by C. K. Brooke
A SHELF UNBOUND TOP 100
NOTABLE INDIE BOOK OF 2015
FIVE STARS FROM READERS’ FAVORITE BOOK REVIEWS & AWARDS CONTEST
“[A] wonderfully captivating story, filled with many surprises that will grab the reader’s attention... Brooke has not only managed to create a story with vivid, descriptive scenes but successfully brings each character to life with depth and passion...a definite must-read for everyone who loves adventure and romance in a fairy tale land.”
– Jacqueline Varlotta,
Readers’ Favorite Book Reviews & Awards Contest
“An absolutely epic adventure! … Impossible to put down. Packed full of adventure with tons of surprises, there was never a dull moment. The writing was snappy and fresh and I just loved the author’s style… A beautifully written story that completely captured my heart and imagination! I absolutely loved this book and recommend it to anybody and everybody!”
– The Silver Dagger Scriptorium
“A treasure trove of pure entertainment…a work of genius, a masterful creation.”
– C.J. Anaya, Author
“The thrill of adventure, the magic of stepping into a new world, and meeting amazing characters – C.K. Brooke’s The Duchess Quest gave me this and so much more. Filled with action and romance, this story was an absolute delight to read.”
– Roxanne Kade, Author
“Messy romance/lots of drama? YUM. C.K. Brooke caught me by surprise with this one, enthralling and ensnaring me with poetic prose and creatively-captured characters.”
– Betwixt These Pages
“A tale of romance and wonder... Just the right amount of everything mixed together for a great story!”
- Paranormal Romance and Authors That Rock
“A fantastic mix of swords and royalty...keeps you on the edge of your seat. Full with many twists that took me entirely by surprise, it’s a real page-turner.”
– Books And Kats
“Reminiscent of Raiders of the Lost Ark, Brooke keeps the pace up with adventure after seat-edging adventure...this one held my interest the whole way through. Read this brilliant debut novel now, and keep your eye on this talented, prolific author.”
– Denise DeSio, Editor
“This story was so much fun! The premise is thoroughly entertaining that it captured my attention from the start. [The characters] each have their unique flare and interesting backstories to keep you intrigued and wanting more.”
– SERIESous Book Reviews
JORDINIA
The Last Empress
The Duchess Quest
The Duchess Inheritance
The Duchess’s Descendants
WORLD OF JORDINIA NOVELS
The Red Pearl
The Wrong Prince
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The Duchess Quest, Jordinia: Book I. Copyright © 2014 by C.K. Brooke.
First edition published 2014.
Second edition published 2017.
Excerpt from The Duchess Inheritance: Book II by C.K. Brooke. Copyright © 2015 by C.K. Brooke.
Edited by Denise DeSio. Cover by Amanda Matthews of www.amdesignstudios.net. Interior book design by Break Through Author, http://www.breakthroughauthor.com.
All rights reserved including the right to manufacture in any format, sell, or distribute copies of this book or portions of this book. For information, visit http://www.48fourteen.com.
Library of Congress Number: 2014950612
ISBN-13: 978-1-937546-33-5
ISBN-10: 1-937546-33-0
For my husband and son.
“INCONCEIVABLE.”
Hessian Gatspierre pored over the newly arrived scroll a third time to ensure he’d not misread a single word. You deserve to know, sir, it read, that your niece was not killed that day.
The man lifted a hand to his brow in disbelief. Alive.
His long-lost niece, once the little grand duchess of Jordinia, was alive? Rescued, in secret, by the very soldiers who’d been charged with eliminating her?
With a shiver, Gatspierre recalled that fateful morning fifteen years prior, when he’d first heard news of the royal family’s execution. On that brutal winter’s day, rebel soldiers put an end to the emperor and his three sons, to the beloved Empress Néandra, Gatspierre’s only sister….
And, as he and the world had believed, to the three-year-old duchess, Eludaine.
He drew a breath and regarded the scroll again. I know not the girl’s precise location. But my comrades and I brought her to safety in Heppestoni. And there, it is likely she remains.
“What do you intend to do, my lord?” inquired Maxos, his advisor. Gatspierre could sense his friend was skeptical of the scroll and its implications.
Yet, the man was formulating a most marvelous plan with every scan of the anonymous soldier’s written deathbed confession. “We must organize a search party.” Gatspierre’s emerald eyes shone. “I want notices posted in every town square from here to Heppestoni, proclaiming the truth that my niece, Duchess Eludaine, lives!”
With rising elation, he continued. “We need to find her. A reward of fifty pounds of gold, along with her marriage hand, shall be offered to the first man to bring her forth. A fine incentive, wouldn’t you say?”
“You are certain?” The stout advisor mopped a bead of perspiration from his balding crown. “The New Republic will be furious to learn she survived. Assuming this is true,” he added dubiously. “And if it is, you must think of the girl’s safety. Would the Republic not wish to finish the job, should she be found?”
“Nonsense.” Gatspierre gave an unconcerned wave of his scroll-laden hand. “The New Republic cannot touch her here in Häffstrom. Just as they have never touched me for all these years.”
