Copyright © Gabriela Lavarello 2021
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information contact:
Gabriela Lavarello
http://www.gabrielalavarello.com
ISBN: 978-1-7361363-1-7 (hardback)
ISBN: 978-1-7361363-0-0 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-7361363-2-4 (ebook)
Cover illustration by Damonza © 2020
Map illustration by Travis Hasenour © 2020
For Ginny. Thank you for helping me take the next step in making this book a reality. I am forever grateful.
And for thirteen year old me who wanted to tell stories for a living. We did it.
Note
A pronunciation guide is provided at the back of the book, after the acknowledgments.
Contents
Prologue
1. Lorian
2. Tedric
3. Lorian
4. Finriel
5. Lorian
6. Tedric
7. Finriel
8. Tedric
9. Finriel
10. Finriel
11. Tedric
12. Finriel
13. Finriel
14. Krete
15. Aeden
16. Finriel
17. Madness
18. Lorian
19. Lorian
20. Tedric
21. Finriel
22. Tedric
23. Krete
24. Lorian
25. Finriel
26. Aeden
27. Lorian
28. Lorian
29. Aeden
30. Krete
31. Tedric
32. Aeden
33. Lorian
34. Finriel
35. Tedric
36. Tedric
37. Finriel
Acknowledgments
Pronunciation Guide
Untitled
Untitled
About the Author
Prologue
Firelight flickered across the storyteller’s silver eyes as he stared off into the distance, his mind far from the pub in which he was currently seated.
It was another peaceful night in a small village within Proveria, the fairy kingdom of Raymara. The moon was full, and the first day of fall would greet them with the rising sun. The smell of roasted lamb and old ale mixed with burning wood drifted through the storyteller’s nose, acidity from the ale the only thing tethering a small corner of his mind to reality.
The rest of his mind was consumed by the heavy burden recently laid upon him. The storyteller knew his orders, and he was about to act against them. An image of his employer flashed through his mind, and sharp pain lashed through his insides, causing his hand to knock his mug and slosh ale across the table. The storyteller cursed, partially at the reek of alcohol that now clung to his tattered grey robes, but also at the spell that bound him to pain if he ever even whispered the name of his employer.
The storyteller shook his head, fully bringing himself back into the small pub. He was almost surprised by the roar of conversation and hearty laughter that rang through his ears, and he looked around to find the pub now full. He must have been seated in his thoughts for hours, for the small rickety room had been nearly empty the last time he remembered. Now was the time, then. There were enough people to listen to his tale. The storyteller’s heart leaped into his throat as he wiped his ale-coated fingers along his ruined robes and opened his mouth to speak.
“I would like to tell a story of five beasts that existed before the war,” the storyteller’s low voice carried through the room. “They now only exist in books and nightmares.”
A large man wearing a frayed cloak turned his head from his stew and frowned at the silver-eyed storyteller. The other occupants of the pub followed suit, shaking their heads and whispering to one another.
“Raymara is a peaceful realm, as it has been for a thousand years,” the large man barked. “We are not interested in listening to your violent tales.”
The man was right, but Raymara had not always been a realm of peace. It was once a place of bloodshed and endless darkness, the War of Seven Kingdoms the foundation from which the thousand-year peace was built. It was a time when the seven kingdoms were in turmoil, the king or queen of each kingdom claiming themselves fit to rule the entire realm as their own. Legend had it that the five goddesses that created Raymara came to the land and aided in ending the war, thus eradicating all creatures of violence and creating a peace law that ended all turmoil and lasted until this very night. For that peace was soon to end.
“I agree with you,” a skeletal fairy woman slurred from a different table near the fire. “Why fill your head with such nonsense? Your terrible stories will only bring darkness to the realm once more.”
“It is not only a tale of terror and darkness,” the storyteller spat. “It is the future, and if you do not hear what I have to say, you will not be prepared for what is to come.”
The entire pub erupted with laughter, and anger boiled inside of the storyteller. He knew these foolish common folk in this unnamed village wouldn’t care to listen to him. The laughter continued, and soon mocking boos and sniggers began to intertwine with the noise. The storyteller clenched his pale hands and stood abruptly from his seat, not caring when his chair clattered to the floor.
He raised his voice and yelled over the racket, “You will all regret making a fool of me by the end of this night. Mark my words!”
The storyteller pushed through the sea of fairies and rushed toward a rickety flight of wooden stairs near the back of the room. He passed by the bar, where the rotund pub keeper was attempting to hold back a smile as he wiped down the gleaming mahogany.
