by Wendy Wang
The Last Queen
The Book of Kaels
Vol 1
by
Wendy Wang
Copyright © 2015 by Wendy Wang
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or redistributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For information contact address : www.wendywangauthor.com
Edited by Smashing Edits
First Edition: February 2015
Version 2.3.1
CONTENTS
CONTENTS
ONE
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
About the Author
For David, the love of my life.
One
Today is the day, Neala thought as she unlocked one of the windows in her bedroom and pushed against it with her shoulder. The wooden sash scraped across ice but barely budged as she drove her weight against a winter’s worth of accumulation. She pushed again, harder this time. The hinge squeaked, setting her teeth on edge, but she gained almost a quarter inch. A draft rushed in through the slight opening and she pressed her nose to it, breathing in the crisp bite of icy air. Winter was dying and soon spring would come. If she had to be locked away while the mountains around her turned green, she thought she would go crazy. Wriggling her fingertips through the tight crack, she grimaced. They didn’t quite fit. She would have to actually touch the ice if she was going to command it.
The sound of footsteps in the hall made her stop and listen. The sight of two shadows stopping in front of her door caused her heart to beat hard against her ribs. She held very still and cleared her mind, in case whoever it was tried to read her. The last thing she needed was her nosy sister or her mother bursting in and halting her escape.
The frosty air seeped in, chilling her back. She shivered. The clock next to the bed ticked, keeping time to the beats of her heart in her throat. Go away, she thought. Please, just leave me in peace. The feet hesitated at first but turned away and continued down the hall. She blew out her breath, glad they were gone, not caring if her thoughts had influenced them. Now she could get back to her escape plan.
Once more, shoulder to window frame, she pushed with all her weight. The opening to the ledge widened a quarter-inch more, just enough to get her fingers through to the ice-covered ledge. Her nails grazed the uneven surface, driving ice crystals beneath their tips. Just one finger pressed flat against the frozen buildup, but it was enough to get the job done. Closing her eyes, breathing deeply and evenly, she centered herself as her parents had taught her. The image of her heart emerged in her mind and a small pin-prick of light shined in the middle of her chest. The light grew brighter and warmer as it expanded into her torso and arms. Brilliant tendrils beamed from her fingertips and toes. When she reached the threshold—the place between belief and reality—she set her intention, willing the layers of winter to turn to mist, disappearing into the breeze.
When she opened her eyes, her knuckles pressed against the wooden sash and it swung outward. The hinge protested with a loud squeal but the window met no other resistance. Neala grinned, pleased with herself despite the slap of cold air against her face. It stung her nostrils and burned the back of her throat, but she didn’t care. It tasted like freedom.
Her breath puffed out as she leaned over the windowsill and looked straight down. Three stories up were too far to descend with just her hands and feet. Jumping might be an option if she could find somewhere soft to land. All winter, the snow had fallen, melted on warm days, and iced over before starting the cycle again. The drifts from December’s blizzard were gone and she could see the tops of bushes at the base of the wall. Jumping would not be an option.
Her eyes panned across the wall again, until they settled on a dead vine that had dug its tendrils into the brick. She swung her leg over the windowsill and scooted onto the ledge. Only her arm, wrapped around the center window frame, supported her weight as she extended her body, stretching her arm as far as it would go. Her free hand flattened against the smooth granite wall. The frozen stone bit into her palm and fingers but she didn’t care. If she could get close enough to summon the vine, she might be able to breathe some life into it and use it to help her climb down the wall.
The sun had not peeked over the surrounding mountains yet. Dawn reflected on the snow, casting the world in milky light—perfect for escaping. As soon as the sun was up, she would lose her best chance for making it out without discovery. The vine was only a few inches away from her fingers and as she inched closer, it began to tremble.
Come to me, vine, she thought. Obey my will as the creator has commanded you to do. The vine shook its tendrils free and Neala stretched even further, moving from the support to the side of the window. She gripped with only her fingers now and prayed.
The vine should have complied. But it didn’t. Instead, it twisted back on itself, tying into a knot. Her fingers slid, until just the tips held her in place.
Sweat gathered in the small of her back despite the cold as she came close enough to touch the vine. Surely, the vine would not disobey once it felt her energy. It would have to comply, as all elements were supposed to do. After all, she was a Kael—a commander of the elements—earth, water, metal, fire and wood.
Her fingertip brushed a jutting tendril. The brown stem shriveled at her touch, turning black; it broke apart and dispersed into the wind like ash. Neala growled and slammed her hand against the wall, almost losing her grip. Her heart jumped into her throat and she squatted, catching herself before she plummeted to the ground. She hugged her back to the wall and sat down hard on the ledge. Cold seeped through her pants but she barely noticed its chilly bite.
