The Court Of Stars (The Commonwealth Quartet Book 1)

by Malcolm Schmitz

  The Court Of Stars

  Malcolm Schmitz

  Copyright © 2014 Malcolm Schmitz

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 150279570

  ISBN-13: 978-1502795700

  Layout: Penoaks Publishing, http://penoaks.com

  Dedication

  To Ms. Loudon, who told me I could do it;

  To Em, for introducing me to Sara;

  To Mango and Mutt, for proofreading help,

  To Gwen, Adam, CC, and all my friends, for their encouragement when I needed it most.

  Acknowledgments

  This book wouldn't be possible without the help of all my amazing friends. This is part of why the dedication is split so many ways; I didn't want to leave anyone out.

  Adam and Em helped me with the initial worldbuilding for this book; the name of the Solari Dominion, and a good deal of Sara's character, came from conversations I had with them.

  Mango and Mutt did an amazing job of proofreading the final drafts, and helping me figure out what needed to be tweaked.

  Gwen and CC are wonderful and I'm glad for all the help and support you've given me.

  Thanks, guys. You're the best.

  My cover was done by James at GoOnWrite.com. He made it look amazing. Thank you.

  Chapter One

  To those who saw the ships descend from the heavens, it seemed like Judgement Day had come early.

  The ships were huge arks from the stars, as large as castles. They plummeted to the ground on a cloud of fire, with a sound like the rushing of many waters. Demons poured from the ship's steely shells and rained havoc everywhere they went, pointing strange weapons that could kill a man with the flick of a finger.

  Before that day, the world was simple. After it, the world became larger and stranger than anyone could have imagined.

  But the story begins long before our world joined the Court of Stars, and ends long after, after the rise of a new empire. It begins with a young man.

  Now, I know this isn’t unusual. Most tales of heroism begin with a weak-willed youth, led by a wise, elderly companion to his epic destiny. Often, this youth becomes King of the Realm or something of the sort. This young man was different.

  He was tall, with dark hair and a face made for frowning. Though he wore sable-and-scarlet-the colors of House Arundel, the notorious Backstabber House-there was not a more honorable soul in the world. A knight's longsword hung at his waist.

  He walked through the long, dim corridors of the King’s Court. He didn't move as if he owned the place, but he had enough inward confidence to make him seem like a prince. The trappings of royalty didn’t impress him.

  His name was Christian tel Arundel, and on this day, he was to meet his betrothed for the first time.

  Christian didn't notice the sandstone walls of the castle corridors, or the moth-eaten tapestries. The entire world around him escaped his notice. He was too wrapped up in his own cares, worrying over his future like a dog with an old bone.

  He was rather proud of the allegiances he'd forged with the betrothals he'd made. It had taken weeks of work, playing the political games he utterly despised. His future, and his younger sister's, were now secure. His family's fortunes would be restored to their former luster.

  At the same time, the thought of wedding a woman put a thick lump in his stomach. It felt like a rock churning in his guts, and he bit his lip as he walked.

  Someone behind him bumped into him, and for a fraction of a second, he lost his balance. He staggered, and looked up. Samuel tel Verdenlace-a very young, red-haired man with a round face-was running away from him.

  Samuel turned and winced as he saw Christian.

  “Sorry, Lord Arundel!” he said. He bowed. “I’m going to go meet my betrothed.”

  Samuel looked as nervous as Christian felt, and Christian couldn't help but feel a stab of pity. He decided to ignore Samuel's mistake. It wouldn't cost him anything to do so.

  “It’s all right,” he said. He tried to make his voice soothing, though he was far more accustomed to harsh tones. “I’m going to meet mine.”

  “Oh...” Samuel looked aside, picked at the lace cuffs of his underdoublet. They were far too large, cut in an unmanly fashion, and Christian's lip curled as he looked at them.

  ”Are you marrying my sister, Lord Arundel?” Samuel frowned.

