The Castrofax (Book 1)

by Jenna Van Vleet

  Balien folded his hands across his red-and-gold coat and suppressed a smile. ‘Just wait until Robyn takes the throne,’ he thought. ‘She will not put up with your nonsense.’ Months off yet, it was still too long—and that was only if she was found in time. No one heard from his sister in nearly two years, and those who knew she was missing grew more concerned by the day.

  “My Mage affairs are of no concern to you. You think after all these years of inquiry, you would give it up, but I am continuously plagued by your incessant questioning,” Nolen snapped. Many maidens called him handsome, with thick eyelashes surrounding deep green eyes, tightly-curled brown hair tied back in a short tail, and the tall physique of a warrior. Nolen was not terrible to look upon. Balien suppressed the gag. Anyone who truly knew the Prince saw passed his pretty wrapping to the firebrand temper beneath.

  A passing servant in a red tunic bowed beside Balien with a tray of little cakes. Some had savory onions and goat cheese, another with apples, and a third with mushrooms and spinach. The young man proffered the apple cakes to Balien, holding the onion and cheese furthest away from the Prince. Balien met the boy’s eyes, recognizing him from the kitchens, and put a hand over the apple cakes. The boy gave the smallest nod, and Balien took it.

  “I just want to know how long you will be gone and where you are going,” Queen Miranda replied gently. By her tone and seated stance, Balien knew she was beaten long ago. She was by no means pretty with deep brown, lifeless eyes, prominent jaw bones, a nose bridge that was too flat, and slowly forming jowls. She may have been lovely when she was younger, but that was before her exiled husband beat her will and confidence out years ago. The years had not been kind to her either, fleshing out her middle and creasing her face.

  “My concerns are none of your business.”

  Balien finally had to rescue his Queen. “And if she has need of you before you return, where will she send a messenger?”

  Nolen fixed him with a sharp glare, one of thousands the Prince sent his way, and Balien gave him a thin smile suggesting Nolen to try and argue with him and see where it lead. As the soon-to-be brother of a Queen, Balien’s power was growing over Nolen’s sway.

  Balien had always been described as a gentle soul, and he saw his purpose in the palace as an aid to those less fortunate. He liked to think of himself as a vigilante. He had his father’s dark brown eyes, high cheekbones, and broad chin, alongside his mother’s dark gold hair cropped short above his collar and styled to fall back. He ran two fingers though the unruly locks in a gesture of preparing himself for a battle and tightened the muscles in his face to ward off the kind look his eyes often betrayed. Nolen may have grown immune to his glares, but any passing soul would be chilled. Miranda still was, and she quickly adverted her eyes from Balien’s sudden movement.

  The serving boy offered the tray of cakes to Nolen, holding those with onion and cheese closest to the man. Nolen snatched the first one he saw, taking a mouthful likely without tasting it. One hand rested in his coat pocket, fiddling with something unseen.

  Miranda took an apple cake and rose a little in her seat. “Will you be traveling to Castle Jaden again?”

  “Does it matter?” Nolen snapped in his deep voice. ‘Someone touched a nerve,’ Balien thought.

  “It does, Prince,” a woman’s voice stated from the doorway. Balien rose and gave the woman a proper nod as she entered.

  Lady Mage Aisling was the power behind the throne. She carried herself with utmost confidence, her face intelligent and her eyes knowing. The Lady was just into her fifties, and in her short years had risen from a powerful Mage House to the Advisor to the Queen. She served the late Rincarel and now her sister Miranda. She also held a Seat on the Mage Council, making her one of the ten most influential Mages.

  She fixated her cold blue eyes on Nolen as she gracefully rounded a couch. Her tight gaze summed up her calculated opinion of him while keeping his mouth sealed. Balien was thankful for the reprieve of Nolen’s irritating voice and for the entertainment. Aisling always brought amusement with her around the Prince.

  “As Prince, you are required to answer your Queen’s questions. It is your duty, and your privilege to be in her presence. Now, what was the question, Your Majesty?” Aisling asked, taking control of the situation without raising her voice. Balien smiled into his wine.

