by Morgan Rice
“Then what are we still doing out here?” Imogen asked, just a little coyly. “Shouldn’t we be heading back to the house? Unless there’s a reason you want to keep me alone out here?”
Henry swallowed, unable to keep his mind from following the path that Imogen’s tone suggested.
“I’m out here making preparations,” Henry said. “If Ashton has fallen, then it’s finished. I want to declare this the new seat of the kingdom’s rule.”
“Our little estate?” Imogen asked, raising one perfect eyebrow.
Henry laughed at that. “Little? It’s one of the largest estates in the kingdom. You have a house that’s only one step from being a castle, and a town nearby that could billet an army without a problem.”
“Will it need to?” Imogen asked, suddenly serious.
Henry nodded. “I can’t see another way to deliver justice.”
“Still so driven,” Imogen said. Her hand came up to brush his cheek. “You know, when I discovered that you were out near the family burial plots, I thought you might have done it for me. Do you remember the time we sneaked into your family’s crypt together while my family visited yours?”
Henry could remember every heart-pounding, breath-stealing moment of it. Goddess, but he wanted Imogen in that moment. He moved closer to her, her knowing smile saying that she knew exactly what he had in mind as they pressed back against the side of a mausoleum…
“I can’t,” Henry said, pulling back. “We can’t. Loris is your husband, and one of my closest friends.”
“I’m not sure he’d mind,” Imogen said. “I swear he spends as much time with the stable hands as with me. He must think I don’t know, and turnabout is fair play.”
Henry knew Loris well enough to know that there was every chance Imogen was telling the truth. Even so…
“It isn’t the same thing,” he said. “Not when it’s you and me. And I can’t afford to let anything get in the way of what I have to do. And this… it wouldn’t be right. You understand, Imogen?”
Her sigh said that she understood all too well. “Henry d’Angelica, the one member of his family cursed to actually do the right thing. I don’t know if it makes you tiresome or gallant. Still, the last thing I want is for you and Loris to end up fighting some kind of duel over me. But… you can’t deny what you want forever, Henry.”
“What I want right now is justice for my cousin,” Henry said.
“And how does being here get that?” Imogen asked, smoothing down her dress. “If you’re not out here to remind me of old times, I assume that you came out here for a reason? A good reason, if you’re not hurrying back to help Loris greet the lords and ladies who can offer you support.”
“There’s something here,” Henry said. “Something that’s part of the reason that I came to your estate.”
“You mean besides the size, the town, and the defensible walls?” Imogen said. “Don’t look so surprised. I was listening.”
“Apart from that,” Henry said.
Imogen shrugged. “I assumed it was because Loris and I were your closest friends, and you needed somewhere to go. I hoped it might have something to do with my being here.”
“All of that,” Henry said, not wanting to hurt Imogen’s feelings any more than he probably already had. “But there’s something else. Something I’ve been looking for that I think can help us to win this.”
“And you didn’t mention it before?” Imogen said. “I’d have thought somewhere around the time you were declaring yourself the rightful king would have done it.”
“I wanted to be certain,” Henry said. “I’ve been reading old books, looking at old paintings, and, well, about a dozen other things besides. I wanted to be certain that I’d found it before I did anything.”
“That you’d found what?” Imogen asked.
Henry smiled and went over to a mausoleum that looked both older and plainer than the rest. A plaque on the side declared it the final resting place of Lord Thomasin, cousin to the Third Duke of Axshire. Without waiting to see Imogen’s reaction, Henry lifted a foot and slammed it into the door.
“Henry! You can’t just—”
Henry kept kicking until he heard a crack from the door. He tore at it, wrenching it open.
“Henry!”
“I’ll explain in a minute, Imogen,” Henry said, throwing the tomb open to the light. The interior of the mausoleum was mostly empty, save for a figure on a slab, armor long since rusted, flesh reduced to bones. Only a spear by its side shone brightly, as unblemished now as the day it had been forged. Henry reached in to lift it out.
“Put that back,” Imogen insisted, looking horrified. “Henry, you’ve really gone too far. If Loris were here…”
“Then he might recognize the name of such a famous ancestor,” Henry said, lifting the spear. The balance was perfect, the head broad. “Although I must say that the name threw me off the scent a little. Lord Thomasin, the third cousin of the Duke? That’s a polite way of saying the family was so embarrassed by him that they wouldn’t even use the name everyone knew.”
Imogen paused. “All right, I’ll bite, but this had best be good. Who in the Masked Goddess’s name is Lord Thomasin meant to be?”
“He was better known as Thom Witchbane,” Henry said.
He saw Imogen’s eyes go wide.
“But that means that’s…”
“Witchsnare,” Henry said. “My parents obviously never told me the stories, but one of the servants used to until he was dismissed. A spear that could shield the wielder from the powers used against him, and slow a nearby witch to human speed. With this, a fight with one becomes a duel against an equal.”
Imogen looked at the spear as if she couldn’t believe it was there. “I thought those were just children’s tales,” she breathed. “But if this is real, we could kill the Master of Crows.”
