by Grace Draven
No one can take away the dances you’ve already had.
“On second thought, I haven’t had enough dancing.”
“It’s a pity to miss a party—even one that isn’t yours,” Zynda agreed.
But it was mine, in a way. The day may have been full of ghosts, but I still lived. “Yes. Let’s go celebrate.”
~END~
About Jeffe Kennedy
Jeffe Kennedy is an award-winning author whose works include non-fiction, poetry, short fiction, and novels. She has been a Ucross Foundation Fellow, received the Wyoming Arts Council Fellowship for Poetry, and was awarded a Frank Nelson Doubleday Memorial Award. Her essays have appeared in many publications, including Redbook.
Her most recent works include a number of fiction series: the fantasy romance novels of A Covenant of Thorns; the contemporary BDSM novellas of the Facets of Passion, and an erotic contemporary serial novel, Master of the Opera. A fourth series, the fantasy trilogy The Twelve Kingdoms, hit the shelves starting in May 2014 and book 1, The Mark of the Tala, received a starred Library Journal review was nominated for the RT Book of the Year while the sequel, The Tears of the Rose was nominated for the RT Reviewers’ Choice Best Fantasy Romance of 2014 and the third book, The Talon of the Hawk, won the RT Reviewers’ Choice Best Fantasy Romance of 2015. Two more books will follow in this world, beginning with The Pages of the Mind May 2016. A fifth series, the erotic romance trilogy, Falling Under, started with Going Under, and was followed by Under His Touch and Under Contract.
She lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico, with two Maine coon cats, plentiful free-range lizards and a very handsome Doctor of Oriental Medicine.
Jeffe can be found online at her website: JeffeKennedy.com, every Sunday at the popular SFF Seven blog, on Facebook, on Goodreads and pretty much constantly on Twitter @jeffekennedy. She is represented by Connor Goldsmith of Fuse Literary.
http://jeffekennedy.com
https://www.facebook.com/Author.Jeffe.Kennedy
https://twitter.com/jeffekennedy
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1014374.Jeffe_Kennedy
Titles by Jeffe Kennedy
~*~*~
CONTEMPORARY BDSM ROMANCES
FACETS OF PASSION
Sapphire
Platinum
Ruby
Five Golden Rings
FALLING UNDER
Going Under
Under His Touch
Under Contract
CONTEMPORARY EROTIC ROMANCES
The Devil's Doorbell Anthology
EROTIC PARANORMAL
MASTER OF THE OPERA E-SERIAL
Master of the Opera, Act 1: Passionate Overture
Master of the Opera, Act 2: Ghost Aria
Master of the Opera, Act 3: Phantom Serenade
Master of the Opera, Act 4: Dark Interlude
Master of the Opera, Act 5: A Haunting Duet
Master of the Opera, Act 6: Crescendo
Master of the Opera
BLOOD CURRENCY
Feeding the Vampire
Hunting the Siren
BDSM FAIRYTALE ROMANCE
Petals and Thorns
FANTASY ROMANCE
A COVENANT OF THORNS
Rogue’s Pawn
Rogue’s Possession
Rogue’s Paradise
THE TWELVE KINGDOMS
Negotiation
The Mark of the Tala
The Tears of the Rose
The Talon of the Hawk
Heart's Blood
THE UNCHARTED REALMS
The Pages of the Mind
The Edge of the Blade (Coming January 2017)
OTHER WORKS
Birdwoman
Hopeful Monsters
CHAPTER ONE
Wrapped in concealing wool and tight gloves, Imogen slumped in her chair by the bedside and waited for her mother to die.
The air stank of old blood and sickness, made even more pungent by the sweltering heat generated by the fire in the hearth. She gazed at the room’s single window edged in an early spring frost. The small hours before dawn passed in quiet darkness, and she imagined the coolness outside, the crisp scent of pine and the first hint of perfume from the white daffodils rising from lingering ribbons of snow on the low hillocks surrounding the dale.
