Heir of Fain [Faxinor Chronicles #1]

by Michelle L. Levigne

  * * *

  Hard Shell Word Factory

  www.hardshell.com

  Copyright ©2005 Michelle L. Levigne

  May 2005 Hard Shell Word Factory

  * * *

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

  * * *

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  * * * *

  Prologue

  THE SWORD HIT the slate paving with a wooden clatter. Andrixine followed it a heartbeat later, her bruised knees making a sodden thud that echoed dully in the old creamery-turned-practice room.

  "I hate this,” she grated between clenched teeth, refusing to gasp like a cow in labor despite the racing of her heart and the sweat that blinded her. A vision of her warrior friends among the Sword Sisters mocking her weakness stabbed at her heart and mind. Her shoulders shook as she braced herself stiff-armed against the floor; palms slid on sweat-slicked stone.

  "You have been out of your sickbed only five days, daughter.” Brother Klee picked up her practice sword and carried it to the wall rack holding other blunted wooden weapons. “Enough for today."

  "No. I have to keep working.” Andrixine flinched as her voice banged off the stone walls. “Please?"

  For a moment, the two simply looked at each other, volumes of communication passing between the emaciated noblewoman and the tall monk with silver in his dark hair and beard. She shuddered, her fine trousers and linen shirt drenched in sweat from a mere ten minutes of sword drills. He breathed normally, his dark blue robe barely disturbed. Andrixine sat back on her heels. Her warrior braids, thin twists of dark hair bound with the silver cord reserved for nobles, swung free of the clips that held them out of her face. A gasping laugh escaped her, and she raked more sweat-drenched strands of hair out of her too-pale face.

  "You lasted ten strokes longer than yesterday. The regimen is intended to make you stronger, not send you back to your sickbed.” He held out a hand to help her stand. “If you exhaust yourself, how shall you stay awake during your contemplation time in the chapel?"

  "This is like no training regimen I've ever known.” Andrixine wobbled as she regained her legs. “You say it's meant for kings and Oathbound warriors—why use it on me?"

  "We have no training programs for noble maidens who will inherit their fathers’ estates,” Brother Klee said with a smile. That earned him a snort from the exhausted, noble maiden leaning on his arm. His smile faded. “You must know, we believe you were poisoned."

  "Who would poison me? Who would hate Lord Edrix Faxinor enough to attack his heir?” She shuddered and twisted free of his support, to stagger to the bench next to the door.

  "Not your father, Andrixine. You. Who profits if you do not inherit?"

  "Lorien doesn't want the estates. She'd be a troubadour if she could. Or spend her life in Court, dancing and dictating fashion. None of the boys want the bother. They want to be soldiers. Not that I blame them,” she mused, nodding. “I would give anything to take my oath of celibacy and join the Sword Sisters."

  "Anything but Faxinor, you mean. You were born to serve, Andrixine Faxinor. Your heart is loyal, and you know your duty clearly. You are a true servant of Yomnian, and you will always put the right ahead of your own desires and dreams. That is why we chose to give you this training regimen reserved for those entering holy service.” His dark eyes mesmerized her. “Despite your summers training with the maiden warriors, you are still an innocent at heart. You think too well of the entire world, despite knowing enemies wait to destroy Reshor. Think, Andrixine. Your illness came on you too suddenly, too severely to be mere disease. What happened just before you fell ill?"

  She stared at the monk, sensing she knew the answer already but that it was one she wished to keep hidden even from herself.

  "We were on a tour, Mother and Alysyn and I. We visited Uncle Maxil at Henchvery. He was angry at me, like always."

  "Why?” he snapped, like the Captain of the Guard at Faxinor Castle, drilling a new recruit.

  "I refused to marry Feril. Again. He was furious. Icy furious, so you could only see it in his eyes.” She closed her eyes as the scene played itself in her memory.

  Feril, her sneering, greasy, overweight cousin, pouting because she refused to consider him a suitor. Her uncle, dark and regal, drawing his dignity around himself like a cloak as his manners turned cold.

  "Then what happened?"

  "We left the next day. Alysyn fell ill, and we stopped at Maysford. I was so worried about her, and certain Feril would try some nasty trick in revenge, and so glad to be heading home, I didn't pay attention to how badly I felt.” She opened her eyes. “Is it only good fortune that when trouble strikes my family, Snowy Mount is close by to help us?"

  "Yomnian's hand is on you, just as it was on your parents when they fled Sendorland to save their lives. Snowy Mount has always been and always will be a refuge for those in need, a haven for those who devote their lives to contemplation and study and healing, an anchor for those who give their lives to Yomnian by serving others. Your mother brought you here to the mountains to heal because she trusts us implicitly."

  "Even so close to the border with Sendorland,” Andrixine murmured. “Isn't she afraid someone will learn Arriena of Traxslan is here, and send someone to kill her?"

