The Edict (The She Trilogy Book 1)

by P. J. Keyworth

  The Edict

  Book I of The She Trilogy

  Works by P. J. Keyworth

  HISTORICAL ROMANCE NOVELS

  The Widow’s Redeemer

  The Unexpected Earl

  Fool Me Twice

  HISTORICAL ANTHOLOGY

  Castle, Customs, and Kings: True Tales by English Historical Fiction Authors

  The Edict

  Book I of The She Trilogy

  By

  P. J. Keyworth

  Copyright 2017 P. J. Keyworth

  Cover design by Venetia Jackson

  Interior design by Passalande Books

  ISBN-13 9781999865214

  Publisher: Passalande Books

  Printed in the U.K.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author. This is a work of fiction.

  For Him who saved me

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  About The Author

  Author’s Note

  Next Read

  The Kingdom of Emrilion

  Prologue

  Before the guttering fire was allowed to flicker into oblivion, a small servant scurried over to bank it with fresh logs. Smoke billowed out from the irritated fire but did little to cover the stench of fever, and now in these late stages, of putrefaction.

  Thick tapestries showing great battle scenes hung on the walls of the chamber. Rich fabrics covered the furnishings, whilst deer furs were piled high upon the bed. All of them filthy. Weeks without fresh air had seen to that. Servants, fearful of causing the King’s sickness to worsen, had stopped up the windows and any other opening that might cause a draft. Death was present. Everything smelt of it.

  Every servant who ran in and out with remedies demanded by healers feared what was coming. Every courtier who came to see how soon they could expect the King to die and their position solidified or rendered obsolete by a new regime. All of them wore fear on their faces.

  The King’s gnarled fingers gripped at the fur covers with what little strength they had left, his lined face creasing, his thoughts drifting between consciousness and other realms. The healer had not left his side, and in all honesty Garesh found the man an utter fool. His ridiculous ceremonial costumes fashioned from the skins and heads of wildcats were of no help to a feverish King. Then again, perhaps the King’s second-in-command should be happy. As High Councillor to King Emril, so close to absolute power, Garesh didn’t want his superior to recover. He wanted him to die.

  King Emril had reigned with power, raising the Reluwyn from an independent kingdom of settled nomads. Now they ruled an empire that spanned half the known world hubristically named Emrilion. He had been a ruthless king, his cruelty furthered his domination and his single-mindedness was never questioned by his subjects; but now that time was over and Garesh had waited long for this. He was ready to rise up, all that was needed was the King’s signature scrawled upon the Regency document Garesh had already drawn up. After all, Emrilion had no Queen. Emril’s wife had been deemed by him a threat to his power, and so he had dealt with her accordingly. Her Alakvalto blood, which drew from an ancient shape-shifting magic, had been her undoing. No King of the Reluwyn could allow himself to be seen as second to his Queen. The marriage had served a purpose. Then it had not. The King had signed an Edict condemning all Shifters to death, supressing their kind and accusing them of being influenced by dark spirits. Queen Anis had been burned alive, cleansed of her dark spirit, and her own husband had watched. Now an entire ancient magic was left in the realms of silence.

  For Garesh, such a move had unwittingly cleared the way for ascension to power as regent upon Emril’s death. No one had expected the tenacious King to catch fever with the rest of the crowded Emril city, but he had. Despite the lack of a mature heir to call upon, Emril was ever wilful, until now refusing to hand over any of the power he had spilt rivers of blood to build. The only hope left was to bring the young Prince Trevisian to the dying King, and hope that the boy’s presence would persuade him to sign the document in the pocket of Garesh’s silk robe. As regent, Garesh would rule in the boy’s stead until his taking of a wife as Reluwyn custom dictated. Then the Prince would be elevated to Kingship. When that time came Garesh would make the decision on what to do next. Until then, he needed to secure his power.

  The High Councillor was going for the boy now. He strode through the palace with all the purposefulness that had once led him out of the courtier’s muck heap and up to the King’s right hand. The robe he wore flared out behind him and his leather shoes thudded on the tiled floors. He passed walls with frescoes depicting the ascent of the Reluwyn, from a tribe in the Tao desert into a mighty nation. The quickest way to get to Prince Trevisian’s chambers was to pass through a fountain courtyard made of sandstone, the chambers off it containing the King’s numerous concubines. Since the King’s illness, Garesh had taken to passing by those rooms more often.

  This time, however, he did not stop but went on. He passed the fountain which had frozen on the first day of true winter, its icy shards suspended, waiting for the first day of spring to release them. He entered the Hall of Banners where all the bloodlines of the Reluwyn - apart from that of the Alakvalto - were represented. Courtiers and council members milled about, waiting for news of the King, forming factions and fighting amongst themselves.

