by L. P. Dover
I rolled as a sentry grew too near, using my foot to catch him behind the knees. He went down, and I scrambled for his sword with my bound hands.
The guard recovered quickly, flipping abruptly, his fist connecting with my face. Blood spewed from my nose as he grabbed me by the throat.
“You fiend!” he hissed. It was the guard from the dungeon. “He was my friend!” He pulled his sword, lifting it up to strike. I didn't look away. The sword hissed downward.
Another blade met his, the cling deafening.
“Not today, soldier,” Kye's voice cried out. I fell aside as Kye's blade withdrew before making contact with the guards' arm.
I brought my bound hands to my nose, staunching the flow of blood.
“Here,” Lochlen called.
I looked up to find the dragon looming over me, a claw extended, and I reached up to rub the rope against the sharpened tip. The fibers fell away.
“Now, come! We must go!”
Lochlen's insistence fed my urgency, and I scrambled to my feet. Soldiers were pouring now from the palace. Another shadow fell over the courtyard. Fire shot down from the sky. I knew who it was without looking. Feras.
“Climb up!” Lochlen bellowed.
I stared at him.
He lowered his head. “Now, Stone!”
“You want me to ride you?” I asked. “Me?”
Smoke curled up from Lochlen's nostrils.
“Now is a bad time to act all humbled by it. Get on!”
I used Lochlen's horn to scramble onto his back, my legs scraped by his rough scales. Kye was right about one thing. Riding dragons was not comfortable.
Lochlen spread his wings as I scanned the courtyard. Most of the spectators had scattered, and Kye was standing in the open, his arms raised, his hands wrapped around the hilt of a sword. His eyes were on the king.
“I will destroy you, Father. This promise I make you now. For Medeisia!”
And with that, the sword hissed downward, sticking solidly in the mud in front of the balcony. An archer was poised nearby, and his arrow flew. I opened my mouth to scream just as Feras flew down, using his claws to pull Kye up into the air. The arrow moved through empty space.
“The other prisoners!” I cried.
I leaned over Lochlen's neck, my eyes going to the scaffolding. Three people still stood there, the nooses loose around their neck. A fourth hung dead. It was a young man, and I turned my head away.
“We have to give them a chance,” I begged.
A rumble moved up through my legs.
“I had to get the rider with a conscious,” Lochlen complained, but he flew down anyway, fire burning the remaining ropes.
“Hold tight!” he growled.
I laid flat against his scales, my cheeks digging into the rough surface as I hung onto a ridge on his neck. Lochlen dove, legs first. A loud crack, a jerk, and the castle drawbridge was torn open. It fell to the ground, the mechanism holding it closed, broken. People poured out of the courtyard and into the villages beyond.
Lochlen lifted and Feras flew beneath us, Kye on his back. Somehow he'd scrambled upward.
“It's the best I can do,” Lochlen said before taking to the skies.
“To the forests!” Kye yelled down to the prisoners.
I glanced behind me. The palace was in chaos. The scaffolding was on fire. Bodies lay on the ground, some of them unmoving. The king stood, his face black with rage. And there in the midst of it all stood Kye's stolen sword, standing firm in the soil, a symbol of defiance.
Chapter 34
Two full days later we were back in the rebel camp, scrubbed clean from a quick stop at Feras' cave. The hot water from the pool within the cavern had felt good against the bruises marring my skin, and I'd scrubbed hard, tears pouring down my cheeks. No amount of scouring could erase the scars. Kye spoke not a word.
Another week passed inside the forests, and new marked folk entered the camp, their faces ashen. Some of them had been prisoners in the same courtyard Kye and I had escaped. Jule was among them, and she ran to her son, letting Brennus lift her into an embrace that melted my already wounded heart.
News spread fast after that, and Kye's heritage was soon revealed, his royal blood a bone of contention among the rebels. Many trusted him, others didn't. Still, Kye didn't speak, his face hard. He had occasional conversations with small groups of rebels, but often he disappeared among the trees. I didn't seek him out. I was licking my own battle wounds and suffering my own nightmares.
Still another week passed. I sat now within the small tent in the camp, my bed roll unused next to me, my abused face no longer swollen but still discolored. I wore a new green tunic, my short, curly hair a wild halo on my head. My tent flap was open, and I sat with my knees up, my eyes watching as the sun rose on yet another new day. Pink and yellow sunlight lit up the dew, and mist curled along the ground. The wind blew, carrying a crispness that lifted my curls and brushed the abrasions on my face.
“We are with you,” the trees whispered.
Kek, kek, a falcon called.
A shadow moved along the tent's fabric, and a wolf's snout was suddenly visible through the flap followed by the undeniable white mark on his silver pelt as Oran pushed his head through. He crawled forward, his fur brushing my tunic as he laid his nose across my knees. He was offering comfort, and I took it. I closed my eyes as I dug my fingers into his coat, lowering my face so that it rubbed against his fur.
There were footsteps beyond the tent.
