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Hers To Command
Verdantia Series Book 1
Copyright © 2013 Patricia A. Knight
ISBN: 978-1-939564-06-1
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted, with the exception of a reviewer who may quote passages in a review, without written prior permission from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, events, incidents and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
WARNING: The author and publisher would solemnly advise you not to attempt any of the sexual or non-sexual actions of any of the characters in this book. Any damage physical, mental or emotional is the sole responsibility of the person/persons attempting such actions. Please be aware that this is a work of fiction and you are responsible for yourself and the consequences caused thereof.
Dear Reader,
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Troll River Publications
Dedication
To DeAnn.
Some time ago, you encouraged a fledgling writer you didn’t know.
Thank you.
Acknowledgements
Writing is the product of rich interior life. Imagination fires the mind and fingers capture those elusive wisps of thought and transfer them to paper. But what feeds the fires of imagination? Well, it helps to start by being bat-sh*t crazy. But, in my case, it is an amazing group of authors and critique partners: my sweet “Em” and Travis, lovely Aliya and Stephanie and Kayla. And finally, to my long-suffering lover of many years who lets me sit at the keyboard typing while his dinner burns on the stove. Gotta love a man like that.
Thank you to Skylar Faith at TruenotDreams for the stunning covers and to Troll River Publications for, well, everything. You are beyond awesome.
Prologue
Isolated, far from the interstellar trade lanes, hundreds of light years from any civilized planet, Verdantia marooned them on her surface—then she spoke to them.
After decades searching the vast Hyperion Galaxy for a home, after the fierce elation of finding the perfect jewel of a planet, the Nuovo Terrans found themselves stranded on Verdantia. To their consternation, Verdantia interacted with them. The ability to connect with the planet’s sentience during sexual intercourse gifted a genetically select few with the ability to manipulate enormous energy. To the space-weary colonists settling her surface, the shocking discovery had been their salvation. The energies radiating from Verdantia’s vast underground diaman pipes disrupted technology, rendering it so unreliable as to be useless. The superstitious called it magick. The well-educated recognized a unique combination of electro-magnetism and harmonics guided by a primitive sentience. The green Eden of Verdantia was alive.
For centuries, descendants of the original, space-faring colonists studied to harness the enormous forces produced. Through arduous sexual sacraments known as the Greater and Lesser Rites, aristocratic magisters and magistras bearing specific genetic combinations enhanced many facets of every-day life from encouraging the growth of crops to heating homes.
Of foremost importance to the resource-rich, isolated planet, an impenetrable shield protecting the planet from off-world invasion was powered by the residents’ sexual energy. The protective wall flowed from soaring towers housing diamantorre, highly charged, crystalline constructs. These strategic stone towers dotted the planet in a grid, energized by the Great Rite.
Unknown to those in power, certain irresponsible magisters, careless after five centuries of peace failed to perform the mentally and physically perilous Great Rite. This neglect drained the diamantorre to hazardously low levels and the protective beams in some areas of the planet flickered weakly making the nearby residents vulnerable.
In the High Enclave, the stone walled complex where docenti taught the high-level magicks, elite geneticists, the L’anziano, arranged the marriages between highborn houses, mandating advantageous matings of magickal bloodlines. The centuries of strict breeding by the L’anziano produced the thirty-two noble houses sitting in Verdantia’s House of Lords.
With the revelation of the potent aphrodisiac, cinnagin, the isolated planet's galactic status transformed from quaintly primitive to prized. A mere gram of cinnagin, the extract of a tree unique to the forests of Verdantia, would purchase an inter-stellar yacht on the pleasure planets of Telleria and Vxloncia. Verdantians considered cinnagin, used to violently escalate arousal in the ritual of the Great Rite, a sacred substance, never to be abused so profanely.
In a well-organized use of vicious, overwhelming force, the Haarb and their mercenary forces invaded Verdantia through gaps in the planet’s energy shield. For a rapacious race of scavengers, slavers and drug runners, Verdantia and her priceless cinnagin was an irresistible prize. Brutal torture revealed the secrets powering the diamantorre and the butchery of the aristocratic magisters and magistras began.
Vastly outnumbered, with a token military and insufficient magickal practitioners to protect the planet, the hapless Verdantians fell to the Haarb. The energy wall once protecting the entire planet shrank to that emitted by the sigil tower of Verdantia's besieged capital, Sylvan Mintoth. The Haarb sought to wipe the Verdantians from the face of their planet. With the fall of Sylvan Mintoth, the Verdantian’s annihilation would be complete.
Verdantia had one slim hope. The L’anziano had long sought to join three magickally-gifted aristocrats. The L’anziano theorized that if brought together, the aristocrats’ genetic combination would create another Tetriarch, the Rule of the Three. The power the three would command could save their world. But that salvation was only a theory and the individuals involved were unaware of their potential.
Chapter One
NT Solar date 4633
Wind gusted against the camouflaged campaign tent. The creak of stretched canvas and squeak of straining rope made an ever-present accompaniment to the soughing of the evergreens outside. Verdantian Supreme Commander, High Lord Ari DeTano, adjusted the lantern light to better illuminate the huge topographical map covering one taut canvas wall. Ari raked impatient fingers through his dark hair as he studied the large red squares indicating the location of entrenched enemy squadrons relative to his elite Verdantian cavalry and League of Federated Planets’ ground marines.
