Riven (Exile Book 2)

by Colleen Vanderlinden

  by Colleen Vanderlinden

  Published by Peitho Press

  Detroit, Michigan, 2016

  © 2016 Colleen Vanderlinden

  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, email the author at email@colleenvanderlinden.com.

  Contents

  Books by Colleen Vanderlinden

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  Note from Colleen

  Silent Witness

  About the Author

  Dedication

  To my readers.

  Thank you for joining me on

  these crazy journeys of mine.

  Chapter One

  “It’s not that I don’t agree with what you say, Princess Shannen,” the grizzled man said. “It’s just that this is a fool’s mission. You can’t hope to win, and anyone who follows you is suicidal or stupid. Quite possibly both.”

  Shannen took a breath and watched him. Everyone in the small, dark tavern was watching her for her reaction. She knew that. This was becoming routine, just like sleeping on the ground, or stinking like the bottom of a pig’s dinner trough, or being so hungry one starts deciding that tree branches look delicious. One more challenge. That was all.

  She glanced over her shoulder at Camille, her most trusted Maiden. She had just over a hundred people following her now, vowing to fight for her, vowing to help her win the crown that should have been hers all along. Her Maidens made up her inner circle, each of them, in their own way, just as devoted to this outlandish goal as Shannen herself.

  Camille gave a small roll of her eyes, but otherwise remained still and expressionless.

  Shannen turned back to the man, and, by default, the rest of the audience in the tavern as well. Around twenty people, mostly young men or men of middle age who had fought in her uncle’s endless wars, made up the patronage. The tavern keeper stood behind the bar, an eye on the door, a dagger on the bar’s marred top.

  The dagger was not meant for her. She knew that already. She knew which areas were more likely to side with her. This was her focus. These areas, forgotten, left behind while her uncle got richer and fatter, held the most anger. She would put it to use.

  “If you knew anything about me at all, you would know that I value my own ass above all others,” Shannen said. “If it was that hopeless, I would not be doing it.”

  The man shook his head. “Even if you get hundreds of us, we don’t have the kind of weapons your uncle’s army does. What are we going to do? Storm the palace with pitchforks and skinning knives?” He took a deep gulp of his ale. “And you can say what you want about your motivations and self-preservation, but word’s been spreading, Princess. You’re giving hope where there’s no reason for there to be any. You seem to believe this horseshit. You seem to believe you can win. You, a bunch of old men, and a bunch of girls. Some, not so girlish anymore,” he said, sliding a glance toward Camille. Camille was about twice Shannen’s age, wiry and thin from a life of hard work. She was also more than a little talented with the small knives she kept tucked into her sleeves. “You’re stirring up talk of rebellion. I’m surprised Edwell hasn’t sent someone after you already.”

  “Edwell’s afraid of her Maarlai husband,” one of the other men said.

  “The Maarlai are not involved in this. I left my marriage when I found out about my father’s final decree. He meant for me to lead, and I intend to. I broke not only my vows, but the treaty between our people and the Maarlai. So if Edwell is displeased with me, I assure you that many of the Maarlai are as well.”

  “They have nothing to fear, though. We do. This treaty was supposed to protect us from them—”

  “The Maarlai have already won,” Shannen interrupted. “That is ancient history, and they think of us hardly at all. Except, of course, when Edwell uses his brave soldiers to needlessly antagonize them.”

  “Maarlai apologist,” one of the men muttered.

  “I do not need to apologize for the Maarlai. I do not give a damn about them. My concern is our people, who are dying by the day, of starvation, or illness, or overwork, or in Edwell’s endless pointless raids against the Maarlai. He grows fat, and soft, and buys more jewelry and silk clothing, and where are all of you? Barely scraping by,” she finished, her voice dropping. “Edwell, who has never worked a day in his life. And I know, because until very recently, I had hardly worked a day in my life, either. You struggle, and he benefits. Why should we let that continue?”

  “So, what? We remove Edwell, even assuming we could, and you take the throne. Your reputation is well-known, Princess. You’re defiant. You like to make a fool of Edwell, which, believe me, is very much appreciated in these parts. You’ll take the throne, and you’ll sit there, growing fat and pampered on our backs,” the first man said.

  “Never.”

  One word. A duo of hissed syllables, and the tavern went absolutely still. Every eye now was on her, and she knew it. It was almost like putting on a play at this point. She knew when to be dramatic, when to be practical.

  “I will never be like him,” she said, maintaining her quiet tone. “I will be better. I will be worthy of the crown. I want to destroy him, and everything he stands for. We cannot keep going on this way.”

  The men and women in the tavern looked around, each trying to gauge how the others were taking her words. She had entered the tavern with five Maidens. The rest of her ragtag army was outside, arrayed in the woods and in the fields nearby. If things went awry, as they had a few times before, they would be ready to put down any attempt against her.