  “The walls have ears.” Christian glanced around at the cold gray walls and the hollow suits of armor. There were so many hiding places in the Palace that it was safe to assume someone was always watching. “We’d do best not to speak of it until the wedding day.”

  Samuel was, often, a fool. But, Christian supposed, it wasn't exactly his fault. The boy hadn't been trained in courtly manners. The Verdenlaces were the King’s Own Cartographers, and he knew Samuel and his brothers were often gone mapping the kingdom and the lands around it. He'd probably slept in woods and fields more nights than he’d slept in a bed.

  But the noble houses would use any piece of information they could to their own benefit, as Christian had learned time and again. It was best to keep one’s lips sealed.

  “I see.” Samuel nodded. He fidgeted with his cuffs again, picking at a loose thread that dangled from the lace. "I'm still curious."

  Christian frowned. Of course, he would be curious. Would it really hurt to tell him? Things would be solemnized soon enough.

  "It is," he admitted, in an undertone. "But keep it to yourself, all right?"

  Samuel licked his lips, nervously. His brow furrowed. Christian could almost watch the thoughts moving behind his eyes.

  "All right. I'll see you later," he said. He smiled, nervously. “Still late, right?”

  They exchanged a farewell, and Samuel dashed off, running towards the Small Receiving Room, where such meetings traditionally took place.

  Christian wondered why he was hurrying. It was customary for the women to enter first, so that they could spend a few minutes doing whatever it was women did. The men would enter once the women were ready, and then the fun would begin.

  His stomach felt like it had been filled with hot lead. He pressed his lips together, trying to ignore it.

  A young nobleman walked past. Christian glanced over. He thought the man looked entirely too amused, and his hand inched towards his swordbelt.

  The nobleman wore the Rospier colors, brash gold and silver. Though the Rospiers were much richer than Christian's family, they were a much newer line, without kings' blood in their veins. He was lanky, like he hadn't come into his man's growth yet, and his hair was copper-brown. His clothes had obviously been made for someone else; they sagged off of his arms and legs, making him look like a court fool.

  Christian didn't recognize him. He was probably a minor noble: some poor relative of Lord Mark, coming to Court to beg for money.

  "That fool!" the nobleman said. He had a thick Irian accent-the sort that you’d find among the mountain folk of the north.

  “Excuse me?” Christian turned. His voice was as calm as he could keep it, but his lips tightened into a hard line.

  The young nobleman glanced at him and grinned conspiratorially.

  “I said he’s a fool. He’s acting like one, isn’t he?”

  “Not particularly.” Christian scowled. His voice was still dangerously calm. It concealed the red-hot anger that burned in his veins.

  His hand was on the hilt of his sword now. The leather was smoother where his hand had rubbed it raw. He could already feel his heart starting to race, and his body readying itself for a fight, though he managed to keep himself outwardly calm.

  “Getting scared of a bet
rothal.” The nobleman snorted. “It’s what you’d expect from a maiden, isn’t it?”

  “If Samuel was here, he’d undoubtedly challenge for breach of his honor.” Christian drew his sword. It made a bright sound as he pulled it out of the scabbard, and he was pleased to note it was polished enough to catch the torchlight.

  “As he isn’t,” he continued, pleasantly, “I’ll do it in his place.”

  The nobleman swallowed. His skinny Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Levity? In matters of honor?” Christian’s sword felt right in his hand, and he looked at the youth, sizing him up. “That would be a breach of the code. You’ve not only impugned the honor of my family, you’ve impugned my own.”

  The nobleman gaped at him. His face reminded Christian of a dead fish.

  “Draw, cur,” Christian ordered.

  The nobleman drew his sword. It was short and thin, practically ornamental, with a jeweled hilt. It wasn’t the sword of a duelist, and Christian snorted in disdain.

  “I, Christian Lazare Thomaset, Lord tel Arundel, contest my honor and that of my family-” he began, using the age-old formula. He’d repeated this phrase since he was a boy, playing at dueling with his friends.