Red squares ringed the capital, Sylvan Mintoth, the last populated area still protected by a sigil tower.
“Doral, we will mobilize to attack on their eastern flank, here at Gryphon’s Dell and here at Haversome Ferry, as soon as we receive confirmation that the 3rd Regiment Light Horse is in place.”
He bridged a thumb and index finger to his temples and rubbed slowly. “On that other matter, don’t create an inter-planetary incident, please. Thanks to the LFP, we fight with hope for the first time in three years. We must have proof there is a traitor among them. We cannot alienate them.”
Doral glanced up. “Without doubt, the League of Federated Planets’ support has changed the outcome of this war.” Doral’s quiet words competed with the outside sounds of the active military camp. “Regardless, the LFP harbors someone who works against us
. I will find proof and eliminate him.”
Ari eyed him and gave an inward scoff at his own continued inability to remain unmoved at the presence of his attaché. Tall and lean, blond and blue-eyed, the reserved young nobleman oozed sensual allure and elegant, predatory grace. Doral fit in with the rest of Ari’s staff like a panther among tabby cats. Assigned to him for over a year, Doral's deceptively angelic, masculine beauty concealed a lethal assassin and master spy. Ari trusted and respected his taciturn, intensely loyal, junior officer as he had no other in his life. I want him. I cannot have him.
After years of brutal hand-to-hand fighting, the Verdantians were winning the battle of attrition to regain possession of their planet. In the past year, the strong support of the LFP’s forces had reversed the fortunes of war.
As a battleground, Verdantia thwarted an army outfitted with high-tech equipment. Nothing worked. The energies from the vast underground diaman pipes neutralized technological devices. The crystalline deposits emitted a bewildering combination of electro-magnetic and harmonic energies and rendered any form of technology or electronic communications devastatingly unreliable. Verdantia possessed only one planet-side spaceport located in an area devoid of the diaman pipes.
The planet herself stripped warfare to its most elemental. It pitted the strength of man against man. Cavalry and foot soldiers fought armed with sabers and crossbows, battleaxes and pikes. Barbaric, brutal, hand-to-hand fighting determined the outcome of each battle. It was archaic savagery.
With a growl of frustrated anger, Ari crossed his arms over his chest. “We have re-taken the Silveterra and Guardo sigil towers. If they were operational again we could cut off the Haarb’s main supply route. Damn them to the seven hells for their butchery. Without a female partner, I can’t work the magicks required to restore the diamantorre.”
Doral reacted with uncustomary heat. “After the wholesale slaughter of our women, I hope hell reserves a special place for the Haarb.”
Ari pushed back his grief, an exercise he had perfected through constant repetition. He mourned for his slain brothers and sisters, for the enormity of Verdantia’s loss. Generations of men and women carrying the most elite magickal bloodlines lay heaped in unmarked, mass graves. Grimly, he eyed the map where constellations of black stars indicated whole towns and estates emptied of their populations, either killed or enslaved.
“Stop! Halt!”
The sentry’s loud cry drew Ari’s second-in-command to the door of the tent. Doral pushed the heavy canvas flap aside and stepped out before looking back over his shoulder. “A L’anziano courier-rider, Yannis Melcom.”
Ari joined Doral. The flickering light of hissing torches revealed a disturbance.
“High Lord! High Lord!” The small, grizzled rider threw himself off his staggering horse and tried to muscle his way between several stout guards. He had brutally used his horse. The raw-boned black swayed on his feet, his head dropping inches from the ground as his sides heaved, sucking air into tortured lungs. With an awful groan, the animal's knees folded and he buckled to the dirt.
“Let me go! Let. Me. Go! I bear an urgent message for the High Lord.”
Ari knew him——and Jox, his horse. This cursed war. It takes everything dear. First the old man’s wife, now… “Let him through, Sergeant Major. I know this man.”
The aged, weather-beaten rider staggered to within a few feet of him. “High Lord, I carry an urgent message from Elder Patricio. I must speak with you immediately.” He glared belligerently at the crowd gathered. “It is for your ears only.”
Doral glanced at Ari. “I’ll be out here if you need me, and I’ll see what can be done for the horse.” Doral had been with Ari long enough to know he would want the animal saved, if possible.
Ari nodded tightly and motioned the messenger toward the tent. “Inside, Yannis.” Holding back the tent flap for the old rider, he indicated a campstool. “Sit before you fall in front of me like your horse.”
Tears streaked through the dust caked on the old, grizzled rider’s cheeks. Yannis covered his face with a trembling hand. “Ah, my Jox. Please forgive me. Forgive me, lad.”
Ari understood Yannis’ heartache. For generations, the House DeTano had bred the finest of purebred horses. A horseman to the soles of his riding boots, the adolescent Ari had focused his dreams and passions on continuing his family’s proud heritage. For him, the dream would never be. Elder Patricio, the influential head of the L’anziano, had seen to that long before the Haarb arrived.