The storyteller fumbled through his cloak pockets and fished out the single rusted key that the pub keeper had given him when he arrived earlier in the day. He muttered under his breath, not caring about his loud stomping or the questionable give of the steps under his feet. Once he reached the landing, he started blindly down the hall, barely stopping before he shoved the key into the keyhole of the last door of the walkway and turned his hand. The door did not budge. His roar echoed through the narrow hall as he slammed against the door with a bony shoulder.
The door burst open loudly and the storyteller stumbled into the room. He shut the door behind him with a bang and looked around his musty accomodations. It was mostly bare apart from a small cot in one corner, a desk against the wall to his left, and a small dirty window looking out over the small forested street of the village below.
The storyteller walked to the window and pushed it open with a creak. He was able to make out the figures of people milling about, preparing themselves for sleep as the sky darkened from navy to black. An eerie white glow was beginning to spill over the tall pines, the full moon nearly visible from the storyteller’s room.
Everything was calm, for now. The storyteller sighed and turned from the window, untying the leather buckle of his traveling cloak, which was thankfully saved from his spilled ale. He hadn’t eaten this night, yet he had to admit that was partially his fault for being lost in his thoughts for only the goddesses knew how long. He would have to sleep hungry.
The rough feeling of parchment grazed his fingers a
s he began to fold his cloak. He paused. His story had not been told, but that didn’t mean that he had failed at his mission. He could still carry out his task with charcoal and parchment.
Each stroke bit angrily into the parchment and yellow light sparked and glowed from the storyteller’s hand as he made long strokes and shaded in his creations. He knew the fate that was to fall upon Raymara. He was responsible for it. There would be five, and it would hopefully be enough. It would be the downfall of the realm, as well as the only way he could ensure a way out of the terrible things to come.
With one last flourish of charcoal, the storyteller leaned back in his chair and examined his work. A satisfied smile played at his lips as he looked at the drawings, each beast different and terrifying in its own way. He knew that once they were let out, the realm would never be the same. It would cause great fear amongst the people of every kingdom, yet he had sworn to let them out, sworn it with his own blood. Only not yet. He knew that his employer would be less than pleased to find out about his wrongdoings, but it was the only way. A shiver ran down his spine, followed by a spasm of pain in his abdomen, and the storyteller shook himself back to reality.
He set down the charcoal and stood from the rickety chair with a groan, the joints in his shoulders popping as he stretched his arms over the white mess of hair atop his head. His entire being begged for sleep and he realized just how much magic had drained from him as he staggered to the cot and sat, kicking off his worn boots.
The low burning candle upon the table winked and flickered as he settled into the thin mattress with a groan. It was not comfortable in the slightest, but it was much better than the forest floor that he had made his bed for the past few weeks.
“With the swift approach of midnight, the meager wax candle atop the old oak table went out with a puff of smoke.”
At the sound of the storyteller’s words, the candle extinguished with a small puff of smoke, leaving the room dark spare a long beam of silver light that filtered from the window. The storyteller closed his eyes, the last remnants of the beasts galloping, roaring, and slashing through his mind before sleep overtook him.
Smoke.
His eyes flew open, the sounds of screams and roars coming from the street below grating his ears. He coughed and looked to the window, realizing that his scratchy throat was due to smoke streaming silently through the crack he had left open.
The storyteller leaped from the cot and tugged on his boots. He took two long strides to the window and stuck his head out to find a horrifyingly magnificent scene below. The thatched rooftops were ablaze and dark figures of people were running and screaming frantically through the street. A grotesque horned creature with dark red flesh chased after a young man, its ear-splitting scream sending a shiver down the storyteller’s spine. A flash of something below the window caught his eye, and a curse flew from his lips at the sight of a scaly emerald green tail disappearing around the corner. The storyteller was barely able to register what he saw before a cacophonous, bone-chilling roar sounded from the sky.
The storyteller’s blood went cold as he looked up to find an enormous black dragon silhouetted in the full moon, its giant membranous wings flapping as it circled the village. Two long ivory horns protruded from the top of its head and large spikes lined the length of its spine. Black dragons had been extinct for a thousand years, but the storyteller found that he wasn’t surprised in the least to see the beast.
A sickening feeling went through his bones as he turned and lunged for the desk, already knowing what he would find. He muttered a few words and the candle sputtered to life, the weak flame giving him enough visibility to ruffle through the pages strewn across the desk. A shaky breath escaped from his parted lips as he took up one of the now blank pages of parchment, not even a mark of charcoal giving evidence to the beasts that had been carefully drawn upon them mere hours ago.
As if in confirmation, a loud crash, followed by the sounds of what seemed like hundreds of small men chattering to each other, echoed on the other side of his closed door. He held his breath and listened as the voices stopped and the stomp of dozens of little feet made their way down the hall and out of earshot.