  Garesh, usually taking his time to flatter and persuade the most influential courtiers, instead skirted the main throngs and headed to the left of the great stone columns. He had no time to waste: the healer had said the King would die any day, and without that document signed Garesh’s plan would surely fail. No amount of flattery would be able to unite the courtiers and council members under his authority without the King’s signature.

  He took a side door from the hall and headed to the north of the palace. The Prince’s rooms were soon reached and Garesh strode into the brightly painted seating chamber that looked out onto the heart of the palace: a jewelled courtyard.

  Trevisian’s dark head was bent over the stick he was carving, while in the corner his tutor sheathed a pair of swords, no doubt from a recent training session. The boy started at Garesh’s entrance. His eyes widened but quickly relaxed when they saw who it was.

  “Out.” Garesh’s voice brooked no argument. In spite of the turmoil at court, he still held the highest sway. The tutor needed no second bidding, and obeyed the High Councillor without pause.

  Garesh didn’t even bother to watch the man leave, as his eyes were already focused on the Prince and, once the door had closed, he strode forward. The rapid movement caused the boy to drop the stick, which rattled to the floor, and hastily retreat to the window in the far wall.

  “My Prin
ce, do not be startled, I am come to take you to your father.”

  Trevisian said nothing. He took another step back, his eyes widening again.

  “Your father is dying.” Garesh didn’t expect sorrow from the boy. The yellowing bruises visible on the Prince’s neck when he had been bent over carving were reason enough for lack of tears. Garesh knew exactly what beatings felt like, but his thrashings had ceased with his mother’s last breath. His pity for the boy was short-lived. After all, this pathetic creature was heir to an entire kingdom, a position Garesh would kill for. Right now he needed the Prince to come to his father. “You are to be the new ruler.”

  “Ruler?” came the small boy’s voice. He was not more than twelve. “Father is King,” he said, as though nothing else made sense.

  “For now, but you are his heir Trevisian. Do not be frightened. I know you fear the responsibility, but that is why I am here. We are to go to your father and ask that I may help you rule. Would you like that? Or would you like to do it all alone and make mistakes? Would you like to disappoint your father?”

  This was the closest the young Prince had looked to crying. He stood very still, but did not answer. Garesh’s impatience grew: they had to get back to the King.

  “I can help you. But if you do not help me now, you will be alone, and there is no telling what could happen to you…” Garesh let his ominous words work on the child’s imagination. “We wouldn’t want what happened to your Shifter mother to happen to you, would we? Isn’t that why I told you to do as I said the other day? Now, will you come and do as you’re told again?”

  Whatever images the boy conjured in his mind, it was enough to make him nod his head. Without waiting for a change of mind, Garesh’s hand reached out and grabbed the boy with his vice-like grip. He dragged the Prince after him, the child having to skip and run to keep up with the legs of the tall, thin man.

  They entered the festering room where the King lay prone. His eyes were open now, their bright green irises a startling contrast to his white skin. He looked almost lucid, but his breathing remained shallow.

  “My lord High Councillor,” The healer bowed, “The King grows weak…” he trailed off, his eyes completing the sentence.

  Garesh threw him a look of derision but said nothing. He had work to do.

  “My Lord King,” he said, kneeling beside the bed, taking the coarse, gnarled hands that had once wielded blades and sent armies on to victory. “I have brought your son.” Garesh turned, keeping one hand on the King’s, reaching the other to Trevisian who stood at the threshold. “Come,” commanded Garesh. The boy flinched, instinctively making himself smaller, but he came. The little Prince knelt beside the bed and Garesh placed one of the boy’s shaking hands on the King’s.

  King Emril turned his head. His eyes took in both faces – that of his councillor, sharp and lined; and that of his son, dark and young. His breathing became louder.

  “I have been speaking with your son, Lord King. You may well get better… but if not, your time may be soon, and you have made no provision. Your son’s young years make him ignorant, so he has asked that I guide him in his ruling, that the glorious Kingdom you created might endure.”

  “Weak…” wheezed the King. “Weak.” His green eyes were hard upon his son’s face.

  “Young, my Lord King, only in need of guidance,” Garesh continued doggedly. “I put myself forward to be his regent, Lord King. It is his wish, and best for your Kingdom. Will you sign the document, my Lord King?” The question was out and the King was angry. Now all Garesh could do was hope the King would die, for if he recovered, Garesh would lose far more than his position.

  “No…” whispered the King. The slightest of movements indicated he wished to shake his head.

  Garesh tightened his hand over the Prince’s and the King’s, his fingers claw-like. He glanced at Trevisian. Had the boy heard?

  The King shuddered, his breathing harsh and ragged. The healer approached but Garesh swung around like a wild animal, cursing him away. This would not be the end, he could not let the King go peacefully without signing that document. He flung Trevisian’s hand away and rose up, obscuring the Prince’s view.

  Garesh snatched up the quill from its inkstand beside the bed. The King still shook, his body spasming. Garesh wrenched the document from his own pocket, spreading it across the King’s chest. The King’s green eyes dulled, his breathing stopped, he finally lay still.