Henry nodded, although it wasn’t what he was thinking. With a spear like this, he could do far more. It would be his instrument of justice. It would be the spear that killed Sophia Danse.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
The Master of Crows stood, furious at the impotence of his armies. Around him, cannons roared, muskets barked, and men charged forward at Stonehome. None of it appeared to make the least dent in the walls of power the place had conjured.
A raven fluttered down from its circling flight, landing on his outstretched arm. It croaked its displeasure in a tone that was all too easy to understand, even without the mental connection that he had to his birds.
“I know,” he said, switching to a tongue old enough that most of his soldiers wouldn’t understand even if they heard it over the sounds of the battle. “I know you’re hungry.”
The raven croaked again, and the need was there once more.
“I know,” the Master of Crows said. “What more do you want from me?”
In answer, the raven faced toward the settlement. Unexpectedly, the bird darted toward the Master of Crows as he stood there staring, pecking at his cheek, reigniting the agony of the burn there.
“You dare!” he said, flinging the bird from him and drawing a pistol.
The bird caught its balance and hopped away without even glancing at him. The Master of Crows thought about putting a lead ball through its heart, but that wouldn’t do anything about the great, hungry mass of other corvids there; wouldn’t stop the constant need they had for more power.
“They call me your master,” he whispered. “I have no more mastered you than another man has mastered the need to drink.”
The birds gave so much, but the demand from them was constant, pressing, never fading. Here and now, he could feel it gnawing at him, the presence of the child so close like leaving a feast near wolves. He turned to an aide.
“Summon my captains,” he demanded.
It took longer than it should, because he didn’t want to risk sending the message through his creatures.
“Tell me why an army that has just crushed a city with ease canno
t take a glorified village,” he demanded.
“My lord, we could do so,” a captain of the horse said; the Master of Crows thought his name was Armand. “But there appears to be no way through that… barrier.”
“Walls can be broken, can they not?” he insisted.
“Not by any method we’ve tried,” Charlin, his commander of engineers, said. “Cannon shot bounces off. Mortars could fire over, but wouldn’t bring it down. We could try to undermine the wall, but there is no guarantee that it doesn’t go down to the bedrock, and on a moor like this, it’s poor mining conditions anyway.”
“Excuses,” the Master of Crows said.
“With respect, my lord,” Captain Nars, who saw that witches were brought to him, said. “This appears to be a matter of magic. Could you perhaps do something?”
“If it were that easy, don’t you think I’d have done it?” he snapped back. How could he explain the difficulty of pushing against the power of a whole community of those with magic? He’d been able to bring down the mist, but only by forcing his power against the weakest of those holding it. Even that had felt as though it cost too much.
All of this was costing too much.
“Go back to your units,” he commanded. “I will think on what to do next.”
The men went, and the Master of Crows went over to the spot where his aides were erecting his command tent. He went into it, sitting in a camp chair and trying to think. That was harder to do than it should have been, with his cheek throbbing as it was.
So much had gone wrong since the start of the attack on Ashton. There had been this wall, and the constant, harrying attacks on his forces before that. There had been the cannon blast that had forced him to fling himself into cover, and that had made him pick shrapnel out of his flesh even then. Before that, there had been the escape of so many of the people who were to be his prey, because he’d been overeager in his need to get to the child. Then there had been the child itself, and that burning, agonizing touch…
“You,” he snapped, pointing at an aide. “Fetch me a mirror.”
“My lord?” the man said.
“A mirror, now!”
The aide hurried to obey, coming back with a silver-handled hand mirror that he might have used to shave himself. The Master of Crows looked into its depths, ignoring most of what he saw there, because that never changed. His face was the same now as it had been when this began, so many years before.
Except for one thing.
The burn mark stood out an angry red against his skin, almost puce against his normal pallor. It was small, but it hurt like a thing a dozen times its size. A tiny dot of blood stood at the center where his raven had pecked him, while the overall shape of it was unmistakable:
A palm print. Sophia Danse’s child had marked him with its very touch, branded him like a common criminal, left the kind of mark that another child might leave with paint and paper and fingers, only with power and flesh and pain.
The Master of Crows roared, snatching up the mirror and flinging it to shatter on the other side of the tent.
“My lord, is everything all right?” the aide asked.
“Is everything all right?” the Master of Crows mimicked, like a mynah bird mocking someone. “Is everything all right?”
He stood, drawing a blade and stabbing the man, once, twice, a third time, the knife sliding in and out of flesh as easily as it might have cut through paper. The man fell, and the Master of Crows snapped his fingers, summoning birds to fall upon his dying flesh. As they fed, he felt the trickle of power from it, and he threw that power at the wound, willing it to heal.
He could tell without asking for another mirror that it made no difference.
“No one has wounded me like this,” he muttered. “And yet a child does?”