“That’s because they’ve had no reason to touch you,” Maxos reminded him, beginning to sound impatient. “You are not a threat to the Republic. You possess no Ducelle blood.” His nasal voice grew louder as he pointed out, “Eludaine does.”
“Exactly, Maxos.” Gatspierre beamed. “Come, now. Enough politics; today is cause for celebration! My niece is alive! Somewhere out there, royal blood is flowing through a young woman’s veins.” He clasped his hands together. “Let us share the news, and begin the search.”
IT WAS THE RAINY SEASON. Without warning, the muggy, pendulous air released a downpour of saline rain, producing a fresh yet mildly fishy odor. Her bare feet dodging rocks and leaving prints in the damp sand, Dainy hurried out of another sudden rainfall and into the tiny bamboo shanty she called home.
She slid the wobbly door shut, wiped her brow and lowered her hood. The young woman shuddered as a draft swept past the bare nape of her neck. Realizing she’d been holding her breath, she exhaled, peering around the hut.
Dainy and her foster aunts ran one of the many beachfront inns in the Beili Dunes, theirs directly on the Maleilan shore. The Beili Bungalow was small, but as Dainy often boasted, her aunts’ cooking was the best in all of Heppestoni.
Water splayed out from beneath the flimsy door as a fresh sigh of wind heaved her way, and she made haste to mop it up before someone might slip. Her stomach gurgled as she inhaled the aroma of fresh plantains sizzling over the hearth. Aunt Paxi was no doubt preparing another of her mouthwatering recipes.
“Child!”
Dainy jolted at the call, looking up from her mopping.
“Dainy-girl,” exclaimed Aunt Paxi, rounding the corner. “What have you done with your hair?”
Dainy grinned. “I cut it!”
“Obviously,” cried Aunt Paxi.
To add insult to injury, Dainy spun in a dancelike circle, accentuating the absence of her once flowing curtain of dark locks. “Do you like it?” she asked cheekily, well aware of her aunt’s answer.
This earned her naught but Paxi’s solemn stare. “I am not amused,” said the older woman, reaching for the wispy ends of raven hair that had formerly been Dainy’s crowning glory. It now extended to only just beneath her ears. “All I can say is, I don’t want to be here when your Aunt Priya sees this.”
“Sees what?” chirped a voice from the loft, already sounding wary despite its musical accent. “What trouble have you gotten yourself into this time, Dainy?”
Dainy folded her arms. She enjoyed the noticeable lack of heaviness when she moved her head. Without her former mane, she felt lighter, freer. “I see how it is,” she teased them. “Even though this is my eighteenth spring, which makes me a woman,” she accentuated the word, “I shall always be treated like a little girl around here.”
“That’s because you act like one.” Aunt Paxi jabbed an ebony finger at Dainy’s pale shoulder. “Disappearing onto the beach and cuttin’ your hair,” she muttered, taking up the mop to finish the job herself. “And you said you was going crabbin’.”
“I was, Aunt Pax! Honest,” insisted Dainy, although with a hint of mischief in her luminous eyes. “Only it was too wet out.”
“Mmm-hmm. But not too wet to butcher off them beautiful tresses with my crabbing knife.”
There came a sigh, and Dainy turned to watch a second middle-aged woman descend the loft ladder. Her creamy brown skin glistened with aromatic oils, and her copious brown hair, adorned with beads and some streaks of gray, fell down her back in shining sheets. With a soft thud, her bare feet landed gracefully on the bamboo flooring.
She squinted at Dainy, moving closer, until she tossed up her bronze arms with a frown. “Dainy, how could you?”
The girl ran her fingers through her freshly cropped hair once more, the better to proudly display it.
“Now how shall we ever find you a husband, when your hair is like a boy’s?” Aunt Priya scolded.
“Well.” Paxi grinned. “Her hair may be like a boy’s, but certainly not her—”
“Aunt Pax!” Dainy crossed her arms over her chest. “Why this talk about husbands all of a sudden, Aunt Priya?” She rounded on her other aunt. “Are you both so eager to be rid of me?”
Priya babbled something in her ancestors’ language that sounded like a ceremonial chant.
“Priya.” Paxi’s voice cracked like a whip across the hut. “Them silly superstitions ain’t going to protect our girl from her own foolishness.”
But Dainy threw back her head and laughed, and her aunts’ expressions softened.
“Ah, Dainy.” Priya shook her head, not unkindly. “Never forget, you are a gift from the gods to these two old maids.”
Dainy watched as she went over to the hearth. Once Priya was out of earshot, she reached for her other aunt’s hand. Gently, she upturned Paxi’s palm and placed within it the four silver coins she’d been carrying in her apron.
Paxi looked down at the money, and her plump face fell. “So that’s why you did it,” she muttered.
Dainy swallowed. It was only four pieces of silver. But it would hopefully deliver them through the rainy season, when patronage to the inn was especially low.
Paxi bit her lip, looking pained.
“Aunt Pax?” Dainy surveyed her carefully, trying to decipher her thoughts.
“We can make ends meet. We would never expect you to sell your—”
“It’ll grow back.” Dainy offered a good-natured shrug.