Neala scowled and gritted her teeth. Only one person in all the realms had the power to prevent her from using her affinity for an element—her mother. She slapped the ledge, causing her fingertips to ache. Well, she thought, rubbing away the pain from her hand, if I can’t escape this way, I will just have to find another way out.
Six months of confinement. Six months of wearing only black and enduring rooms so filled with sadness it made breathing difficult. She was sick of being held prisoner by her mother’s grief. They all missed him. Not a day passed where she didn’t have to remind herself that he was gone, not just hidden away in his study reading.
But this was not how he would have wanted them to live. He loved life, loved music and laughter and his girls. He loved winter, loved the snow. He would have wanted her to walk their trails, even though he was gone. What they were doing was not living. It didn’t honor him or his memory, and Neala was finished with it.
“Enough,” she said, and climbed back through the open window, closing it shut behind her.
She went to her closet. Her favorite winter coat hung inside, unused. It was nothing fancy, made of dark green felted wool, its sle
eves flared into a curve reaching almost to her fingertips. It hung almost to her ankles and the wide hood could be pulled low to cover her face. She yanked it from its hook, along with her favorite field bag, a long black scarf and matching gloves. She needed one last thing to help her with her plan–her Bahndal.
Opening the top drawer of her vanity, she removed the dagger she had forged when she was fourteen. The soft, gray scabbard gleamed, despite her neglect of it. She brushed her fingers over the intricate scroll work. Her skin tingled, reacting to the elements in the sheath. Her hand caressed the dagger’s hilt, which was wrapped in fine lamb’s leather and molded to her palm. The scraping sound when she removed the dagger from its sheath was a single, melodic note.
“Hello, my friend.” Her lips curved into a smile. The razor-sharp blade hummed as if it was glad to see her. She returned the dagger to its scabbard and strapped it on to her thigh. Now she was ready.
She stuffed her scarf and gloves into her bag and slung it across her body. With her coat in the crook of her arm, Neala opened her bedroom door and peeked into the hallway, scanning for any sign of life. It was still very early. If her mother was awake, she’d be in the breakfast room now. There were no servants wandering the halls or any sign of her sister.
Her blood thrummed in her ears as she tip-toed the length of the long corridor to the double doors leading down to the lower floors. Once inside the stairwell, she slipped her arms into her coat and skipped all the way to the bottom, her heart feeling lighter the deeper she went into the belly of the palace.
The shadows of the dimly lit halls made for good cover as she wound her way to the kitchens and the service entry. At this time of the morning, the kitchen already hummed with activity. The yeasty smell of fresh bread wafted into the hallway and her mouth watered.
She peeked around the kitchen door and watched as the two kitchen maids scurried around, boiling water, scrambling eggs, and frying bacon as Cook barked orders at them.
“Get the toast on that tray, girl. You know how Her Majesty likes her toast hot.” Cook leaned over the bubbling contents of a pot, dipped her spoon in for a taste and smacked her lips together. “Ah, that’s good. Marialla, put these apples into a covered bowl and get them on the tray, too. Just what a body needs on such a cold day—hot cinnamon apples.”
A bowl of hot, stewed apples and a slice of fresh, buttered toast almost tempted Neala to go back upstairs and join in breakfast with her mother and sister. Almost.
Cook disappeared through the hallway leading to the large pantry, and butler’s wine closet. One of the maids finished readying several trays while the other scraped little bits of egg from a pan, then dunked it into a sink full of steaming water. Neala glided into the kitchen like a ghost and Marialla gasped.
“You never saw me, all right?” Neala whispered. The girl nodded her head. Neala pilfered a piece of buttered toast from the tray and a couple of apples from a bowl on the long, maple worktable. She put her finger to her lips, signaling the girl to keep quiet. The girl gaped, her large, blue eyes wide. Neala smiled and stuffed the fruit into her bag before backing into the hallway. The girl was still staring after her when the cook returned.
“Well? What are you waiting for, girl? Get those trays to the footmen so they can take them up!” Cook said.
“Yes’m.” The girl started at Cook’s raised voice and grabbed the tray, dishes clinking together in protest. Neala shook her head as she slunk into the shadows of the corridor and headed towards the service entrance. She sighed. This would be the hard part.
The service entry let people come and go from the palace—mostly vendors and the servants. All had to pass by at least two wardens stationed at the entrance and she knew from past experience—when security was more lax—that the wardens assigned as personal security to the family sometimes loitered in the hallway of the entrance. Her security warden, Henry Cleethe, was there, scratching his beard, looking too serious. If she’d told him that she wanted to leave, he would be obligated to speak to her mother—get her permission. Depending on her mother’s frame of mind, she might say yes, but more likely she’d say no. Neala couldn’t risk her sanity on her mother’s mood and she wasn’t willing to have a warden trailing behind her, watching her every move, even if her mother did say yes. Today, she wanted to wander up the trails to the mountain. Wanted to renew her sorrow-filled soul with the energy from the forest. Wanted to hear birds sing and squirrels jump from tree to tree. Henry Cleethe had eaten one too many pastries to keep up with her in the surrounding hills.