  "Who would send word, in the middle of winter? Who would care that Lady Faxinor was once a noblewoman of Sendorland? Who would want to take revenge?"

  "Uncle Maxil would love to send her back to her nasty relatives,” she said, going very still. “Brother Klee, my uncle hates me because I won't marry his son. He hates my sisters and brothers, because seven of us stand between Feril and Faxinor becoming his inheritance. But he would never kill us. His wife, Gersta of Henchvery, would gladly murder to get what she wanted, but she's been dead fourteen years now."

  "Andrixine, heir of Faxinor, hear me,” Brother Klee intoned, pulling himself up straight and tall, so she could see the warrior hidden inside the peaceful, silvered monk. “You are touched by Yomnian's hand. You are a faithful servant of the All-Creator, and that alone makes you a target of evil forces. You should have died of that poison, but you did not. Put aside the words of men and false loyalties that blind you. Listen with your heart and with the spirit Yomnian put within you, and you will know the truth, and the true path to follow."

  She stared into his dark eyes, shivering as she had done when illness racked her body and wasted away her muscle, and delirium kept her mind prisoner.

  For three long heartbeats, the bearded monk vanished. The man who stood before her had Brother Klee's eyes and wide shoulders, but he was clean-shaven and thirty years younger. Instead of the simple blue robe of a holy scholar, he wore battle-scar
red leathers and shining chain mail. His warrior braids were long and dark, bound with the red of an Oathbound warrior and the blue of holy service. He held a naked sword in his right hand, the scabbard in his left.

  The scabbard was a dull ivory color, like bone, the fine designs dark with the grime of years—maybe blood. Andrixine sensed she should recognize the sword by the scabbard alone.

  The sword's blade looked clear as crystal and seemed to swallow up all the light and send it back tripled, blinding, fractured into thousands of razor sharp pieces. The pieces struck at her eyes, penetrating her mind and spirit, sending terror through her that she had never known, even in the worst of her fever dreams.

  Andrixine cried out and jerked free of the vision. Shuddering, she pressed her fists into her eyes.

  "Daughter?” Brother Klee dropped onto the bench next to her and put an arm around her shoulders. “What is it?"

  Andrixine shook her head. How could she tell him? He would think she had relapsed.

  She knew that sword, if only because it had haunted her dreams nearly every night since she had regained her right mind. Maybe even before that.

  Andrixine's hand itched to grasp the pommel, and her arm ached to test the weight and balance of the blade. If Yomnian's spirit touched her, as Brother Klee said, was this a warning or a quest she had been given? Or a delusion sent by dark spirits, to blind her to the path she should follow in life?

  She was Andrixine Faxinor, heir and first-born of Lord Edrix Faxinor. She was destined to care for the Faxinor estates, to make a high-born marriage and provide herself with a suitable heir. Her duties required she train soldiers to protect Reshor whenever King Rafnar called for them. Her duties would not let her go free, to live the life of a warrior maiden in holy service with the Sword Sisters.

  She most certainly could not follow a vision quest for a sword that called to the depths of her very soul.

  "Nothing,” she finally whispered. “I'm just tired. My head aches a little."

  "Your heart aches as well,” Brother Klee said. “You know what I have said is true. You have enemies, and they will not go away no matter how much good will you bestow on the world."

  "No.” She opened her eyes and tried to smile at him. “They will not. Thank you for making me see."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  PART ONE

  Snowy Mount

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter One

  "GLAD TO BE heading home?” Jultar asked. The white-haired warlord smiled at his apprentice and arched his back. “Or is it just my old bones soaking in the sun for a change?"

  "Glad and soaking, sir,” Kalsan answered with laughter thickening his voice.

  The band of warriors rode their horses two-by-two across the spring-green Kandrigori Plain. Sunshine soaked through thin shirts, warming muscles made tight by a cold winter navigating the mountain range between Sendorland and Reshor. Ten warrior spies were few against the soldiers patrolling the barrier between two unfriendly countries, yet small enough to avoid notice and to find crucial information which ambassadors and envoys missed.

  Kalsan frowned despite the luxurious warmth. The two years of spying had been harsh, and he had earned his warrior status ten times over. Soon he would trade his green apprentice cord for the red of an Oathbound warrior in Yomnian's holy service. He welcomed spring, delighted to return home to Reshor—but knowing war approached took the sparkle from the sunshine.

  Jultar of Rayeen, the toughest, most cunning of King Rafnar's warlords, had been chosen to lead the spying party. Kalsan of Hestrin, with no hope of ever inheriting the Hestrin estates, had chosen to train as a warrior late in his teens, and he was lucky to have Jultar choose him as his apprentice. He was proud to serve his king and country. However, the news of impending war, which their band carried, dampened his joy. All winter he had warmed himself with memories of the pretty girls he had met on the journey to the mountains. Knowing war approached pushed thoughts of stolen kisses and dancing in village squares far to the back of his mind.

