Written by
Laurisa White Reyes
Skyrocket Press
SANTA CLARITA, CA
Copyright © 2019 by Laurisa White Reyes.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
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Santa Clarita, CA 91350
www.skyrocketpress.com
Print Edition ISBN: 978-1-947394-95-7
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Cover designed by Emma Michaels & Rebecacovers
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Book Four
HIDDEN
Book Five
DEFIANT
Book Six
FALLEN
For Gonzalo
More Books by
Laurisa White Reyes
THE CELESTINE CHRONICLES
The Rock of Ivanore
The Last Enchanter
Seer of the Guilde
THE CRYSTAL KEEPER
Exile (Book I)
Betrayal (Book II)
Vengeance (Book III)
FICTION
Contact
Petals
The Storytellers
Mickey Malloy, Wonder Boy!
Eye of the Beholder (a short story)
Mirror, Mirror (a short story)
NON-FICTION
Teaching Kids to Write Well: Six Secrets Every Grown-up Should Know
The Kids’ Guide to Writing Fiction
Table of Contents
Prologue
Book IV: Hidden
Book V: Defiant
Book VI: Fallen
PROLOGUE
The night air was unusually still. Not a breath of wind stirred the leaves on the trees. No storm to mask the sounds of the approaching army, the neighs of their horses, the scraping of their swords being drawn from their scabbards. The villagers heard it all from their beds. Some believed the sounds were in their dreams, but others recognized them for what they were and trembled in fear.
Twelve-year-old Bastien awoke with a start, his heart already thumping in his chest. He held his breath for a moment, listening. Yes, he was sure of it now. The Vatéz had finally come. Though the elders of the village had reassured them time and time again that their little village would be overlooked, the Vatéz had come to exact vengeance.
Bastien threw his covers aside and leapt from his bed, his night shirt clinging to his bare legs. “Papa!” he shouted “Papa, they’re here!”
But his father was already awake, a sword in one hand, an empty grain sack in the other. Huddled together, crying in the corner of the cottage were Tara and Tim, Bastien’s five-year-old sister and brother.
“Take this,” said his father, handing him the bag. “Fill it up. There’s a round of cheese and some bread on the shelf. Grab their cloaks. Quickly!”
Bastien snatched the two small cloaks from the peg on the back of the door and wrapped one around each child. Then he slipped into his own pair of trousers, not bothering with his tunic. He threw his boots and those of his siblings into the sack along with the food. There was no time to sit and lace them.
“Out the back!” ordered his father. “With luck, the soldiers won’t reach the cottages for several minutes. May the Gods lead you to safety before they do.”
Bastien helped his siblings to their feet and started for the back door when he realized his father was not following. “Papa?” he started to ask, but then he understood. His father would not abandon their people. They had all heard about the Vatéz’s lust for blood, how they accused and punished without need for evidence. When the Vatéz came, everyone knew what the outcome would be. To flee the village now would be nothing short of cowardice.
“Go!” shouted Bastien’s father. He did not have to say it twice. Bastien ran out of the back door just as his father slipped out the front.
Tara and Tim were both small for their age, and frail. Their mother had died giving birth to them, and they had suffered more than their fair share of illnesses ever since. Tim, in particular, seemed as fragile as a twig as Bastien pulled him along by the hand.
“C’mon,” he whispered, urging the child forward. Tara kept up all right on her own, holding tight to Bastien’s shirt. They had gotten as far as the orchard when the sounds behind them turned to screams.
They were close enough that the noise of the slaughter sliced through Bastien’s heart as if the soldiers’ swords had cut into his very flesh. Knowing that his own father may already be among the fallen seared Bastien’s thoughts like a branding iron, but he did not turn back. He would do as his father asked. He would take the children to safety.
Bastien, Tara, and Tim ran between two rows of apple trees. Beyond the orchard was the village corn field, dried and abandoned in the drought. They could hide there for the night, among the stalks. It wasn’t far. And though their progress was not as fast as it could have been had Bastien been on his own, Bastien began to feel a sense of relief as they cleared the last few trees.
He never expected the soldiers to have surrounded the village before attacking it, but of course such a strategy made sense. While the main body of the army made its loud entry into the center of town, the remaining soldiers stealthily took their places along its circumference. They had been right to expect some to escape. But tonight, not one soul would succeed.
Bastien ran nearly head long into the black gelding that stood as firm as a stone wall between the orchard and the corn field. Tara screamed and buried her face in Bastien’s arm. Tim stood stock still, his little chest heaving for breath.
“Ah, the night’s first runaways,” said the horse’s rider, a young, slender man with a shock of red hair and a trimmed beard to match. His light skin and blue eyes were unlike any Bastien had seen before, not Hestorian at all. Bastien had heard tales of this islander, the man who had taken control of the Vatéz after Minister Emir’s death. It had to be him, and the realization made Bastien shudder.