  “Edwell just put a bounty out on you,” one of the younger men said.

  “I know. It is not nearly enough,” Shannen said, tossing her head. The statement was greeted with chuckles from several in the tavern.

  “All of this is shit. As if you care about any of us,” the young man who had called her an apologist said, this time standing and looking directly at her. She sensed her Maidens tensing behind her and she held her hand out, calming them.

  “What is your name?”

  “That’s my business,” the man said. He was perhaps five years younger than Shannen herself. The dark beard on his face did little to obscure the long, vicious slash that went from on cheek, across his lips, and down to his chin.

  “It is. Do you know anything about me?” she asked.

  “Daughter of a former king, niece of another. That’s all I need to know,” he said.

  “Who gives a damn about my father? Do you know anything about my mother?”

  Shannen glanced around and noted that everyone in the tavern was now looking anywhere but at her. A few of the women seemed to be blushing.

  Shannen smirked. “Do not look so appalled. The stories are true. My mother was a prostitute. We lived in one of the slums just outside the palace. George visited often. My father,” she said, twisting the word. “When I was nine, he moved us into the palace. Maybe
he cared for my mother. I would like to think he did. Maybe he cared about me. I would not know. Maybe there was something noble in him, but I certainly never saw it. What I do know is that my father made enemies the way flies create maggots. And he hated Edwell enough that he created an immutable law, allowing women to lead. That was not done, I am sure, out of love for me,” she said with a laugh. “Everything my father did, he did because he wanted to win. Wars, women, family feuds… it did not matter. He knew that nothing would sicken Edwell more than having to hand the throne over to, not just a woman, but the daughter of a common whore.” She paced toward the large hearth, and then back again. “After my mother died, I was left to be raised by Edwell and his wife, the Queen. I knew they hated my mother. I made sure they knew that I hated them even more. And I did that until I was carted off as payment for Edwell’s peace of mind,” she finished.

  The tavern remained silent, every eye once again on her. “So do not presume to tell me that I have no idea what it is to be hopeless. I saw my mother abused so many times, and no one came to help. I saw her sick, and beaten, and exhausted. I saw everyone, man and woman alike, look down on my mother for doing what it took to support first herself, and then me as well. And my father, the King, did nothing. So do not deign to tell me what I know. Because what I know is that none of us deserve to live this way and this fight is worth it.”

  The tavern keeper cleared his throat. “This immutable decree you claim George wrote into law… it’s mighty convenient, don’t you think, that no one other than you and the Maarlai have ever seen it?”

  “It exists. Edwell would not have bothered with a bounty, otherwise. He wants me found, because he knows I pose a threat.”

  She let the silence grow for a few moments longer. “I am not saying it will be easy. I would never be foolish enough to tell you that. I am saying that we have the opportunity to do something that will quite literally change the world. Think of it. Your children might not have to toil the way you do. They would not be conscripted into some King’s army the second they can hold a sword. Your daughters, who are just as intelligent and capable as your sons, could have the opportunity to learn, to become something. If not for you, think about them.”

  “I’m never having children,” the young man with the scar muttered into his ale mug.

  Shannen did not know what to say to that. She would never have any either. She and Daarik, human and Maarlai, were incapable of reproducing together. She was not interested in becoming a mother.

  “Neither am I,” Shannen finally said. “Mostly, I just want the satisfaction of seeing Edwell lose. To me,” she added.

  The young man shook his head. “This is impossible.”

  “Not impossible,” Shannen argued. Somehow, she sensed that this man’s opinion mattered. She could see it, in the protective way the others watched him, the way their responses ended up mirroring his. “You do not have to like me. You just have to be sick enough of the way things are to agree to work together. I am not going to be asking anyone to kiss my ring, or my ass, for that matter. I am not asking for fealty. I am asking you to stand up and fight. We can do this.”

  “How? How can we even hope to win?” the tavern keeper said.

  “Edwell is soft. The guards at the palace are nearly as soft as Edwell himself. All the best soldiers are near the borders, waiting for Edwell’s commands in regard to dealing with the Maarlai. The King’s favorites, he keeps nearby. They are pampered, and bored, and have never faced a true battle. They are the sons of his privileged lords, more concerned with which maid they will bed next than anything else. If we can get a sizable, motivated force together, we can take the palace. I have no doubt we can do it,” Shannen said.

  She spoke to the tavern keeper, but she kept an eye on the young man. She noted the change in his posture as she’d spoken, the sharpness in his gaze.

  “You know this is treason,” the young man said.

  “I know. I just do not care,” Shannen said.

  The man’s shoulders rose, and fell, as if he had taken a deep breath. He stood again and took a few steps toward her, hand held out. She extended her hand, and they shook.

  “Smith. It’s the only name I have, only one I know. I’ll fight by your side,” he said, meeting her eyes with his dark ones.

