by K J Taylor
PRAISE FOR THE FALLEN MOON TRILOGY
The Griffin’s War
“Taylor brings the Fallen Moon trilogy to a satisfying conclusion with a chronicle of pitched battles and political intrigue . . . Strong, realistic characterizations and an intricately conceived milieu make it clear that Australian Taylor is a talent to watch.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A strong climax to a fabulous trilogy.”
—Alternative Worlds
The Griffin’s Flight
“An intricately plotted story that is full of imaginative characters . . . It is difficult to have sympathy for such an antihero . . . but one ends up unwillingly fascinated with the twists and turns that mark Arren’s life.”
—Night Owl Reviews
“Twisty plots are Taylor’s strength . . . Readers who value plot above all else in high fantasy will certainly appreciate this book and its predecessor.”
—Bookseller+Publisher Magazine
The Dark Griffin
“A joy to read—rolling prose, tight action . . . and some twisty betrayals.”
—The Straits Times Blogs
“A compelling mixture of intrigue and adventure . . . This is a strong example of intelligent high-stakes fantasy.”
—Bookseller+Publisher Magazine
“Young yet talented author K. J. Taylor surprisingly weaves an intricate tale, appealing to the senses in a wholly transporting way.”
—Portland Book Review
“[A] dark and intricate fantasy debut . . . Taylor’s complex world-building and bloody battle scenes will hook fans of both action and politics.”
—Publishers Weekly
Ace Books by K. J. Taylor
The Fallen Moon
THE DARK GRIFFIN
THE GRIFFIN’S FLIGHT
THE GRIFFIN’S WAR
The Risen Sun
THE SHADOW’S HEIR
The
Shadow’s
Heir
THE RISEN SUN
BOOK ONE
K. J. TAYLOR
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books, Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts Avenue, Parktown North 2193, South Africa • Penguin China, B7 Jaiming Center, 27 East Third Ring Road North, Chaoyang District, Beijing 100020, China
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
THE SHADOW’S HEIR
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Ace mass-market edition / January 2013
Copyright © 2012 by K. J. Taylor.
Map by Allison Jones.
Cover illustration by Steve Stone; sword © Vertyr/Shutterstock.
Cover design by Judith Lagerman.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-61884-4
ACE
Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ACE and the “A” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
For my father, who is definitely the real one
Acknowledgments
Thanks to all the usual suspects who made this book possible: Russell, my agent; Anne, my editor; and Katherine Sherbo, my other editor. And once again, thanks to Janice Jones for her Welsh translations.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Map
1 — Alone
2 — Choices
3 — Malvern
4 — Wolf
5 — The Dark Lord
6 — Living with Shadows
7 — The Blood Moon
8 — Secrets
9 — The Tomb
10 — A Price
11 — Learning
12 — Rude Awakening
13 — Back at the Blue Moon
14 — Destiny
15 — Griffins
16 — How to Care for Your Griffin
17 — The Amorani Ambassador
18 — The Box
19 — To Amoran
20 — Over the Sea
21 — Kissing the Snake
22 — Amoran
23 — In the Streets of Instabahn
24 — The Sun Temple
25 — Half-Breed in Charge
26 — Laela Paramount
27 — Sun Wedding
28 — The Dark Lady
29 — Home
30 — Under the Watching Moon
31 — The Shadow Walks
About the Author
Author’s Note
Hello, everyone, and welcome to Cymria. If you’re returning after reading The Fallen Moon, then welcome back, and if you’re new, then just welcome, full stop! I hope you like what you find enough to want to stay a while.
For those who’d like to read my little creation aloud, here’s a quick guide: The Northerners speak Welsh, and in Welsh “dd” is pronounced “th.” Hence the name Arenadd is pronounced “Arrenath.”
Meanwhile, “Taranisäii” is pronounced “TAH-ranis-eye.” “Griffish,” on the other hand, is pronounced exactly as it’s spelled—griffins can’t read anyway.
1
Alone
She knew what it meant. She had always known what it would mean. In a way, she had been waiting for it her entire life. But nothing could have prepared her for it. And nothing could have dulled the shock. But what possibly could have?
She sat on her stool by the front door of their house, slowly whittling a piece of wood. It had been much larger when she had started, but by now it resembled a very thin carrot. Curled wood shavings were piled up between her feet. Some had caught on the rough wool of her dress, but she couldn’t summon up the energy or interest to brush them off.
She couldn’t keep her attention on her knife, either; she let it slide away toward the sky and stared vacantly at the white clouds drifting over it. It would be another fine day tomorrow.