He had survived battles with foes who could have killed any lesser being. He had outlived the witch of the fountain in the long game. His birds had devoured armies. He had cut one of Lars Skyddar’s children to pieces with the sword and seen two more dead before him.
It wasn’t enough.
“Go to the officers,” he commanded. “Give the order that we will pull back to Ashton.”
None of the men dared to even express surprise, although they probably had every reason to. It was a decision that looked mad, but the truth was that madness would have been staying here, wasting his army and his power on a wall that could not be broken through.
“I’ve wasted enough time and enough power for one child,” he said.
One very special child. One child who even now shone like a beacon in the eyes of his crows. If he were able, the Master of Crows would devour that child’s power and hope it was enough to finally sate his birds’ appetites. He couldn’t, though, so the sensible thing was to withdraw, rule in Ashton, and marshal his power until he could think of a way to get what he wanted. He would rule a ghost of a city, until the time came when he could take the child.
Then he would feast, and nothing would stop him.
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
“One of you must die,” the voice said, “or the door will remain shut, and the walls will remain in place. You will all die together.”
Sophia threw herself at it mentally, marshalling the power that she had, trying to reach past the walls. Nothing happened.
“You have a lot of power,” the voice said. “Enough to reshape the world for the better. Do you want to die along with your siblings? Do you want to never see your daughter again?”
Sophia hated that thought, but it wouldn’t leave her head, and the voice wouldn’t leave her alone.
“You were going to come here, find your parents, and go back to your child,” it said. “You do want to see her again? And Sebastian? Imagine what it would be like to see Sebastian again, to hold him…”
It was all too easy to imagine.
“Then choose, Sophia,” the voice said. “It shouldn’t be that hard. You’ve sent people to their deaths before.”
“In battle,” Sophia said. “And they had a chance.”
“Did they?” the voice asked. “You knew how dangerous it was, but you did it anyway. How many people died in Ashton just so you could see Sebastian again? What’s one more?”
“They’re my family!” Sophia said.
“Violet is your daughter,” the voice replied. “Do you think Kate or Lucas wouldn’t happily sacrifice themselves so that you could see her again? If some unbeatable foe ran at you now, wouldn’t one of them give their lives so that you could go back to your daughter?”
“That’s not the same,” Sophia said, feeling the agony as she stood there.
“It’s exactly the same,” the voice said. “You have so many people waiting for you, depending on you. Lucas has nothing. Kate can never be what you are. Choose, Sophia. Choose, choose, choose…”
“Me!” Sophia said, crying even as she made the choice. “I choose me! Kill me, and let them go through!”
Silence followed, stretching out. Sophia stood there, wondering what was happening, and how it would happen. Would it hurt?
She blinked, and the rainbow wall was gone. She, Kate, and Lucas were standing there, all alive, all healthy. Sophia ran to them and hugged them.
“It made me choose,” she managed past the sobs of joy that they were still alive. “It made me choose, and I chose…”
“Myself,” Kate said softly.
“Myself,” Lucas agreed. “I think that was the point. I think that was the test.”
Sophia might have answered that, might have told them just how sick she was of tests and obstacles, but a scraping sound caught her attention. She turned to the golden door, where the sunlight seemed to be reflecting off it now in a dazzling rainbow of colors that reminded her too much of the walls that had surrounded her.
Slowly, ponderously, it started to swing open.
NOW AVAILABLE FOR PRE-ORDER!
A CLASP FOR HEIRS
(A Throne for Sisters—Book Eight)
“M
organ Rice's imagination is limitless. In another series that promises to be as entertaining as the previous ones, A THRONE OF SISTERS presents us with the tale of two sisters (Sophia and Kate), orphans, fighting to survive in a cruel and demanding world of an orphanage. An instant success.”
--Books and Movie Reviews (Roberto Mattos)
The new #1 Bestselling epic fantasy series by Morgan Rice!
In A CLASP FOR HEIRS (A Throne for Sisters—Book Eight), Sophia, Kate and Lucas finally meet their parents. Who are they? Why were they in exile?
And what secret message might they hold for them about their identities?
Meanwhile, the Master of Crows ravages Ashton, Stonehome lies in danger, and Sebastian must find a way to whisk Violet to safety.
Will Sophie, Kate and Lucas return in time to save them?
Will they return at all?
A CLASP FOR HEIRS (A Throne for Sisters—Book Seven) is book #7 in a dazzling new fantasy series rife with love, heartbreak, tragedy, action, adventure, magic, swords, sorcery, dragons, fate and heart-pounding suspense. A page turner, it is filled with characters that will make you fall in love, and a world you will never forget.
Book #9 in the series will be released soon.
“[A Throne for Sisters is a] powerful opener to a series [that] will produce a combination of feisty protagonists and challenging circumstances to thoroughly involve not just young adults, but adult fantasy fans who seek epic stories fueled by powerful friendships and adversaries.”
--Midwest Book Review (Diane Donovan)
A CLASP FOR HEIRS
(A Throne for Sisters—Book Eight)
NOW AVAILABLE!
A new series!