  He paused, debating how far to fight this. It had been an offhand remark, nothing more, and his opponent was young and foolish. On the other hand, he needed to be taught not to insult the honor of House Arundel.

  “Contingent upon first blood,” he finished. It wouldn’t be a duel to the death. Even a minor injury would mean that the duel was over. Christian intended to cut him just deep enough to teach him a lesson, and let him go with a warning.

  “And I, Peter Terese Marquet tel Rospier, accept your challenge.” The youth glared back at him and raised his own sword.

  “Let the duel commence,” Christian said, eyes narrowing.

  They circled each other, for a long moment, looking for weaknesses in each other’s defenses. Christian noticed that Rospier's footwork was weak-stiff and jerky. He was obviously overthinking things.

  His enemy lashed out in a first, clumsy attack. His sword swung wildly in his just-too-loose grip. Christian parried it aside, and pushed the younger man’s blade towards the ground.

  Rospier wrenched it away, taking a step back. He was on the retreat, now, Christian thought. He grinned with wild exultation.

  Christian pressed the attack, forcing Rospier farther back. The clang of sword against sword set fire to his blood.

  Rospier lashed out wildly, aiming for Christian's eyes. Three feet of cold, razor-sharp steel lunged at him.

  He ducked, and sidestepped Rospier's next wild stab, going on the defensive. The younger man pushed forward, pressing Christian back to the wall.

  Christian dodged a second, and third attack. The young man's attacks were frenzied, but strong. He'd underestimated him.

  "You submit?" Rospier asked.

  "Never."

  He slashed forward, but the youth blocked his attack. His back was against the wall. Rospier's attacks were weak, but they were legion. There was only one thing to do, now, and Christian gritted his teeth.

  He feinted at Rospier's face, and, as the youth blinked, slashed at his arm.

  Rospier dropped his sword and staggered back. Christian let out a deep breath. It had been a bit of a dirty trick, but he'd made it work, and he'd left a mark-a red welt along Rospier's sword arm. It didn't seem deep, but hopefully it'd sting for a month. The filthy cur would learn his lesson.

  "Think twice before you insult my family again," he said.

  Rospier leaned against the wall and sneered at Christian.

  "Your family? You're betrothed to Sara Verdenlace, aren't you?" His voice was as snide as the Devil's.

  "What business is it of yours?" Christian kept his face carefully blank, though he could feel his shoulders tensing. He wiped his sword with the cloth he carried in his scabbard, focusing on the smoothness of the metal under the fabric.

  Rospier kept laughing, a high, nasal laugh like a horse's bray, and gestured at Christian. It was a rather rude gesture-the sort small boys and idiots found uproariously funny-and Christian frowned. He sheathed his sword, before the temptation to use it again got in the way of his honor.

  "No wonder! You'd marry a man if you could, wouldn't you, freak?"

  Christian clenched his teeth. He could feel his arm muscles tensing, and forced himself to take a deep breath.

  "Those rumors are lies," he blurted. He realized his mistake, and ground his teeth together. The sick feeling of bone against bone sent a shock through his jaw. "You're an insolent fool. Return to your chambers before I challenge to the death."

  The youth glanced at Christian’s sheathed sword, then at his muscular arms, and swallowed, hard. He walked away, slowly, glancing back at Christian.

  Christian didn't notice. He leaned against the wall, wiping sweat from his brow. That had been... taxing, at best. He took a moment to calm himself down, trying to force himself not to shake with rage. His honor didn't matter right now, he'd won, and that made him right. Even if people insisted on spreading rumors, he was going to be married soon.

  The thought tired him to the bone. It had been a long few days, and it would be a long day every day until the wedding.

  Don't think about that, keep moving. You don't want to be late, do you?

  He was in King Henry’s Castle now, the oldest part of the Palace. The walls were thick, gray stone, hung with faded tapestries to keep out the draft. His thick boots sent echoes ringing from wall to wall.