Niamh loved daffodils, not for their herbal properties but simply for their beauty. Even now a generous spray of them stood in a pint mug on the rough-hewn table. Imogen had gathered them the previous day after chopping wood for the fire. She’d marveled at their pale petals against her black gloves. The few times Niamh had awakened from a pained sleep, she’d looked to the flowers and smiled weakly. Imogen swore she’d harvest every daffodil in the surrounding county if it meant her mother might forget, for just a moment, the agony wracking her wasted body.
A rattling exhalation signaled Niamh had woken. Light from a low candle standing on a nearby table cast dancing shadows across the bed and illuminated the sick woman’s features.
Even now, after months of watching her mother waste away with illness, Imogen's shock at the ghastly change didn't diminish. Once tall and vibrant, with lush curves and a face so beautiful the local bards crafted poems in her honor, Niamh had withered to a shrunken wraith. The long red hair had whitened and thinned. Her sun-browned hands, so capable of brewing elixirs, wielding spells and comforting a small child, now clutched her blankets with claw-like fingers.
She gazed at Imogen, her eyes dull and dark with pain. “Imogen, get the locked box on the shelf,” she commanded in a harsh whisper.
Imogen caressed Niamh’s forehead with a gloved hand. “Your tea’s ready, Mother. That first.”
Niamh captured her hand in an unyielding clasp, and her eyes, dim just a moment before, glittered feverishly in the candle’s light. “Later. Now do what I say. Bring me the box.” Desperation lent strength to her voice.
Puzzled by Niamh’s sudden obsession with a forgotten box, Imogen gently pried her hand loose. “All right. Calm down. I’ll get the box. Then tea, yes?”
Exhausted by the small exertion, Niamh nodded weakly and plucked restlessly at her blankets. Imogen fluffed her pillows and eased her patient into a sitting position. She inhaled at the sight of small blood spots blossoming on the blanket covering Niamh’s thighs.
This was no woman’s monthly moon but another manifestation of the illness consuming Niamh from the inside. Last week her gums had started bleeding.
“Imogen.” Niamh’s eyes held a gallows’ humor. “You keep getting distracted. The box. Please.”
The item creating such a stir sat on the shelf near the frosted window, its lid coated in dust. Imogen lifted it from the shelf and wiped the surface with the hem of her shift, leaving a gritty smear on the delicate trim.
A plain container made of old oak, the box held no visual interest save a lock with no key. She returned to Niamh’s bedside and placed it in her trembling hands.
“I didn’t see a key on the shelf.”
“That’s because I’m the key.” Niamh's thin fingers traced the lock’s outline, and she murmured arcane words of spellwork.
Her whispers worked their magic. The lock clicked twice before springing open. Seeing Niamh didn’t need any help with the box, Imogen quickly lost interest and turned her attention to the kettle and cup waiting on the table.
Niamh’s pain was almost constant now and growing more severe by the day. Imogen had used up their supply of crushed valerian root and was fast working her way through the skullcap and St. John’s wort to make the teas Niamh consumed by the kettle full. She took little else, despite Imogen’s combined tactics of threats and coaxing to eat a little chicken broth.
“Ah, there it is! The key to unlock the greatest of gates.”
Imogen didn’t look up from pouring the hot water in the cup so the leaves might steep. “I hope it was worth waiting for your tea. This will take a few minutes to cool.”
“Don’t be such a shrew, girl. Come here and se
e what I have for you.”
When Imogen resumed her seat by the bed, Niamh handed her a finely stitched book made of supple leather and expensive parchment yellowed with age. A sheen of tears brightened her eyes, and Imogen’s heart jumped in her chest.
“What’s wrong?”
Niamh’s melancholy smile matched her teary gaze. She curled her fingers around Imogen’s gloved ones. “Nothing that time and a little reading can’t fix.” She released her daughter’s hand to stroke the book’s cover. “You are my child in every way save blood and birthright.”