“My Lord,” said Bastien in a quivering voice.
The red-headed man’s eyebrows rose in amusement. “My Lord?” he repeated, mocking the boy. “Am I your Lord? If so, would you have betrayed me and helped the witch escape? I think not.”
Screams of terror burst through the trees, and a roar, like a thousand lions, billowed into the air. Bastien turned and saw the silhouette of a massive plume of smoke rising into the sky. Deep orange flames snapped above the treetops, and the stench of burn filled the air.
Spilling blood was not enough for the Vatéz. Bastien had heard of their destruction before, in the village of Alay-Crevar. There they had killed every inhabitant and thrown their bodies into the river. So, the Vatéz intended to do the same here. The realization drove tears to Bastien’s eyes.
&nb
sp; “I’m the one who helped her,” said Bastien through gritted teeth. “No one else even knew she was here. She only came for water and a little food. I couldn’t turn my back on her.”
“Yes, you could have,” said the man, his face twisting in restrained fury. “Turned your back on her. Killed her. Dragged her miserable carcass back to Auseret Castle. But no. Why is it that my law is so blatantly ignored? How many villages must be punished before I am taken seriously?”
Bastien looked down at his brother, shivering in the night air. He felt the dampness of his sister’s tears on his hand as she clung to him.
“But the villagers—the children,” he said. “They are innocent. They’ve done nothing wrong.”
The red-headed man drew a long, thin blade from its sheath, the distant firelight turning it red in the moonlight.
“No one is innocent,” he said, his eyes tracing the length of his sword. Then he leveled his eyes and his blade directly at Bastien’s throat. “No one.”
1
Ivanore sat upright in her bed, gasping for breath. Damp strands of wheat-colored hair clung to her skin which burned with the heat of her dream. She felt a searing pain in her chest, as if the sword she’d seen had pierced her instead of the boy. The only solace was that most of her dreams were of future events, so what she had witnessed had likely not yet happened. Still, to know that it would happen, that there was no way to prevent it, brought her to tears.
Ivanore wept until she had no tears left. Only once she had regained her composure and wiped her eyes dry did she venture out of bed. As she folded back the shabby down quilt, the chill in the morning air bit into her skin. To shield herself, she held the quilt tight around her shoulders, and then hurried barefooted across the cold, stone floor to where a basin of water sat on the lone wooden cabinet. A servant filled it for her each night so she could wash in the morning, but Ivanore had better uses for it.
She stood beside the cabinet, leaning over the basin until she could see her reflection in the still water. Then she closed her eyes, clearing her mind. When at last she peered into the bowl, the images from her dream appeared on the water’s surface: the boy and his young siblings dashing through the orchard, flames devouring their village, and Arik.
Ivanore’s stomach twisted painfully. How could her brother be capable of such things? Once, he was her dearest friend. He had even stood up to their father on her behalf. After she had defied the law and married Jayson, an Agoran/human half-breed, Arik had drawn his sword, defending them from Lord Fredric’s soldiers. Though he failed in his attempt, resulting in both he and Jayson being exiled, Ivanore had admired his courage and felt obliged to repay him somehow. But over time, bitterness and an insatiable desire for vengeance had corrupted all the things Ivanore loved about her brother. There was blood on his hands now, and the voices of the dead afflicted Ivanore day and night.
Ivanore narrowed her eyes, studying every minute detail of the image. There must be something — some way to avert this coming tragedy. What if this vision was not inevitable? She might have the power to alter the future — if only she knew how.
A metallic clack disrupted Ivanore’s focus, and the image in the bowl dissolved. The iron lock released, and the heavy wooden door, the room’s sole entry, swung inward. Ivanore did not bother glancing up at her visitor. Instead, she returned to her bed and faced the wall.
“You won’t even look at me?” asked Arik, closing the door behind him. “Are we on such bad terms, dear sister?”
He paused, allowing Ivanore to respond. She chose to remain silent.
Arik crossed the room and dipped his hands into the bowl, raising a pool of water to his lips. Then he shook off the excess moisture.
“For a time, it seemed you’d forgiven me,” continued Arik. “At least you were congenial enough. You had no qualms about enjoying the food and fine clothing I provided you these past four years. But now you haven’t even a harsh word for me.”
Ivanore shivered beneath her quilt, but not from the cold. “I have only harsh words for you,” she said.
Arik clucked his tongue as he stepped to the bedside within Ivanore’s view. She avoided his gaze, however, preferring to avert her eyes. Seeing his face, the face that had once given her such joy to see, now made her ill.