  “I would like to know where you are going, and how long you will be gone,” Miranda asked, her timid voice gaining a little strength.

  Nolen exhaled sharply, giving the Advisor a loathsome glare she ignored. “I am going to the Balfor Delta, and I will be there a few weeks.” He downed the rest of his cake. He drew whatever he had been fiddling with from his pocket, and Balien saw the glint of a silver coin, rounded unlike Anatolian square coins.

  “Would you not take Balien with you? For protection?” Miranda asked as Nolen took a step to leave. The coin twirled between his fingers as he grew anxious.

  ‘Please do not drag me into this,’ Balien thought and closed his eyes in horror. He opened them to see Aisling looking his way.

  “Balien has his own frivolities to attend to here,” Nolen brushed off. “Do you not?”

  “I should think so, Queen Miranda,” Balien replied in a pleasant tenor voice. “The soldiers are training new bannermen, and they need my sword arm.”

  “Oh, oh yes.” She nodded thoughtfully.

  Nolen mumbled some salutation of thanks and left as quickly as he could. Aisling and Balien shared a moment of relief as the Advisor, dressed in a high-necked green gown dripping with ropes of pearls, took a seat across from the Queen.

  “I always thought Fire Mages were the ones with uncontrolled tempers,” Miranda sighed and swirled her wine. “Air Mages usually have such nice dispositions.”

  “The stereotypes are often wrong,” Aisling replied. “Spirit Mages are said to be crafty and intelligent, but we all know that is not always true,” she smiled.

  Balien chuckled and raised his goblet to her. Aisling was a Spirit Mage, a Class Five, and was as schooled as they came. Miranda got the joke after Balien’s laugh. When the servant pouring wine refilled their goblets, Queen Miranda asked him to step out and close the door.

  “I wonder,” she began. “I wonder, has there been any news of Princess Robyn? I am most anxious to find her.”

  So was Balien. The controlled smile Aisling gave said she too was desperate.

  “Nothing as of yet, but I have the armies’ best diggers looking for her,” Aisling answered, referring to their spies and masters of incognito.

  Balien had his own men out looking. He learned of her location three years before. He traveled out to see her and his old foster-brother Gabriel whenever he could, but a year later they vanished. Urima Manor was vacant but for the servants. It was so quiet since Mage Cordis disappeared about the same time. They left no clues, no trail, and sent no word. For all he knew, they were dead, though he did not think that could be possible. The disappearance of Mage Cordis had innerved the Mage population. They knew nothing of Mage Gabriel, so they were none the worse when he vanished. ‘If only they knew of you, brother,’ Balien sighed and glared into his cup.

  “What if we sent ambassadors to…” the Queen began, but Aisling put up a hand.

  “We do not want to worry the people that the heiress is missing.”

  “But it could help find her! Get the word out, and maybe she will hear!” Miranda exclaimed.

  “Robyn will return by her birth anniversary,” Aisling replied with an air of finality. “I am certain of it.”

  “Very well,” Miranda nodded, her curls flopping about her head. “What work do you need me for today?”

  “Nothing,” Aisling replied. “I have it taken care of.”

  ‘As always,’ Balien thought.

  “Prince Balien, how are your days with the armies?” Aisling asked. He sat in a precarious situation with the various factions of the armies. While his sister was heiress to the throne only Queens sat on, it
would be Balien’s duty to command her armies. Since he made no claim to them without Robyn on the throne, the task fell to Nolen. Everyone knew it was a position Balien would eventually take, and Nolen loathed him for. For some time now the power had been shifting between them, but in Robyn’s absence they stood at a stalemate. Still, it did not stop the men from showing favoritism. Balien was a respectable swordsman where Nolen relied on his Air Element, and men respected what they could see.

  It would be tricky for Miranda to step down and Robyn to gain her throne. Why remove a Queen who was healthy and able? While those close to Miranda knew she was neither, the people saw what Aisling wanted them to see. To the populous Miranda was very just and giving. In fact, she was so giving she was speedily eating away their silver holds and mines her sister Queen Rincarel struck.