Neala ducked behind a large cupboard in the hallway and peered around its corner at the service door. Just like she thought, five wardens stood near the entrance, nattering with each other. How would she get past them? She watched as one of the servant girls pulled up the hood of her cloak and left with an empty clothes basket. A warden nodded at her and pulled open the door for her to pass, then closed it behind her and went back to his conversation.
Could it be as simple as just walking out the back door? She glanced around and spotted a couple of baskets on the floor just inside the kitchen door.
She grabbed one of the large-handled baskets, yanked the hood of her cloak low over her face and pretended to be one of the servant girls. The wardens kept chatting, and she heard snippets of their opinions about the possibility of a civil war. They paid no attention to her, and that was just fine. She placed her hand on the dulled, brass knob and turned.
“Hold up, there.” The warden sounded gruff and he put his hand on her wrist. Her heart pounded in her ears and her breath wedged in her throat. If she was caught, she would have to face her mother’s disappointment as well as her melancholy. “Let me get that for you,” he said. She peeked at him from beneath her hood and called forth a smile.
“Thank you,” she said, praying to Jerugia he would not recognize her.
He nodded, and his eye wrinkled as he gave her a wink. She walked right through, and kept walking as she heard the door shut behind her. It took everything she had not to leap into the air and shout with joy.
One more barrier to get through and then she could scream until her throat ached. She approached the gate and a warden walked out from the guard shack. He unbolted the wide, iron gate and walked it open so she could pass, giving her a nod as she left the palace grounds.
A smile stretched her lips and her heart soared. Freedom.
******
The icy crust of the snow crunched beneath her boots and her breath puffed out from beneath the brim of her hood as she walked across Mercy Street. Up ahead, a ruckus of yelling and shuffling pulled her from her thoughts and she stopped and peered towards it, keeping her face as obscured as possible. Two wardens were breaking up a fight between two older men outside Bilbray’s Pub. It was a little early for imbibing, she thought. She scanned the street for another way past them but there was none.
She sighed. It seemed the only way out was forward. One of the wardens noticed she had stopped to watch them. Her heart beat a trail to her throat and she recognized him immediately. Peter Declan. Son to Governor of Ethavia, Faedra Declan. Younger brother to the Chief Commander of Wardens, Caius Declan. She had seen Peter at the palace before with his mother after a governor’s meeting.
He looked almost the same as he had the last time she’d seen him–dark, wavy hair, blue eyes that shined with curiosity and a reckless smile that always made her blush when he cast it her way. She pulled her hood as low as it would go over her face and kept walking. As she drew closer, her breathing became shallow and she pulled her coat tighter around her. The wind kicked up, gusting so hard she grabbed the edge of her hood. The hood ballooned behind her and the slick, velvet lining slipped between the leather of her gloved fingers, exposing her head and face. Damn the wind. It was the only element she could not command.
Peter’s eyes locked with hers and she froze in place. His left eyebrow cocked and he gave her half a grin, as if to say, “I know you.” One of the men leaning against the w
all started to shout and he diverted his attention away from her. She stepped up her pace, almost jogging by the time she rounded the corner onto Dogwynd Road. She stopped for a moment, pressing her back against the building, to catch her breath. She waited, listening for boots or shouts or any sign that he was in pursuit of her. When no one followed, her shoulders relaxed. A smile played on her lips as she started on her way again.
The sidewalks of the buildings facing the wall of the city were empty this morning. A half-mile more and she would be to the bridge that crossed the River Targh. Once she crossed the bridge, the trails into the mountains would start and she would be free. Lost in her thoughts, she looked up too late. From behind the corner of the next building, Peter Declan stepped directly in her path and she slammed into him. Her arms swung wide circles as she tried to keep herself from falling onto the icy sidewalk.
“Whoa.” He grabbed her around her waist and righted her on her feet. “Careful there. Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
Peering up into his face, his beauty blinded her as if she’d stared at the sun too long. He smelled of clove and mint and the undertone of burning oak. Was that from his affinity for fire? She was acutely aware of how his arm felt across her back and the way he stared at her, unblinking. Her belly fluttered and her face filled with heat. She pushed out of his arms and stepped back.
“Nowhere.” She straightened her coat and spine. No use in letting him think he’d affected her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to pass.”
“Going nowhere. Hmm.” His dark blue eyes glittered and he put his hand on his hip. The black metal baton hanging from his belt shined a deadly warning. He cleared his throat and the hint of a smile faded from his lips. “Let me see your papers.”
Neala stuttered, “I–I don’t have any papers.”
“No papers? That’s pretty serious.” His eyes narrowed.