A nervous laugh escaped the storyteller’s mouth, and he threw the pages back onto the desk. It had worked. His creations had come to life by the powerful magic of his dreams. His stomach dropped, and he knew that the prophecy had now been set into motion. The storyteller was supposed to be glad of the chaos, for it meant he was one step closer to getting what he wanted, but he found only fear and bile in his stomach. He needed to get out of this pub before the dragon he created set it on fire.
The storyteller flung on his cloak and reached down toward the pages, yet his fingers faltered. Best to deliver these to the fairies, he thought. He would make sure the other three pages would be sent to the right hands.
With a shaky curse, the storyteller folded three empty pages into one pocket and two in the other before moving toward the door. He needed to leave before the fairy guards found him. They would likely arrive shortly, so he needed to be swift and careful as he left. With a final spell, the candle was blown out, and only the echoes of screams and a whisper of smoke remained as the storyteller closed the door behind him with a soft click.
1
Lorian
The stench of death and other ungodly smells clung to Lorian Grey’s nose, and his stomach threatened to empty the small amount of stale bread and cold soup he’d been given that day.
He’d forgotten what day it was, or how many days he’d been locked in the damp dungeon of Crimson Castle, the king’s home within Crimson City, Keadora’s capital.
Lorian had waltzed into the witch kingdom knowing very well that the mission he’d been given was a fool’s errand, and yet he found himself surprised to still be in a cell. No one had ever tried to steal the bloodstone before, a witch relic from the days during the War of Seven Kingdoms. Lorian had never cared for history or fairytales, but he knew the legend of the bloodstone. It was said to have been gifted to the first Red King by Adustio, the sun goddess and creator of witches and humans. For thousands of years, the bloodstone had been passed down from one Red King to another, never to leave the possession of the most ancient witch bloodline and dynasty in the realm.
Everyone knew that stealing the bloodstone could never be done, but what was a little danger to Lorian? A chuckle rumbled through his emaciated body. He knew that he was fearless, but accepting this mission from the nameless bandit lord had erred on the side of foolishness.
Lorian looked down and clenched his dirt-encrusted hands with a shiver of frustration. He needed to get out, and he needed to get out soon. The cramped cell that he had been thrown into was dim and dirty, with only a pile of damp straw in a corner that he used as a bed. A small crack in the far wall was his only source of natural light and fresh air.
The floor under his filthy boots vibrated, and Lorian rolled his eyes at what he now knew was the opening and closing of the dungeon entrance. The stomp of heavy boots against stone soon echoed through the walls, but there was something different. Lorian shot his head up and leaned toward the cell bars. He careened his head toward the hall to his right, carefully avoiding the sight of the cell directly across from his. That cell was home to a rotting corpse that had been there since he’d arrived, which partially gave credit to the terrible stench holding thick in the air.
Lorian narrowed his attention to find the shadowy figures of three men approaching. One guard would have been normal, for it was the typical sign that his tasteless meals were coming for him. Three men meant something entirely different, yet he wasn’t quite sure what. Lorian stood to his feet, gripping the cold metal bars for support and forcing himself to remain upright.
Their faces came into view and Lorian nearly cried out in relief. It was the fair-haired commander of the Ten, the Red King’s most uniquely skilled and trained warriors. The Ten had been the ones to capture Lorian, so he wasn’t surprised when the co
mmander flashed him a humorless grin of recognition. Two stony-faced guards flanked him on either side, and a loop of gleaming keys jangled between the commander’s gloved fingers.
“Ah,” Lorian began, his low voice cracking from lack of use, “I must say, it is a delight to see your terribly handsome face again.”
The commander’s grin widened a fraction as he approached the cell, his tall muscular frame towering over Lorian’s own frail body even though they were nearly the same height. The man’s black armor made his wide chest and arms all the more intimidating, and he looked Lorian up and down before shoving a key into the cell’s large padlock.
“I think you look much better since I found you falling from the Red King’s throne,” the commander replied, and jerked his chin at the guards.
They entered the now open cell and an especially sour-faced guard shoved Lorian forward. He stumbled and let out an involuntary wheeze, inwardly cursing at his body’s protest to the sudden movement. The guards took their places at either side of Lorian, each grabbing one of his shoulders tightly.
Lorian found that the smell of death slowly faded as they made their way through hallways faintly lit by witchlight, the click of the guard’s shining boots echoing through the stone walls. Every joint in his body groaned in protest with each step they took through the nearly deserted dungeons. Every few cell doors, a grime-streaked hand reached out through the bars toward them. Most of the poor souls locked in the cells were likely even more innocent than Lorian was, which wasn’t very hard to achieve. Raymara was a peaceful land, after all, and being a thief was one of the most dangerous and illegal professions that existed.
Of Liars and Thieves Page 1