  “My Lady, they go well,” he answered, straightening in his seat. “General Calsifer is…eager to teach me.” What he truly meant was Calsifer was eager to see Nolen go. No one hated the Prince like the General who took orders from him.

  Aisling smirked and raised a brow, thinking his statement bold though tactfully put. Miranda did not notice right away. They gave her a moment.

  “Nolen will not be pleased to let go of the army,” Miranda sighed quietly.

  Aisling gave her a look of subtle horror. Nolen would do whatever the Queen commanded; a point Miranda never learned. “I would not worry yourself over it.”

  “You know how much the boy loves his power,” Miranda sighed and played a finger on the rim of her silver goblet. “I do not know what he would do.”

  “Perhaps Princess Robyn will be generous and keep him on as council,” Aisling offered. Balien quietly spat back his wine as his throat closed on the swallow. Not if his little sister listened to anything he said. She already knew of their cousin’s antics and Balien’s opinions on them.

  “Yes, perhaps,” Miranda said dreamily. “Oh, it is getting late,” she stood smoothly and pressed the wrinkles in her black-and-white striped dress down. “I am having tea with the Medextris House.”

  “Please tell Lady Katlyn I send my fondest greetings,” Aisling smiled as she and Balien stood to give formal bows. Miranda promised as she swept out.

  Aisling kept her composure well, clasping her hands and fixing Balien with her cool eyes. However cold she wished to appear, he saw the warmth in them and was rather proud to call her his closest confidant. “How fares Nolen?”

  Balien played innocent. “My Lady, I could not say.”

  The young serving boy entered with a tray of cakes, and again he pulled the onion and cheese back to offer them the apple or mushroom.

  “I think the cheese has spoiled,” Balien whispered, and the boy did his best to keep his smile back. Aisling’s hand hovered above the mushroom, but with a second thought she pulled it back.

  “If you have one poisoned, they very well could all be,” she stated and motioned for the boy to leave.

  “My Lady, I do not know to what you infer,” said Balien.

  She gave him a condescending smile. “The barrel of nutmeg from Shalaban was not meant for you?”

  “I am sure it is the kitchens’, good Lady.”

  “And the vials of calla-lily oil are not yours?”

  “I am not a man who enjoys flowers, no.”

  “How unusual they should find their way here. I shall see the nutmeg gets to the kitchens.” She smiled again.

  “It is best you do.”

  She gave a bow of her head. “Very well,” she walked to the doors. “You know, just the other day I noticed how many foxgloves we have in the surrounding countryside.”

  “Yes, it has not escaped my attention.”

  “You are an observant one,” she nodded and left him to his wine.

  He turned to the windows with a smirk. The Lady missed nothing, and she would keep his secret as well. While he watched Nolen take the position as Commander-Prince of the army, a command that should have been Balien’s, he had plenty of time to research ways to take his unlucky cousin down. A decade ago he collected all the information he could find on poisonous plants and devoted his life to making sure they got into Nolen’s food. He had been poisoning his cousin since Nolen came to Anatoly City and had many advocates in the kitchens.

  The foxglove caused irregular heartbeats and digestive upsets. The calla-lily swelled the mouth and throat. When Balien was feeling devious, a little extra kept Nolen on the privy for hours. His favorite was the nutmeg, causing nausea and memory lapses, but the trick was masking the taste. The Mistress of the Kitchens blended the distinct flavor with cinnamon.

  He was sure the Prince would not know the difference between either spices.

  Nolen and his mother thought the dusty air of the City provoked his ailments, so the Prince often went on hunting trips or visited Castle Jaden. Even then he always brought a few flasks of tainted wine with him and never fully recovered. Balien knew he would have to flee or murder his cousin if the man found out, for the Mage would certainly kill him.

  Balien smirked. Nolen would have to catch him first.

  Chapter 4

  The ax in Gabriel’s hands swung high before slamming into the fallen trunk. The shock sent vibrations through his arms, and the sun beat down on his bare shoulders in the copse where the pines offered little shade. He pried the ax loose and swung it again, uttering a guttural grunt as the wedge struck home. The tree was still a little green, and it did not want to yield. Had Gabriel wanted, he could have split the tree with an Earth sapling-snap pattern, but there was something rich about doing it himself.