Crossing to a low table, he poured a cup of water. “Here, drink this.”
Accepting the clay cup from Ari’s hand, the old rider downed its contents. Visibly pulling himself together, Yannis wiped his dirty face on his even dirtier sleeve. In an urgent undertone, the messenger forced words through dry, cracked lips. “Your Lordship, you must be in Sylvan Mintoth by this time tomorrow. The sigil, the diamantorre, is failing.”
Ari regarded him sharply. “Say that again.”
“Sylvan Mintoth’s sigil is failing. Elder Patricio requires you to perform the Great Rite. Your Lordship, it is Sylvan Mintoth! You must go.”
Ari turned away, slamming the water pitcher to the table. Patricio has some self-serving reason for summoning me. Magisters DeGregio and DeFlores reside at Sylvan Mintoth, both capable of performing the Great Rite. How like him to use the one reason I cannot ignore. The High Enclave and the palace cannot fall to the Haarb—not now. Damn the man to the seven hells. I must go. “Yes, I will go.”
Striding to the tent door, Ari jerked the flap back and motioned for Doral to join him.
“Doral, pack my saddle bags with my travel kit and tack up Grey. Have him ready in fifteen minutes.” He could read the question in Doral’s steady gaze.
“Sylvan Mintoth’s diamantorre, the sigil, fails. Patricio summons me to perform the Great Rite. I think a single rider stands the best chance of remaining undetected infiltrating the Haarb lines. I will ride alone.”
The muscles in Doral’s jaw tightened at Ari’s quietly murmured words. His blue eyes became arctic. He nodded curtly. “High Lord, what weapons?”
“I carry my poniard.” Ah, that did not sit well.
“Sir, you cannot ride out armed with only a dagger. It is suicide. The Haarb's elite divisions ring Sylvan Mintoth. They continually patrol the entry gates.”
Ari’s smile barely moved his lips. “If my presence is discovered, I am a dead man no matter how well armed. I shall just have to be very clever.”
Doral's level stare challenged him. “I will ride with you.”
“And risk both of us?” He shook his head, rejecting Doral's statement. “Just do as I ask.”
Doral’s eyes were bold with displeasure. “As you command—sir.” The honorific was slow in coming.
He watched Doral’s rigidly silent departure. He wouldn’t put it past the man to follow him anyway. I don’t know why I pretend to give him orders. Shaking his head, he turned back to the old rider. “So, Yannis, who will partner me in the rite?”
The grizzled old man shifted uncomfortably and mumbled something under his breath.
Ari threw an impatient glance at Yannis. “Speak up, man.”
“Princess Fleur Constante.”
Of course, our Principessa Royale. Ari’s fists clenched and unclenched.
“Manipulations, plots and schemes, the hallmarks of Elder Patricio. Why am I even surprised?” Taking a deep breath, he let go of his anger.
Crossing the tent, Ari began to strip, donning dark colored riding clothes. He raised his head and regarded the elderly rider.
“Yannis, stay in my tent and recover before you go back to Sylvan Mintoth. Ask Doral for anything you need. You may take one of our remuda mounts for your return.”
“Thank you, High Lord. But if my Jox can be fit to travel in a few days, I would not part with him. I’ll lead him back on foot if I must.”
Ari looked up sharply.
The old rider shrugged in apol
ogy. “He is all I have left, sir.”
Ari had pulled on his dark, long sleeved shirt, black leather leggings and riding boots. The addition of his hooded black cloak completed his transition into a dark wraith. Hearing the messenger’s words, his closed expression softened. “I expect to see you and Jox at Sylvan Mintoth in a few days, Yannis. May the Goddess shine her glory on you.”
Ari strode through the door flap and crossed the yard to where Doral held his gray gelding, saddled and ready to travel. “You are ever efficient, Doral. What would I do without you?” He smiled his thanks and stamped down much warmer feelings that surfaced unbidden.
“You would manage—sir.”
Doral’s clipped statement drew another wry smile from him. “Perhaps, but not nearly so comfortably. You take good care of me, Visconte. I notice.”
“On the rare occasions you allow it, my Lord.” Doral looked off, grim.
Swinging up easily onto his horse, Ari gathered the reins into one hand. As Grey sidled with pent-up energy, Ari stroked his dappled neck. “You have a very important job to do, my fellow. I need all the strength and speed you possess.” He caught Doral’s eyes with a quick nod. “You are my acting commander, Visconte.”
He turned Grey toward the eastern reaches and Sylvan Mintoth and touched his heels to the horse’s flanks. The well-trained mount leapt forward as if the demon-wolves from the seven hells of Jurossa nipped at his heels.
Doral felt the old rider move to stand next to him. Together they watched horse and rider fade into the brightening east. Yannis turned to Doral.
“Will he reach Sylvan Mintoth in time?”
Doral tore his gaze away from Ari.
“Have no doubt, old man. That horse of his will die for him.” Doral snorted in self-derision. Looking back toward the direction of Sylvan Mintoth, his eyes strained for one more glimpse. “And he is surrounded with men just like his horse.”
Hers to Command Page 1