The knife slipped, and she started at the sudden blossoming of pain in her hand. It woke her from her reverie
, and she put the knife down and hastily covered the cut with the edge of her skirt.
As if the pain were a kind of release, she let go of her hand and started to cry.
The tears didn’t last long. She fiercely wiped them away on her sleeve and bit back her sobs until they left her shuddering with them before they died away. The anger she felt toward herself gave her strength, and she stuffed her knife into her belt and strode over to the rain barrel.
The cold water made her feel a little better. She splashed it over her face until her fringe was dripping and took several deep breaths. As the water’s surface stilled again, she looked down into it and saw her own faint reflection rippling there.
Pale skin, with a scatter of freckles over a pointed nose. Her eyes were blue, but above them her eyebrows were jet-black, and the long, curly hair she tried to keep tied back and covered was black as well.
She stared at it and shuddered again. Gryphus help me, if only I could cut it all off. If I could only hide it!
She had tried, many many times. She had tried dye, but there was no dye that could overpower pure black. Cutting it short only made her look like a freak . . . more of a freak. And covering it still didn’t hide the other signs. The signs on the outside, or the inside.
She let out a sudden, wild scream, and punched the water, shattering her reflection. The anger bubbled inside her as she turned away, and she wanted to scream again, or hit something else, but she knew it wouldn’t help anything.
No point to anything, said the cold, rational side of her mind. Never was, never will be.
But this was her fault. Always had been.
Stop it. He needs you.
The voice was right. She straightened up, forcing herself to breathe deeply, and went inside.
Her father was there, hunched in his favourite chair by the fire. For a moment she thought he was asleep, but then he stirred and coughed.
“Laela. C’mere.”
She went to him. “Dad, how’re yeh feelin’?”
He peered at her. “Like shit. Where’ve yeh been?”
“Just outside, Dad. Not far.”
“Yeh know y’ain’t s’posed t’go out there, girl,” he reminded her. “Temptin’ fate ain’t what yeh need t’be doin’ just now.”
Laela looked away. “Well, I won’t have much t’worry about there soon, will I? May as well get used to it, right?”
Her father sighed. “Laela, we ain’t sure this is it. Yeh can’t be sayin’ that now.”
Laela softened and touched his hand. “But yeh know it is, Dad. Even if yeh ain’t ready t’say it out loud yet.”
He coughed again, and shivered. “I never was much of an honest man, Laela. Yeh know that.”
She managed a smile. “Yeah, I know. Yeh won’t tell me my mother’s name, will yeh? Or his name, either.”
Her father looked away. “Yeh know my name, girl. Branton Redguard, that’s yer dad’s name.”
Laela straightened up impatiently. “Oh for the gods’ sakes, stop it! Yeh know I ain’t buyin’ that, Dad, I ain’t bought it for years! I love yeh, but yeh ain’t my father, an’ you know it, an’ I know it. My mother wasn’t no Northerner, an’ neither are you. So if she wasn’t, my dad was, an’ he ain’t you.”
Bran rose slightly in his chair. “An’ who raised yeh, Laela?” he snapped. “Eh? Tell me that. Who raised yeh? Who loved yeh? Who kept yeh safe all this time?”
Laela backed off. “You did, Dad, but that ain’t what we’re talkin’ about. I’m talkin’ about my other father. The one who bedded my mother. The one whose blood’s in me. I love yeh, Dad, an’ I always have, but yeh ain’t my father by blood.”
He subsided again, suddenly exhausted. “An’ so what if I ain’t? What’s it matter? Yeh mother’s gone, Laela, an’ so’s yeh father.”
Laela stepped closer, suddenly excited despite herself. This was the most he had ever said about her father. “So he’s dead?”
Bran rubbed a hand over his face. “Bin dead nearly twenty years.”
“Are yeh sure?”
He looked her in the eye. “I saw him die, understand?”
“How did he die?” Laela asked quietly.
“He fell to his death,” said Bran. “Tryin’ to escape from . . . us.”
“Us? Who’s us? Yeh mean . . . Dad, did you kill him?”
“I was a guard captain. Yer father escaped from prison, an’ we were chasin’ him. We had him cornered, an’ I told him to surrender. It was right at the edge of a high platform, at the top of a mountain. He gave up, but he fell before I could pull him back. That’s how he died. End of story.”
“What was his name?” said Laela.
Bran squinted. “Can’t remember any more.”
“But how did he meet my mother?” Laela persisted. “Why would she bed a Northerner? He didn’t . . . ? Did he . . . ? Was that why he was in prison, Dad?”
Bran sat back and closed his eyes. “I dunno that much about it either way, but yer father was a criminal.”
Laela looked away. “So that’s how it happened.”