  He had grown into a man since Robyn came to his manor, standing three inches over six feet with a much broader torso and legs longer than his father’s. His hair once cut short grew out in black waves brushing his collar that tightened to ringlets when wet. His once smooth hands toughened with the work of commoners, and his muscles honed under the labor of maintaining the cottage. It was not hard work, but it was never the work he expected.

  Putting a boot on the trunk, he pushed until the desired piece dislodged. He could not see the cottage he called home, but he knew the lay of the land well enough to know he was safe. That, and he had ample trip-wire wards set around if someone stepped too close. No one ventured up this far from town though.

  He stacked the wood in one arm and wiped the sweat from his face on his discarded shirt. Autumn was almost on them, but this far from the Gray Mountains it was not yet cold. He passed a few trees with changing leaves as he strode, entertained by the vibrant colors.

  The cottage came into sight through the pines: a handsome little structure with three rooms and a stone hearth. It was broken down when he found it, but with a few Earth patterns, he fixed it up snugly. A few chickens and geese pecked in the ground behind it, and a single goat stood tethered not far off.

  He set the wood on the pile out back and brushed himself off as he turned to look at the back door. She stood waiting for him. She, with her boy-slim figure, golden mantle of hair, sharp eyes on a heart-shaped face, and pert lips on a little chin.

  Princess Robyn had grown into a lovely woman. ‘If ever there was one,’ he thought. She was as well read as any scholar, skilled in debate and politics, and smart enough to know how to read a person from tiny expressions. With a fierce glance and confident posture, she could silence a room, and with a laugh and well controlled smile, she could make every eye follow her. Dancing lessons taught her to be graceful, diction told her how to speak, experience showed her how to be lovely, but archery taught her the strength and assurance she could never learn in a palace.

  “How nice of you to greet the day,” he stated in a smooth tenor and dusted his hands off.

  “I have nothing better to do with my mornings, I might as well sleep through them,” she replied. She wore her usual garb since leaving Urima Manor: leggings, tall boots, blouse and tunic, or sometimes a vest. Today it was a green tunic with no embroidery. They could not afford to look highborn while on the r
un.

  “I have needs, Robyn.”

  She barked a laugh. “You really can’t find anything to eat by yourself?” She disappeared into the darkness of the cottage and emerged a moment later. “We have eggs.”

  “They aren’t cooked, are they.”

  She folded her arms under her breasts—the part of her slim figure that was anything but boyish—and set him with a glare. He could not help but grin, and she vanished back into the house again.

  “Why don’t we go into town today?” he posed. “We’re low on oil and flour and by the stars I could use a good hot meal.” An egg hurled through the door, and Gabriel ducked in time, knowing from experience it was no good trying to catch it. “The inn might have a good minstrel playing, and you could find yourself a gentleman to dance with.”

  “There are no gentlemen out here,” she sighed as he stepped in the cottage. His frame darkened the small room that sat between two bedrooms. “But perhaps I will be lucky.”

  “Let me start the fire for you.”

  “Don’t you think it’s time we start making our way back to Anatoly City?” she asked, having long ago adopted speaking in contractions. The fire came to life in his hands, and he set out a pan on the grate above it.

  “It’s not safe yet,” he replied. “I really don’t want you there any sooner than you have to be. You remember what Lady Mage Aisling wrote.”

  “Yes,” Robyn replied. “Kilkiny Palace was unsafe as ever, though that was nearly two years ago.”

  “I hesitate putting your life in unnecessary danger—are we really out of bacon?” he asked, rifling through a few clay crocks.

  “I told you we had eggs. I included nothing else in my inventory.”

  “Woman, you’ll kill me before I can get you on the throne. I hope that satisfies you.”

  She chuckled. “Calm down. There are a few biscuits and some dried fish in those pots.”

  “If I wasn’t sworn to protect you…” he trailed off shaking his head and grabbed a handful of biscuits.