When I opened my eyes, I saw Kye standing before the trees. He wore black leather breeches, and a white tunic that fell open, untied. He stood out in a forest full of green-clad rebels. Brennus walked past him, his gaze going to the prince, but Kye didn't look up. His head was down.
Another brisk wind crept through the clearing, and I watched as Kye's tunic lifted, the new criss cross scars on his back clearly visible before the shirt rested again. My magic could heal wounds, but scars would always remain. The prince and his map of scars.
Kye finally moved then, his gaze sweeping the men and women who'd begun walking through the camp. I could hear fires being stoked, the smell of food wafting through the area as Ena scolded Nikalia for stealing bread. An arrow hissed. Two swords met, the clang both comforting and terrifying.
I closed my eyes again, my fingers playing softly with Oran's ears.
“The forest is always with you. We share your pain,” the wolf promised.
I exhaled. The trees whispered.
When I opened my eyes next, it was to find Kye turned, his gaze on the tent flap, on me. I stared back. Neither of us moved. Kyenar Grenville Berhest, son of Raemon Berhest VII, tyrant king of Medeisia. His face was shaved, his black hair just brushing the collar of his white tunic. The scar on his temple was stark, his high cheekbones shadowed by weariness. Scars ran along his chest, the most prominent on his lower right abdomen.
“Kye!” a high voice yelled. Maeve.
The prince looked away, his gaze moving to the sweet-faced girl running toward him, a smile plastered on her face.
“The rebels are gathered just as you asked.”
Kye nodded, and he stepped away without another backward glance. I stirred then, my legs stiff, my muscles sore.
“Come,” I told Oran.
We moved beyond the tent. In the open, Kye stood before a group of weapon wielding rebels, a sword in the ground near his hand. He leaned on it.
“Our country suffers,” he said. “More people are marked daily. Children are being taken away from their parents, and the king is spreading lies that will start a war with a nation much larger than ours. It is our job to stop them.”
I moved quietly through the camp, skirting the clearing, the wolf beside me.
“And what do we do?” Warwick asked.
Kye looked at him.
“We train, we gather more marked folk, and we fight. Thanks to a rebel among us, we know now what the king plans to do to start war with Sadeemia. We stop
him.”
“How?” another man asked. I made a mental note to introduce myself to him, to find out if he had a family.
Kye began making marks in the dirt with the sword at his hand, his words echoes in my brain. His plan would take all of us on a journey we may not return from. It would take us out of the protection of the forest. It could kill us. It could redeem us.
“We go to war,” Kye said finally. “Win or lose, we will return from it free.”
His eyes moved over the people before him, searching each man and woman before pausing on a new face. It was the face of one of the prisoners who'd stood on a barrel next to us in Aireesi.
“Ludwick,” he said.
The man nodded, moving through the rebels, a pot of ink and a metal prong in his hand. My eyes widened as Kye knelt, his arms held out in front of him.
“On one wrist, I take the mark of the scribe. On the other, I will bear the mark of the mage,” Kye announced.
There was no sound. There was only astonishment, wide eyes, and a new acceptance. In Aireesi, a king sat on the throne, his people ruled by fear. But in the forest, a new king was being initiated. A king of the people, his crown a tattoo.
Ludwick knelt next to him, the metal prong dipped in ink. Kye stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched. He didn't make a sound when the point pierced his skin.
I moved closer, my eyes on the prince's wrist. An inkwell began to appear, lines drawn through it, cracks.
The marked folk in the camp who bore the mark of the scribe knelt, their heads low as Ludwick removed the prong. He moved to Kye's other side.
Again, ink met skin, a burning star beginning to materialize. Blood dripped onto the ground, mixing with the soil below Kye's hand.
I inched closer.
The marked folk in the camp who bore the mark of the mage knelt, their heads lowered. Silence reigned.
I stood behind the prince now, my eyes meeting Ludwick's. He was an older man with grey hair beginning to appear at his temples. He was short, his otherwise brown hair thin on the back of his head. He clung to the pot and prong, his expression unsure.
I lifted my wrist.
“I bear the mark of the scribe,” I said suddenly.
Heads lifted. Kye stood, his teeth clenched against the pain I knew he was feeling now in his arms. His gaze moved down to meet mine, and I raised my right hand.
I inhaled. “I'm now asking for the mark of the mage.”
I didn't look at anyone as I knelt, my hand held out. I think I was afraid I'd be refused, but Kye must have nodded because Ludwick knelt next to me.
A hand settled on my opposite shoulder. I knew it was Kye's without looking up. The metal prong dug into my skin. I stared hard at the ground, my jaw tight.
“A scribe,” Kye said softly, “with the powers of a mage.”
When the prong finally lifted, I exhaled, but I didn't stand.
“What makes you think we could win this war?” someone asked suddenly.
Kye's hand tightened on my shoulder.
“Because we have something the king doesn't have,” Kye answered.
“What's that?” the same person asked.
Kye didn't hesitate, his gaze heavy now on my back.
“We have the phoenix of peace.”