Imogen’s heart continued to thump hard against her ribs. The sickness had changed Niamh physically, almost beyond recognition, but not her mind. Until now. Imogen didn’t know what to make of the suddenly maudlin creature clutching her hands despite the danger, and her grief grew a hundred fold. Time was growing very short for Niamh of Leids.
“When you were small, I told you all the stories of the Berberi kingdom. Do you remember?”
Imogen nodded. She’d been raised on tales of King Varn and his court, the great markets in the capital city, the library and theaters, the grand avenues on which the aristocracy strolled to see and be seen. It was another world, as far away and inaccessible as the moon. As a young child, Imogen had listened to Niamh’s recounting of such things with wide eyes and gone to bed dreaming of lavish courts and beautiful princesses courted by noble princes.
Those dreams had gone the way of other childhood fascinations as she grew to womanhood. Burdened as she was with a curse she’d carried since birth, she would never marry or be courted by either prince or nobleman. Not even a farmer or swineherd.
Like Imogen, Niamh had put aside those tales and concentrated on teaching the things that guaranteed survival—the knowledge of herbs, the brewing of draughts and elixirs, the harvesting of wild roots and berries, and the construction and placements of traps. Even those things came second to grueling lessons in languages, with letters learned by scratching in the dirt and reading the same six books Niamh owned until Imogen had memorized them from cover to cover.
Only twice had she seen this particular book. Once, when Imogen was twelve, she’d found Niamh scribbling madly in the pages and then again a year ago, when she first showed signs of illness. She hadn’t offered any explanation, and Imogen didn’t ask. Nothing could force her mother to reveal her secrets or motivations until she was ready, and the time had not come until now.
Niamh continued to stroke the book. “This was a gift. From King Varn.”
Imogen stared at the book with new eyes. When had Niamh consorted with a Berberi king?
“Ha! I knew that would chase the boredom off your face.” Niamh’s grin revealed bloodied gums and teeth stained scarlet. The grin faded. “I’ve not lied outright to you, Imogen, but I’ve withheld much from you—things you’ve a right to know—things I should have told you long ago were I not such a coward.”
Alarmed as much by claims of cowardice as she was by Niamh’s bloody mouth, Imogen rose. “Your tea should be cooled now.” She pointed a finger to halt Niamh’s protest and straightened her blankets.
“Not another word, Mother. We bargained, you and I. The box and then the tea. You have your box. Now you’ll have your tea. And no more foolish talk of cowards.”
She returned with the warm tea and held the cup as Niamh sipped and dabbed her dry lips with a soft cloth. The cloth came away spotted red. Both women stared at the stains for a few moments before Niamh spoke.
“We both know I’ve little time left to me. I should have done this sooner.” She handed the book to Imogen. “This book is for you. Recipes I didn’t have the time to teach you, bits and pieces of a life lived and mistakes made, discoveries of wonder.” Tears edged her eyelids. “Recollections of your childhood.”
With those words, the book grew heavier in Imogen’s hands. Like Niamh, she caressed the book reverently. She met her mother’s dark stare. “Why would you say such things make you a coward?”
Niamh’s gaze never wavered. “Because they aren’t what you need to know most, and some misdeeds are too write down or speak of, including the origins of your curse.” She shushed Imogen’s protests. “Listen to me. Promise you’ll read the book when I’m gone and remember that I loved you as my own.” She clutched Imogen’s gloved hand. “Swear it.”
“I swear.”
Seemingly satisfied with Imogen’s answer, she fell back against the pillow, her pallid features blanching the color of sun-bleached bone. “Look in the box. There’s a trinket there, a thing far more costly than a treasure house full of gold.”
Shaken, Imogen reached into the box and lifted out a piece of silver jewelry. It looked like nothing more than a noblewoman’s lost pendant on a delicate chain. Fine workmanship and far more valuable than anything she or Niamh owned but certainly not unique and not equal to the gold in a treasure house. She touched it, and a shock of vibration shot up her arm so strong, she yelped.
