saara’s aunt opened her mouth, but before she could speak, a man’s voice boomed through the palace, deep and rich and harmonious. “HAIL MY CHOSEN,” it called.

  Then, as if Nerendal had exhausted himself, the flames surrounding them died away to a flicker, then extinguished. In her hand, Saara thought she felt the stone quiver.

  She got the message. Now it was up to her. “Bow before me,” Saara said. “I am the bearer of Nerendal, the rightful queen of Tirostaar.” She looked her aunt directly in the eyes. “So get on your knees.”

  Kenton was the first to drop to the floor, bowing his head in respect. And even if he was only doing it so the others would, Saara appreciated the gesture. Perchaya quickly followed, then Nikaenor and Sayvil. The guards came after, bowing one by one, though some of them still looked toward the walls where the flames had died, and others kept their eyes fixed on the stone in Saara’s hand.

  Aiyen’s eyes settled on Talia, who stood just behind Saara, although she hadn’t bowed.

  “Kneel, mother,” Talia said.

  Aiyen, her face still taut with anger, sank to her knees in front of Saara. She looked up at Saara, and for the first time, Saara saw defeat in her eyes.

  “Do it,” Aiyen said. “If you are truly Queen of Tirostaar, you’ll show no more mercy to me than I showed to you.”

  Saara’s hand shook, the pale light of Nerendal’s exhausted flame trembling in her hand. Saara wanted to kill her. She’d intended to kill her. But she looked out over the hall full of people, and in a far hall, she could see servants gathering. There, standing against the wall, she saw her handmaiden, the one who had given her the warning to flee. Unharmed and watching her with rapt attention.

  Saara smiled at her. And she knew what kind of queen she wanted to be.

  “As my first act,” Saara said, “I banish you from Tir Neren. You will leave in company of guards, never to set foot in the city. Conspire against me again under penalty of death.”

  Aiyen’s eyes widened, and her head bowed further. Kenton gave Saara a sharp glance, but Saara scanned the guards, and saw a mixture of unabashed awe and genuine—she hoped—respect.

  “All hail Saara, Bearer of the Godstone, Chosen Daughter of Nerendal, Queen of Tirostaar!” Talia called.

  “All hail,” the guards replied in unison.

  Kenton stole a glance up at her, and, even though he couldn’t have understood the words, Saara saw him grin.

  Kenton sat beside Perchaya in the dining hall in the palace of Tir Neren, watching as the servants brought in tray after tray of food. Across the long cedarwood table, Nikaenor’s eyes widened proportionately to the size of the platters as he took in the filets of smoked eel, the hot cross rolls brushed with olive oil, and the enormous dish of candied caviar topped with shredded bantree nut that must have been imported from southern Mortiche.

  Kenton smiled as he looked around at his friends—strange to call them that, but accurate, nonetheless—noticing all of their faces seemed brighter than he’d ever seen them.

  Jaeme picked up a thin, flaky pastry and took a bite. “My uncle has these imported,” he said. “They arrive hard as rocks. Nice to know what one is supposed to taste like.”

  Beside him, Daniella smiled, which Kenton was glad to see. They were all recovering—their wounds cleaned and stitched, their bodies rested from a full day’s sleep in soft beds—but surprisingly, he’d found himself concerned about how Daniella would fare after what had happened in the throne room. He didn’t imagine coming back from that was easy, knowing what she now knew about herself.

  Especially since, in his opinion at least, they still knew far too little.

  At the end of the table, Nikaenor scooped up half a tray of meat cakes and began to dig in.

  Sayvil smiled and clicked her tongue at him. �
��Careful, or you’ll return to Ithale twice your original size.”

  He grinned with his mouth full. “My mum won’t even recognize me.”

  “Looks like there are perks to being friends with the queen,” Perchaya said, passing down a bottle of fine Mortichean white.

  That was a perk Kenton could get behind. “I’ll do the honors,” he said. He uncorked the bottle and, as his companions passed their fancy etched-crystal glasses his way, he began to pour.

  “It’s a shame Saara couldn’t join us,” Nikaenor said, his mouth still stuffed with meat.

  Perchaya smiled and passed him a cloth to catch the dripping grease. “I suppose being queen does come with a few downsides.”