“I played along with your game, Arik,” she said, “for no other reason than I thought you might have a change of heart and keep your word to send me home. I believed—I hoped—that you’d see reason, that you’d feel some remorse for killing Captain Dawes and taking me prisoner. And I kept on hoping until…”
Ivanore finally forced herself to lift her eyes to meet her brother’s. They had the same eyes, blue as the sky, though Arik’s had grown callous and cruel. Did he really feel nothing for those whose lives he had taken, or had he learned to block out the guilt, and was that the detachment she now saw in his eyes?
Arik blinked and looked away. Ivanore had touched a nerve, though it gave her only a glimmer of satisfaction.
“You disapprove of my methods,” Arik said.
“Disapprove? You’ve murdered innocent people!”
Arik’s visage changed suddenly, reddening with rage. “They were not innocent!” He pointed a rigid finger in Ivanore’s face. “They were traitors, every last one of them! Traitors to the realm of Hestoria—and to me.”
Ivanore gripped the quilt tighter. Arik’s anger frightened her. She had seen what he could do when his temper flared.
“You convinced yourself you were doing the right thing,” she said, careful to mask the uneasiness she felt. “And I believed your conscience would eventually shed light on the truth, but no. You’ve come to believe your own lies so fully, Arik, that now you kill for no more reason than that it pleases you.”
“Yes, it pleases me,” replied Arik. “It pleases me to hunt down your Guardians and destroy them.”
“All for a broken shard of crystal?”
“The crystal is everything. You have your dreams, your visions. But your powers are unreliable. You cannot tell me when an event will occur or where. You only tell me that it will occur. If I am going to succeed in invading Dokur and taking our father’s throne, my plans must be precise. I must know without any doubt how it will end.”
“I know how it will end.” Ivanore’s voice broke. She turned away, chastising herself for being weak. She had managed to keep her feelings in check until now and immediately composed herself, hiding them behind an unruffled expression. But she was not quick enough.
Arik leaned forward so that his face was level with Ivanore’s. “You’re trying to dissuade me. You want me to surrender, to give up my inheritance. Dokur is rightfully mine, Ivy.” Then he added with derision, “Of course, if you had a son, he would be king.”
Ivanore struggled against the emotion mounting inside of her. She pressed her eyelids together and clenched her teeth. “I had a son.”
“Oh, I nearly forgot. The mongrel. The child you sired with Jayson, that treacherous half-breed you call a husband. If it weren’t for him, I’d be in Dokur now preparing to ascend the throne. But no, you two had to go and make a baby together, robbing me of my chance to rule. And to repay my sacrifice, Jayson keeps the crystal from me.”
Arik’s lips trembled before turning into a forced grin. He reached up with one hand and stroked a strand of Ivanore’s hair. “At least father had the sense to kill the boy when he had the chance.”
He was speaking of her son, Kelvin, of course, whom she had led Arik to believe was dead. Fredric had tried to kill the child, but Ivanore had hidden him in a safe place with people whom she could trust. Both Kelvin and his younger brother remained on Imaness to this day. But the thought that Arik could feel any sort of pleasure at Kelvin’s demise drove heat to her head.
She could bear it no longer. Ivanore turned sharply and spat in her brother’s face.
Just as suddenly, Arik stuck her with such force that she fell back onto the bed. Her face stung painfully, drawing hot tears
to her eyes.
“I’m growing tired of your company, sister,” said Arik in a derisive tone. “I will say this once and once only. You have enjoyed my benevolence long enough. You will remain imprisoned here until you tell me where to find that crystal. And if I get tired of waiting—well, what is one more life to me? I must have that crystal, Ivy, and I’ll pay any price to get it.”
Ivanore swallowed back the anger and sorrow that threatened to overwhelm her. She took a moment to compose herself, to don the mask of complacency she normally wore. Then she sat up and faced Arik, letting her eyes settle on his, unwavering. For a moment, she almost relished the hint of uncertainty behind her brother’s eyes, but the horror of the truth she knew would not allow her to enjoy even a moment’s triumph.
Arik left the room without another word and locked it behind him, as he always did. But even once he had gone, she kept her eyes, brimming with tears, on the door.
“I know how all this will end,” she said, her voice still and her gaze unyielding. “It will end with your death.”
2
The streets of Nauvet-Carum were crammed with carts and wagons, each loaded to capacity with the most recent fall harvest. Corn, barley, pumpkins, and more bounced and rumbled in their individual piles as the vehicles bumped along the cobbled streets and vied for the best locations for the auction. Hundreds of potential buyers gathered in clusters at the foot of the Ministry’s steps. Many were merchants hoping to lay claim to a good deal to stock their shelves and stores, or to ship out to the island and to the villages farther up the coast. Others were local men and women with families to feed through the winter. All had money in their pockets and were eager to bargain or barter or trade.
The Crystal Keeper BoxSet Page 1