The pendant sat heavy and warm in her hand, weightier than its appearance suggested. The strange vibrations continued to pulse along her fingers through her gloves. Raised by a witch of Niamh’s caliber, Imogen didn't startle easily at the odd and sometimes frightening manifesting before her, but she inhaled when the intricate knotwork within the symbol moved, reforming in serpentine motion until a new pattern took shape.
She glanced at Niamh who smiled in satisfaction. “What think you of that piece?”
The pendant felt alive, not because of its movements but simply for its presence. Imogen wondered if she held it up to her ear, if it might whisper some dark secret.
“Well?” Niamh’s question interrupted her thoughts.
“I don’t know. It’s strange, touched by magic but none like yours.”
Niamh’s enigmatic laughter ended on a hiss of pain. She waved away Imogen’s solicitous hand. “Stop hovering. The pain will fade soon enough.” Once she caught her breath again, her voice trembled. “That is the map and the key to the gates of Tineroth.”
Imogen frowned, growing more certain Niamh’s suffering affected her mind. Tineroth and her sister city Mir were nothing more than fables, stories to entertain around the fire and moral lessons on the corruptive ruin of absolute power.
A flutter in her palm distracted her. The pendant writhed into a new mold, as if hearing the word “Tineroth” had awakened it from a half slumber. She almost leapt out of her chair when Niamh touched the pendant and a silver metal tendril rose to wrap around her finger like a living vine.
“This is the key to your salvation, Imogen. And maybe, just maybe, my redemption.”
Imogen overcame the urge to drop the pendant and wipe her hand against her shift. “Mother,” she said evenly. “Where did you get this thing?”
“It was a gift of thanks. From a man to whom I once offered succor during a time of terrible suffering. He said if I ever needed him, to use this key. It would lead me to Tineroth. You must go there.” Niamh’s eyes clouded. “I’d hoped to take you there myself, but it’s too late now.” She rubbed the tendril of silver with her thumb before twirling her finger to release it. It rose in the air as if seeking her and finally coiled back to entwine with its stiller mates.
Whatever mage-born spell had animated the trinket, Imogen was sure it had not been one laid by a local witch. Its power was ancient, and it both drew and repelled her.
Had she not seen for herself the pendant’s strange movements, she might have thought Niamh’s statements regarding Tineroth nothing more than the mutterings of an ill, hallucinatory woman, but she couldn’t deny what her eyes saw and her gloved hand felt.
“The stories say Tineroth and Mir vanished thousands of years ago. You would have me travel to some place that no longer exists?”
Niamh coughed and winced, her once beautiful face haggard. “The pendant will lead you straight there. Those with the Blessed Eye have sometimes recounted sightings of Tineroth when the day is longest in summer and the shadows fall thin on the ground. Th
e pendant will be your Eye.”
Imogen didn’t relish the thought of journeying into unknown lands alone looking for a fabled city. So far, Niamh had only made her swear to read her journal. She hoped she wouldn’t have to promise to set off on some fool’s journey. She offered more of the skullcap and wort tea
Niamh refused. “I’m heartily sick of drinking that swill. Let me finish.” Her thin fingers worried a pulled threat on one of her blankets. “Tineroth is still ruled by its king—Cededa, son of Hamarath the Younger.”
The pendant suddenly unfurled from its many knots, and Imogen gasped, nearly spilling the tea when metal ribbons rose to stand at attention in her palm. They began to sway, silver serpents dancing to the unheard tune of a snake charmer. Just as quickly they collapsed and melded for a third time into a new shape.
A tired chuckle escaped Niamh’s mouth. “You see? Even now, the trinket recognizes the name of its master.”
Imogen’s upper lip curled, and she lifted the pendant gingerly by its silver chain. Her hand twitched, an involuntary cupping as if to recapture its treasure. She shuddered and dropped the trinket unceremoniously in the box. It struck the bottom with a thump, and both women heard a soft but clear hiss of protest before Imogen slammed the box closed.
“I can’t concentrate when that thing is constantly jumping up and down in my hand like a trapped spider.” She wiped imaginary dust off her gloves and resumed her seat. “You were saying?”