Bran kept his eyes shut. “That’s how it happened, girl. Yer parents are gone, an’ there’s no point dwellin’ on that. I’m yer family. Now . . . I’m tired, an’ I want t’sleep. Could yeh help me t’bed?”
“Yeah, I’ll do it. ’Course I’ll do it.”
Laela helped her adoptive father to his bed, supporting him with her arm around his waist while her mind reeled.
So that was it. That was all it was. The secret Bran had kept for so long was . . . nothing. No terrible secrets, no shocking heritage, no dramatic revelation. Her mother was a Southern girl who had been raped by a Northern criminal. And Bran had told her the story so matter-of-factly, so briefly. Just as if it wasn’t anything very important at all.
• • •
Later, when he was asleep, she sat in his chair by the fire and poked at the ashes.
In all her life, Bran was the only family she had ever known, and her only friend, too. Nobody else wanted to know her. When she was small, other children had been happy enough to play with her, but as they grew older, things changed. The opinions of parents moved on to their children, and suddenly play turned to bullying. Suddenly, she found herself learning new words. New meanings.
Blackrobe. Half-breed. Freak. Darkwoman.
That was when she truly began to understand.
Now her thoughts turned toward her father, as she looked at her lap and the long, thin fingers he had given her.
“Bastard,” she muttered aloud. “Gods-damned evil bastard. Yeh raped my mother. Yeh turned me into this. Yeh made me a gods-damned half-breed. I swear by Gryphus’ flames, if yeh weren’t dead, I’d find yeh an’ do it with me own hands.”
Strangely enough, her anger helped to sustain her over the next few days.
She stayed close to home, as always, preparing food for her adoptive father and keeping the house tidy.
There was nothing she could do for him directly. Even if she had been a healer, he was beyond the help of any medicine. Years of bad living and heavy drinking had destroyed his body from the inside out.
Neither of them mentioned their conversation again. Laela thought of bringing it up, but she felt guilty over it now, and she kept her silence. Her adoptive father didn’t need to talk about painful things any more.
She did her best to keep him comfortable and happy, staying by his side whenever he was awake and talking to him as cheerfully as she could, or even singing. He’d always liked it when she sang. Bran didn’t say much himself, but he’d never been very talkative. Sometimes she felt afraid that he resented her presence, but one evening when she was hesitating over whether she should leave him alone, he reached for her hand and gave it the gentlest of squeezes.
“Yer a good girl, Laela, yeh know?”
She looked down at her hand, almost lost in his big, rough fist, and bit back a sob. “I’m sorry what I said before, Dad. You was right; it din’t matter who my real fath
er was. He was a criminal what raped my mother. You was the good man what looked after me, an’ that’s what counts, ain’t it?”
Bran’s tired face crinkled in a smile. “I’d say so, Laela. I’d say so.”
“I’d like t’know more about my mother, though,” Laela added. “What was she like?”
“Aaahh . . .” Bran sighed. “I don’t remember that much, girl. Yeh know that.”
Laela didn’t believe him. “I know, but if there’s anythin’ . . . anythin’ at all. If yeh don’t tell me soon, yeh never will.”
“I know,” said Bran. “Well . . . yer mother.” He sighed again. “Ain’t thought about her in years, yeh know. Well . . .” A long pause.
“What?” said Laela, eagerly. “What d’yeh remember, Dad?”
“Yeh mother was a merchant’s daughter,” Bran said slowly. “Had the most beautiful eyes, she did. Blue like a summer sky.” He squeezed her hand. “Like yer own, Laela. Like yer own.”
Laela smiled. “Always bin proud of ’em, Dad.”
“She was a fierce one,” Bran added in distant tones. “Beautiful as a rose, an’ just as thorny, Arren used t’say.”
“Who?” said Laela.
Bran started. “What?”
“Who’s Arren?” said Laela.
“What? Oh. Friend of mine,” said Bran. “Long dead. Knew yeh mother, same as me. We used t’go drinkin’ together. By Gryphus but we couldn’t’ve known what would happen to us . . .”
Laela leaned close to listen. “What happened?”
“We grew up,” Bran said briefly. “Bad things happened t’all of us. That was just before the war started.”
“What bad things?” said Laela.
Bran’s brown eyes narrowed. “Bad things,” he repeated. “Young Gern, he died in a fight. Yer mother . . . pregnant out of wedlock, to a Northerner. Arren, he . . . he died, too.”
“How?” said Laela, mostly driven by morbid curiosity.
“Murdered,” said Bran. He sighed. “My best friend, was Arren. Him an’ me, always together.”
Great Gryphus, thought Laela. No wonder he took to drink.