  Behind him, Garesh could hear the voices of mourners, summoned by the healer. Had he been wailing like that this whole time? Garesh hardly knew. He felt the Prince’s hand on his back. Did he know his father had died?

  Garesh couldn’t let this power slip away, not when it was so close. He seized the King’s hand, placing the quill between dead fingers, marking the paper with the signature he had witnessed a thousand times. The ink glistened in the lamplight, a simple series of lines that slowly dried to an indelible mark, and the future of the Kingdom was set.

  Chapter 1

  10 Years Later

  Kiara drew the short sword from the sheath on her belt and worked quickly on the rope that bound the child’s hands. She felt the bonds give way and moved onto the next child.

  “Run, Talia,” she called to the first. “Quietly. Keep to the shadows.”

  The little girl leapt up and darted to the cover of the nearest porch. There was a gathering of Imperial Guards further down the earthen street. They stood together muttering to each other, a good day’s work done. As the two suns were setting, Kiara had come. She wouldn’t let the Laowyn children be taken away from their mothers for palace slaves, no matter what her uncle said about obeying the ruling authorities. Damn the Reluwyn!

  Another set of ropes broke under the stone-sharpened sword, and another child ran after Talia, darting in and out of the shadows of doorways before being lost in the alleys of Miresh.

  “Rue, you must send a message to your parents to tell the others: the Reluwyn’s are taking children for slaves; people must hide their children. Do you hear me?” Kiara whispered urgently. The young boy nodded and ran.

  Kiara went to the last of the children, a boy, whimpering, younger than the others. When she took the ropes between her two hands the boy yelped and she froze, praying that the guards had not heard. Seconds ticked by. The murmur of voices had stopped.

  Hearing nothing, but not daring to turn and look, Kiara began again on the ropes, but the movement of her arms gave her away.

  “You! Stop! Stop in the name of the Prince!” The harsh command rang out against the wooden forest buildings.

  “Run!” Kiara yanked the boy to his feet by the bonds she hadn’t managed to cut yet, thrusting her sword into her belt. She pulled him into an alley to the left, not sure if the boy was even running or if she was simply dragging him. Her muscles burned with his weight. She turned left then right along another passage way.

  The guards’ legs were long and they were gaining on her. She heard something whistling through the air and a lancing, hot pain pierced her thigh. She stumbled, cursed and freed an arm from the boy to steady herself. She knew what they did to Laowyn woman, what their Prince permitted, she would not be taken alive. She caught sight of the dagger sticking out of her thigh. If she kept running she’d bleed to death before they took her, and she might just get the boy to safety.

  A surge of adrenaline pulsed through her as she lunged sideways, her free hand finding the rim of a water jar and yanking it over. It crashed across the path behind her, the clay smashing and water flushing out. She stumbled forward, not looking back as her pursuer fell.

  She made it to another junction in the maze of alleys, and as she desperately turned a corner a hand dragged her through a doorway. The door shut quickly behind her and the boy, leaving them both sprawled across the floor.

  Immediately, hands were jammed over mouths to muffle their moans of pain. The kidnappers and kidnapped waited together in darkness.

  Footsteps thudded past the door and
Reluwyn shouts could be heard. Kiara’s breathing was ragged. She felt the seep of warm blood run down her leg, but she still clutched at the boy.

  After some time there was movement in the dark house.

  “Will you be silent?”

  Kiara nodded and knew the boy did so too. As she rolled over onto her back, the dagger cut further in. She covered her face and groaned into her coat sleeve.

  “And who is this young man, Kiara?” came the voice again. A familiar voice.

  She hadn’t realised just how close she had been to getting home.

  “This is Raffy,” she replied, between heavy breaths to control the pain.

  “Raffy,” repeated her uncle, suddenly illuminated.

  Kiara’s eyes ached but began to adjust as Djeck, her uncle’s servant, walked towards them with the bright oil lamp. Uncle Zephenesh helped Raffy to his feet, though the boy still cried and attempted to collapse again.

  Now unable to speak for the pain, Kiara pulled out her knife and threw it to Zephenesh, who swiftly cut the boy’s bonds.

  “Djeck, leave the light and take Raffy home. The Imperial Guards should be lost in the maze of alleys by now, but you must be careful.”

  Djeck obeyed without objection. He covered Raffy with his cloak before slipping out with the boy’s hand firmly in his.

  Zephenesh turned to his niece, and without a word began to tend her leg. He tied his own belt around her leg above the embedded dagger, tightening it without warning. Kiara wrenched upwards in pain.

  “This will hurt.” Her uncle took hold of the dagger’s handle. Even the pressure of a hand felt like burning inside her thigh.

  “No, no, no,” gasped Kiara. She kept murmuring it, even when Zephenesh counted down from three, and another scream came when he pulled it out on two.