  Saara didn’t seem to think of them as such. The support of Talia—and the hundreds of witnesses who’d seen even the front walls of the palace erupt in the flames and heard the voice of Nerendal, which had apparently carried to the edges of Tir Neren itself—lent Saara a legitimacy that was allowing her to take control quickly. It worried Kenton that Aiyen yet lived. Kenton preferred his enemies dead, but to each his own. “We’ll have enough time to congratulate her soon enough,” he said. “When she accompanies us to the mainland.”

  The others sobered a bit at that, but Perchaya lifted her glass. “Let’s drink,” she said, “to the godbearers. To the first stone in hand. It’s a fine pleasure to travel with you and be witness to it.”

  Kenton grinned and raised his glass, and the others did likewise.

  At the end of the table, Jaeme stretched his arm around the back of Daniella’s chair, and Daniella leaned back into it slightly. They both smiled at each other in that tentative way that not-quite lovers did.

  Kenton didn’t know what had passed between them since the battle in the throne room, but witnessing the slaughter seemed to have had the opposite effect on Jaeme than Kenton would have expected.

  Daniella’s power had saved them all, but he couldn’t forget how many had died in that throne room, and how brutally. He could easily have been among them, as well as Jaeme. Kenton felt like he was still holding his breath, waiting for the day they would find themselves caught on the other side of that luck.

  He might not be one the gods had chosen. But he’d led them here. They’d done it—one stone in hand. It was the easiest one—the farthest from Diamis’ control—but it was a far cry from nothing. It was Kenton’s responsibility, his duty, his birthright to guide them through this, to make sure they made it to the end safely, every last one.

  In that moment, he felt a flicker of hope that they might actually succeed.

  Perchaya put a hand on Kenton’s arm, and he turned to her. “Pass the strawberries?” she asked. “And some of those little tarts with the almonds in the center.”

  Kenton reached across the table and passed them to her, then picked up a decanter and refilled both of their glasses.

  He’d think on the future tomorrow. For tonight, he would have another drink.

  Acknowledgments

  The (very) humble beginning of this series was over twenty years ago, and it has gone through many re-imaginings and drafts since then. As such, we have a ton of people to thank for helping us along this journey.

  Thanks to our agent Eddie Schneider, for his enthusiasm for the world of the Five Lands and its inhabitants. We’re also so grateful to all the beta readers who have been through various drafts (sooo many drafts)—including Joshua Bilmes, Greg Little, Nancy Fulda, Chris Husberg, and our writing group, Accidental Erotica. We are also grateful to the fantastic people willing to wade through the mire of epic fantasy proofreading: Dantzel Cherry, Amy Carlin, Benn Liska, and Jennifer Bair. Thanks also to Isaac Stewart for the gorgeous map of the Five Lands.

  And, of course, a huge thank you to our families. You each deserve your names in some Hall of Fame for Supportive Families of Stressed Writers, but hopefully this will suffice until we can make that an actual thing. Thank you to the Janes clan—Ed Janes, Cindy and Wayne Terpstra, Lindsay Janes, Leslie Hamlin, and Nancy Vitelli. Thanks also to the Olds family—Drew, Cortana, and Kenton Olds (yes, named after THAT Kenton, so look out, world!) And also to the Walkers (and Greys and Koffmans)—Glen, Ethan, and Madelyn Walker, Ken and Toni Grey, and Marilyn and Barry Koffman.

  Last—but definitely not least—we thank you, our readers, for spending your time in the Five Lands with us (and our very reluctant heroes). We hope you love these characters and this world as much as we do.

  About the Author

  Cara Witter was born in Abram’s Brook, a small town in eastern Sevairn. As a young girl, she was first introduced to fiction by the ladies’ letter-writing circuit, and has been reading and writing tales of heroism and romance ever since. She is honored to have been chosen to write the official history of the Gathering.

  Other Books in the Five Lands Saga

  Godfire

  Oathbreaker

  Bloodborn

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  Sign up for our readers’ group and get a free copy of Shadowride, a full-length, stand-alone prequel novella.

  Turn the page to read the beginning of book two of the Five Lands Saga, Oathbreaker

  Prologue

  Year 1139 of the Banishment Era

  Captain Marcas Halvor hadn’t always done the grunt work of personally guarding the prisoner cells of the Castle Peldenar dungeons. Since the injury he’d taken to his knee in the first battle of Berlaith, he’d done little more than oversee guard training and assign schedules—a change in routine for which his wife had been grateful.