“We’ve got to find you a husband somehow,” said the woman heavily, pocketing the coins. “Someone to care for you and give you all you deserve, so you’ll never want for anything again.”
“Aunt Pax.” Dainy half-chuckled, half-groaned at the lost cause. For as long as she could remember, she’d felt like an outcast. Everything from her pasty complexion and big green eyes to the fact that no one knew where she came from made her strange, an aberration in the village of Beili. She knew her oddness wasn’t exactly what the local bachelors were looking for in a bride.
She smoothed down her short hair with a sigh. “I’m pretty sure no one wishes to marry me.”
THE MEN GATHERED ON THE lawn of Hessian Gatspierre’s massive Häffstrom estate. They shuffled their boots, making small-talk, taking bets, and waiting for their host to appear.
Not too bad a place to live in exile, thought young Marley Macmillan, taking in the stone mansion that loomed overhead, surrounded by impeccably trimmed brush. But what an unfortunate turnout for the poor duchess, he added to himself, eyeing his surrounding competition with a smirk.
The only men from the New Republic of Jordinia who dared volunteer on the propsed quest were those who had no qualms about being eternally banished by their own nation, on account of the mission. A band of disloyal ruffians, Macmillan mused, glancing around. No doubt the lot was full of criminals with axes of vengeance to grind, secret royalists taking one last stand, or at the very least, apathetic loners with nothing left to lose. They were not the ideal types to wed a once and former duchess, Macmillan felt sure, and he had to stifle his amusement.
Perhaps he should have stayed home. Then again, fifty pounds of gold for a simple search mission seemed a prize worth trying for. Not being a citizen of the New Republic—or of any nation, for that matter—Macmillan was not plagued by threats upon his own participation. This would simply be an excursion, an adventure, for him.
Besides, still a bachelor at the age of twenty-one, he’d begun to feel a restive loneliness. Up until then, he’d lived with his mother in their woodland cabin, and in recent years had become eager to see the world, win a bride, and embark upon a family of his own.
And, Macmillan thought, perhaps he had a better chance than those among him of emerging victorious.
His confidence was slightly dashed when a large figure approached the gathering. A very large figure. Joining their ranks was the tallest, brawniest man Macmillan had ever seen. A vernal breeze ruffled the giant’s shoulder-length blond mane, and Macmillan scratched his own neatly cropped jet-black hair. Perhaps the competition would be tighter than he thought.
The enormous man met his eyes, and Macmillan took in his shaggy goatee before turning away. Best not to make any friends or enemies this early in the game, he reminded himself.
“Show of hands, comrades, who here is from the good Republic?” came a sudden, jaunty voice in the crowd.
“Who wants to know?” someone else returned.
“Just curious if I shall be the only man without a nation after tonight,” replied the jovial voice, as Macmillan cocked his head to determine the source.
“You shall be the only man without a nose after tonight,” called another, “if you keep sticking it in our business.”
“Sheesh. Sorry I asked.” The pleasant murmur issued just behind Macmillan’s ear, causing the young man to give a start. Macmillan turned to see a handsome face set with deep brown eyes, and topped with a generous brush of windswept hair.
“Cheers, comrade,” the stranger greeted him with a winning grin. Macmillan noticed his jaw was studded with stubble. Cocky rascal had not even bothered to take up a razorblade that morning.
“Jonwal Harrington Cosmith,” the man introduced himself grandly. “But my friends call me Jon.”
“Very well, Mr. Cosmith,” replied Macmillan.
Cosmith elbowed him congenially. “Ah! I see what you did there. You have most cleverly implied that you don’t wish to be my friend.”
“Implied?
” Macmillan cast his gaze about in disinterest. “I would hope to have made it clearer than that.”
“Ouch.” Cosmith massaged his own arm as though Macmillan had struck it, the self-assured grin never leaving his lips. Obnoxious, thought Macmillan. “Too bad the royal court is dead,” he pressed, unrelenting. “You’d have made a fine jester.” Macmillan did not miss the undercurrent of sarcasm in his tone. “But in all seriousness, comrade. Why so uptight?”
Perhaps Cosmith’s forward approach charmed the maidens, but Macmillan saw through the false camaraderie and white-toothed leer. There was no reason someone who was soon to compete with him for the same prize would try to befriend him now…unless it was to stab him in the back later.
Macmillan sighed. “First of all, I am no ‘comrade’. I’m a son of the Knights’ Forest, which belongs to no nation, least of all your Republic. And secondly,” Macmillan took a step closer as Cosmith held up his hands in mock surrender, grinning pompously all the while, “wipe that arrogant smirk off your face.”
Cosmith clicked his tongue. “My, my.” In a flash, he drew a rapier from his belt and pointed it just under Macmillan’s chin. The tip made contact with Macmillan’s flesh, on the cusp of puncturing it.
The young man’s hand flew into his pocket for his sickle, but he was overcome with panic to discover his only weapon missing.
“How about I give you some advice?” Cosmith intoned. “Be careful,” he thrust the rapier back into its sheath at his belt, “with whom you choose,” he added, handing Macmillan his sickle, “to make enemies.”