About the Author
R.K. Ryals is the author of emotional and gripping young adult and new adult paranormal romance, contemporary romance, and fantasy. With a strong passion for charity and literacy, she works as a full time writer encouraging people to "share the love of reading one book at a time." An avid animal lover and self-proclaimed coffee-holic, R.K. Ryals was born in Jackson, Mississippi and makes her home in the Southern U.S. with her husband, her three daughters, a rescue dog named Oscar the Grouch, A Shitzsu named Tinkerbell, an OCD cat, and a coffee pot she honestly couldn't live without. Should she ever become the owner of a fire-breathing dragon (tame of course), her life would be complete. Visit her at http://rkryals.com/ or subscribe to R.K. Ryals' Newsletter
Other works available:
The Scribes of Medeisia
Mark of the Mage
Tempest
Fist of the Furor
City in Ruins (Coming 2014/2015)
The Redemption Series
Redemption
Ransom
Retribution
Revelation (Coming 2014)
The Acropolis Series
The Acropolis
The Labyrinth
Deliverance
The Thorne Trilogy
Cursed
Possessed
Dancing with the Devil (Coming 2014)
The Singing River
Retaliation Bridge (Coming 2014)
Book Three
Frey by Melissa Wright
Frey
Melissa Wright
Copyright 2014 by Melissa Wright
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Chapter One
Frey
Crap! I stubbed my toe on a root, one of the pitfalls of living in a tree. It throbbed and I slammed the door in frustration.
It only took a moment to realize what I'd done.
I picked up the pace as Aunt Fannie’s curses came screaming through the closed door. She was determined not to let me forget what a burden it had been to take me in, even if it took every spare ounce of her energy to do it.
My mouth twisted at the thought, and I shifted to a run until I reached the little outcropping of rock on the west side of the village.
I was still thinking about it when I slowed to climb through the brush in back of Junnie's house, but once my fingers trailed the cool rock surrounding the structure, it mostly fell away. When it felt as if I could breathe again, I rapped two quick and then one loud knock on the small wooden door. It was the one sure way she’d know it was me. A wisp of bright blond hair swirled around Junnie's shining eyes as the door swung open, and I decided I must have caught her working; she looked flustered.
Junnie was much older than I, but remained striking with the blond hair, blue eyes, and thin features that seemed to be standard issue in the village. They had assigned her as my tutor, citing my age as the reason I couldn’t learn with the others, but I suspected it was more my stunning lack of ability that had landed me here.
Junnie brushed a lock of hair aside. “There you are, my Fredora!” She was always trying out new nicknames for me. It was no secret I despised my given name: Elfreda Georgiana Suzetta Glaforia. I decided, not for the first time, my father must have been a drunken imp. Not that I could remember him, but I could definitely blame him because the father was always responsible for naming the first born. I mean, how could you get more unoriginal than to be named for the ancient word meaning "elf"? And as if that wasn't bad enough, it was followed by two ridiculous middle names, only to end in a flourish with my surname.
I put on a brave face. “Hey, Junnie. What’s on the schedule for today?”
She smiled. “How do you feel about studying the lineages?”
She knew I hated trying to memorize the endless pages of names and dates. I groaned in protest and she said, “Well, let’s get to it then,” as she led me through the tiny living area toward the back room.
Junnie didn’t have or need a great deal of space. Much like me, she was practically alone. Unlike me, her family had all received the calling, “a higher purpose to serve elfkind.” I didn’t know precisely what that meant, only that the elf generally left with fanfare and almost never returned in less than a hundred years.
It was apparently a very honorable thing, tho
ugh she never seemed proud.
Just off the living area was the study, larger than the front room, stuffed full of documents and lit by a pair of dim lanterns. Dark as it was, I could still see dust covering all the decrepit scrolls and books. I could never understand why elves were so clean and bright until it came to their studies. Those rooms were always sprinkled with age and whenever the elf pulled out a volume, their eyes gleamed and they dramatically blew away the dust. I’d swear they did it on purpose.
Resigned to my task, I settled onto a stool and leaned forward, propping an elbow on the table.
I didn't know how long I sat so, head down over a huge volume entitled The Great Elves of Varkenshire, pretending to read while I stared at a small thistle. It was lying on the table among some other potion ingredients, and quite unexpectedly, I realized it had begun to extend its leaves. I was more than a little startled; Junnie was wrapped up in a lengthy scroll across the room and couldn’t have possibly been the source. I had never seen anything grow on my account, so I concentrated solely on the thistle, eyeing each tiny spike.
I knew the magic, though it had never worked for me before. As I watched, the leaves turned up and the head began to green … the stem reached out new roots … new buds began to form.
I gasped.
Junnie swirled around. “What? What did you find?”
"No, I was just… there was a thistle here…” I glanced down, aware now that it was all that had developed. The bulbs and seedlings were undisturbed, and I couldn't help but think, Oh sure, the weed grows.
Junnie was across the room in a flash. She eyed the changed thistle and then, briefly, me, but when I tried to meet her gaze, it shifted to the wall of books. “Well, good for you, Frey. Your efforts are finally paying off.”