  But this prisoner was different. This prisoner was the Lord General’s own daughter, and Marcas was one of the very few men trusted to know she was here.

  Marcas arrived early to begin his shift, as usual. It set a good tone for his men, and so it became a habit that followed him even to an assignment like this. He nodded to the guard at the dungeon entrance, who was sitting on what was affectionately called the Throne of Splinters. The men complained about how worn and uncomfortable the wooden stool was, but it had become enough of a long-running joke that they were all loath to replace it.

  “Captain Halvor,” the guard said, with a stifled grimace that immediately made Marcas concerned.

  “Lieutenant,” Marcas responded. “Is everything well?”

  Bartek nodded. “Well enough. This bloody headache keeps getting worse, is all.”

  Marcas frowned. Bartek hadn’t been the only one complaining of headaches over the last few days. Marcas himself had gotten one just yesterday, and it had taken all night for him to sleep it off. “And the prisoner?”

  He didn’t have to specify which one. There was only one prisoner currently being held in the dungeon of Castle Peldenar. The rest had been discreetly transported to the city’s holding cells.

  Bartek shifted uncomfortably, and Marcas knew it had nothing to do with the Throne of Splinters. “Not much different. A little louder than usual.”

  “Well, then. Another few hours, and you can head home to your wife,” Marcas said. “Get some sleep. Maybe some of that bluefern tea. My daughter-in-law brings some over when my leg gets bad, and it does the trick.”

  Bartek smiled, though it was clearly pained. “Forgive me, sir, if I think this one may be better cured with a few pints.”

  “Short-sighted as ever, Bartek,” Marcas said with a chuckle, clapping the guard on his shoulder. “Just don’t blame me when your head feels like a blacksmith’s anvil in the morning.”

  Bartek laughed, but Marcas could see a trickle of sweat coming down from the man’s brow. He considered sending him home early—Bartek’s replacement would be here before long, anyway—but the Lord General had been specific in his orders. One guard inside the dungeon proper at all times, watching the girl, and one guard at the entrance, keeping out anyone not authorized to enter—which was pretty much everyon
e save Marcas and six other hand-selected soldiers. And the Lord General himself, of course, though he didn’t visit much.

  In a way, Marcas couldn’t blame him. No man could endure seeing his young daughter like this.

  Bartek stood to open the door for Marcas, and though the lieutenant’s posture was straight and proper as ever, Marcas couldn’t help but notice how he slumped back onto the stool as soon as the door started to close.

  If Bartek was suffering some sort of illness, Marcas truly hoped not many of the other six men were likewise plagued. They were already stretched thin enough as it was in their rotating shifts.

  Of course, none of them had expected this particular assignment to stretch on for almost a year, with no end in sight.

  Marcas was used to the dungeon stench by now, though it didn’t make that first whiff of piss and rat dung and gods knew what else any more pleasant. Even with only one prisoner in here for the past ten months, the smell hadn’t lessened any; centuries of use had baked it into the walls.

  Far more disturbing were the sounds the girl had started to make the last several weeks. Bartek had been right; she was louder than usual today. A thin, reedy shriek echoed around the dungeon hall, and Marcas winced as he approached her cell door.

  “Has she eaten?” Marcas asked Sten, the guard standing outside the door, peering in through the barred grate. Sten startled at Marcas’s arrival.

  In any other situation, Marcas would have severely reprimanded one of his men for being caught off-guard like that. But this was not any other situation.

  “No, sir,” Sten said. “It’s like yesterday and the day before. She’s just picked at it and mashed her hands in it.”

  “At least she hasn’t thrown it against the wall yet,” Marcas said with a sigh.

  “Not yet,” Sten agreed, turning back to stare in through the grate even though Marcas had arrived to take over his shift. Marcas understood all too well. After months of watching an innocent little girl possessed by the evils of blood magic, there was always a gut-wrenching relief at the end of a shift. And yet it was difficult to pull his eyes away, to know that while Marcas would go home to his wife and children and warm hearth, this poor child would stay here in the dark and cold and dungeon stench yet another night.