  Banners of the Seven Houses' colors hung from the ceiling, swaying gently as he walked beneath them. Mercadier silver and purple hung beside Arundel sable and scarlet, symbolizing their allegiance. Dusty Verdenlace gold and green sagged beside brand-new Lorinet white and red. Rospier gold-and-silver, colors that never should have been blended, looked utterly garish beside understated Severn black and white. The last banner, the banner of the current King’s House, Amoret il Reignat, hung in the place of honor, above the thick oak doors of the Small Receiving Room.

  He waited underneath it, outside the door.

  “Having fun yet?” The tenor voice, smooth as silk on a baby’s back, came from behind him. It took all his self-control not to jump.

  “Mercadier.” Christian turned, slowly. He could feel a vein pulsing in his forehead. In fact, all his blood seemed to rush.

  He clenched one hand into a fist, trying to keep himself in check.

  “Lord Arundel.” Anthony tel Mercadier leaned against the wall and watched Christian impassively.

  Everyone knew the Mercadiers bred for beauty. They planned their family lines as carefully as farmers bred their trees to give more fruit. And Anthony was, Christian thought, the most beautiful of the lot.

  Anthony had golden curls. Anthony had bright blue eyes, the color of the gems Christian's mother had worn at her throat. Anthony dressed well, in a coat of rich purple cloth, with a white neckcloth, tied in the fashionable manner, at his throat. Anthony had an enchanting smile, good manners, and all the airs and graces a young nobleman was supposed to have.

  Christian’s lip twisted with disgust. He shouldn’t be thinking about Anthony like that. Anthony was a man, and they were both due to be married days from now.

  He took a deep breath and fixed Mercadier with his steadiest stare.

  ``How’s your sister faring?” Mercadier said, jovially. Though Christian was a Lord, and Mercadier was merely the eldest son of his House, they’d tried to keep some of the familiarity of their boyhood companionship. It had been, he reflected sourly, a bad choice. “Hasn’t lost her nerve yet, has she?”

  “She’s eager to meet you.” Christian felt his voice shake and gritted his teeth. He’d vowed long before to show no weakness in front of Mercadier. It was worse today, because of the circumstances, but he knew he could keep himself within the bounds of propriety.

  “I’m glad of that. It wo
uldn’t do to have a wife that hated you, would it? ”

  “It certainly wouldn’t.” Christian couldn’t look him in the eye, because he knew that was a precise description of what he'd arranged.

  The marriages he’d painstakingly joined together were merely political, designed to join their houses more closely than ever. He didn’t care tuppence for the romantic aspect of it. The nobility never married for love. But he still dreaded the thought of being married to someone whose company he couldn't stand, and he suspected most of the women of the court loathed him in return.

  “Sir Mercadier...” Christian began.

  What was there to say?

  The inclinations he suffered-for he did suffer, and often painfully, for his affections-were a sin. They were his cross to bear. He tried to ignore them as much as he could, but around certain people, the devil tempted him more than he could bear.

  “Mm?” Mercadier looked up at his words, still with that same small smile.

  Christian was unsettled by that blue gaze on his skin. It was as if Anthony was touching him with his eyes and looking into Christian’s soul, all at once.

  He steeled himself against the disgust boiling in his throat. He knew that Anthony-no, Sir Mercadier-could tell his feelings were growing too ardent. When he spoke, his words came out far more harshly than he’d intended. He felt his brows sink low above his eyes, and his face felt warm.

  “I wish you the best of fortune.” It sounded like an insult.

  “And you.” Mercadier’s voice was almost emotionless. Christian knew from long experience that Mercadier was saving the insult for later. He'd never been great at this game of conversation, but he’d erred spectacularly this time.

  An elderly retainer, clad in the scarlet and vermillion of Amoret il reignat, pushed the thick oak door aside.

  “Christian Lazare Thomaset, Lord tel Arundel,” the retainer announced.

  Christian could hear faint female laughter from inside. His blood froze in his veins. He was to meet the woman he would have to marry in moments and all he wanted was to pull Anthony into his arms and—