  “An orphan,” Shannen murmured, and he nodded. Every orphan in the kingdom, and there were many, thanks to Edwell’s idiocy, was simply given the name “Smith” when they entered the orphanages. Most did not make it to adulthood, so there was not much point in bothering with real names. “Smith,” she had heard, had been one of the more common surnames in some parts of the world in the distant past. It was meant to be demeaning. They were nothing. Common. Forgotten.

  “Thank you, Smith,” Shannen said, and he nodded. After he let her hand go, most of the others in the tavern shook her hand and introduced themselves as well, vowing themselves to the cause. Those who would not join vowed to help in any way they could. Mostly, they vowed to keep to themselves what they had heard there that night.

  Shannen left the small village that night with fourteen more soldiers than she had had before, a long, sinuous line of them marching by weak moonlight through dusty fields and weed-tangled roadsides.

  “That was well done,” Camille said to her as they began looking for a place to camp during the day.

  “I was fairly sure it would come to bloodshed there for a moment,” Shannen replied.

  Camille grinned. “We would have won, either way.”

  Shannen shook her head, and they walked in silence for a while.

  “This next part of your plan…”

  “We have been over this already. Numerous times,” Shannen said.

  “I know. But I want to remind you again that it is a risk we do not need to take.”

  “The greater the risk, the greater the reward. Have a little faith, Camille.”

  “I have faith in the gods. You, my fearless leader, have to work a bit harder.” With that, she stepped away to speak to another of the Maidens, and Shannen pointed west.

  “We will halt there for the daylight hours,” she said, and her Maidens started passing the information down the line. A few minutes later, they reached what had, once upon a time, been some kind of storage place for large metal vehicles… automobiles, Shannen remembered seeing them called. Those history books, the ones written before the world had come crashing down a few hundred years before, had a lot of information about them. About how they had changed the world in so many ways.

  These were rusted, dusty. But they were shelter and this storage area stretched quite a distance in all directions. Some of the automobiles had been dismantled for metal, but even those still provided a place to sit. Somehow she knew that if there had been more people around, these would not be here at all.

  She tried not to think about that. She knew she would herald more bloodshed before it was all over, more human lives lost. But if they were ever to move forward, she could see no way to help it.

  She organized the watch schedule and watched as her soldiers settled in. Some slept on the ground, preferring the open sky to the metal confines of their available shelters. Some snuggled onto the seats of the autos, grateful for somewhere soft to sleep.

  Shannen did one more check of their makeshift camp, talked to Camille, and headed to a smallish auto to try to get some sleep. As she curled up on her side, her stomach growled and clenched, as if reminding her yet again that it was unused to going empty for so long. She knew sleep would not come. She ignored her stomach, but her thoughts went where they always did when she had a moment.

  Daarik. Her husband. Her heart. She was more surprised than anyone to find that she could care for someone the way she cared for him. She closed her eyes, praying to whatever gods listened to godless women that wherever he was, he was safe.

  The edge of Daarik’s ax struck home, finding the weak spot in the leather armor his opponent wore. That small spot, just under the arm, had been the death
of many.

  He tried not to remember running through the forest, this Maarlai at his side, their loud laughter scaring the birds from the trees. Taaren. He would drink to his memory later.

  He saw the startled look in Taaren’s eyes, watched his dark green complexion go instantly pale. Daarik fought back the urge to apologize to his childhood friend.

  “Why? Why choose this?” he asked instead. Taaren fell to the ground, holding his chest. Daarik knew that his blade had punctured vital organs. There was little time left. “Why?” Daarik asked again.

  “It’s us or the humans, old friend. Jarvik knows it. Everyone who fights for him knows it,” Taaren wheezed, face contorting in pain. “You and your army are the only ones foolish enough to think that we will not all die here, if we let the humans live.”

  “Jarvik lies,” Daarik said.

  Taaren shook his head. “You are a child,” he said, his voice sounding faraway and lost. “Mother save our people from you and your naive ideas. You will be the death of us all.”

  Daarik glared down at his old friend for several moments, watching as Taaren closed his eyes, as, finally, he was still.

  There would be no more laughter. The birds would never again be disturbed by Taaren Lionsbane, and Daarik had no time to mourn.

  He walked away, glancing at the ax in his hand, still stained with Taaren’s scarlet blood. They had parried, fought each other away from the main skirmish. Daarik listened as he walked. It was quiet. Quiet, now, meant death, and he sent a prayer to the Mother that it was his soldiers left standing.

  He quickly made his way to the clearing where they’d come upon the troop of Maarlai dissidents. A glance was all it took to ease his tension; the bodies scattered and still on the ground were not those of his brothers and sisters at arms. He glanced around, seeing his victorious soldiers arrayed around the clearing, never letting their guard down. Battle-hardened already, they had learned, in the past weeks, that war against your own blood, your own friends and family, was something none of them could have ever been prepared for.