  "It's for King Rafnar to handle now,” Jultar said, leaning closer to his apprentice so his long, white braids bound with silver and red cord swung in the breeze. He reached out and tugged on Kalsan's thin dark braid. “You've earned these and the right to be named full warrior at solstice. A warrior knows when to carry his burden without stinting and when to lay it down. Lay it down, boy. Rafnar can handle the burden, and Yomnian is able to bear all. Trust Yomnian if you cannot trust the king."

  "Yes, sir.” Kalsan grinned, knowing his master called him “boy” to tease him. He was twenty-seven and taller than half the seasoned warriors riding behind him. Kalsan reached down and stroked the scabbard of his sword. He was a warrior.

  Maybe not an Oathbound warrior like Jultar's band, but someday. Kalsan read the holy writ and prayed and tried to live in physical and mental purity. Two winters of privation had been good training, teaching him discipline and just how much he could live without. Yet he wondered if he would ever attain the spiritual depth to hear Yomnian's call on his life.

  What should he become when he took his vows? Simply a warrior, ready to ride out at the king's call? Or a warrior scholar? Or a warrior priest? Could he put Yomnian and Reshor ahead of his dreams of adventure and glory? Perhaps he didn't want to reach the capital because then he would have to choose, and Kalsan had no idea what to choose.

  Visions of the girls he had danced with and kissed haunted him during his morning prayers. Visions of a faceless, slim maiden carrying a burning sword haunted his sleep. Was that Yomnian's call, or one of those strange metaphors that only a seer or Renunciate scholar could interpret?

  Kalsan shook those troubling thoughts from his mind, even if only temporarily. He glanced over his shoulder, taking in the reassuring, familiar sight of the war band: browned by the elements; dressed in leathers and rough cloth; each man armed, in good health and riding their horses as if man and beast were one.

  Behind them lay the mountains, ahead lay the Blue Shadows Forest. They would skirt Snowy Mount with its seers, healers and scholars. They might pause a day to catch up on gossip and get a feel for the thoughts and emotions of the common people before starting down the long spider web of trade roads. Two weeks of hard, fast travel eastward on the King's Highway would take them to King Rafnar in Cereston. Then, Kalsan knew with relief sparkling in his gray eyes—then he could lay down his burden.

  * * * *

  "MY HAIR IS turning red.” Andrixine began to laugh, but the rasping in her voice killed her humor. She tossed the long, sun-brightened brown braid over her shoulder and swallowed hard, daring her throat to keep hurting.

  Brother Klee had warned her the fever damage to her voice might never fully leave. She hadn't minded that she would never be able to sing because she had never been musically inclined. Laughing was a different matter. Now it was gone, stolen by the threads of pain that ran through her chest and around her throat when she tried to laugh.

  Andrixine swallowed hard, feeling the ache become a tight knot through her body. The glorious sunshine and the colors of springtime in Blue Shadows Forest faded. The joy of wearing trousers again and riding her blood bay stallion, Grennel, did not pulse as warmly as a moment before.

  Winter had passed in the struggle to regain her health and strength. Andrixine had thrived on the strict exercises and spiritual training Brother Klee imposed on her.

  After praying and struggling to think logically, Andrixine knew the healers at Snowy Mount were right; she had been poisoned. But what should she do? Would the enemy continue to strike at her, or someone else in her family? How could she protect them?

  “Keep silent,” Brother Klee had counseled. “Pretend you suspect nothing and use the confidence of your enemies as your shield and their trap. Gather evidence they cannot deny."

  "I will find out, and they will pay,” she whispered. Andrixine knew it was petty, but she vowed to enjoy punishing the ones who had taken her laughter
.

  "Did you say something, dear?” her mother called, leaning out of the canopied wagon. She held four-year-old Alysyn on her lap. The little girl giggled and swatted at Grennel's tail, so conveniently swaying within her grasp.

  "Nothing, Mother. Talking to myself."

  "Eager to get home?” Lady Arriena Faxinor brushed a pale blue scarf aside, revealing the elaborate braids woven into her golden hair.

  "Not half as much as you are.” Self-consciously, Andrixine adjusted the single braid hanging down her back to her saddle. Her lack of head covering told the world she was unmarried. Her thin, silver-wrapped warrior braids could not halt the social assault that signal provoked.

  Until she wore the marriage band on her wrist and bound her hair up at the back of her head, the world would see her unmarried condition and her estate before they saw the trained warrior—or the girl hungry for a sense of reason and understanding in her life. Andrixine hated the restless feeling, the sense of something more waiting for her to do and to be, if only she could hear Yomnian's voice. Prayer and contemplation and reading holy writ only calmed her for a little while, never fully healed the spiritual “itch” and hunger.

  If she could join the maiden warriors and dedicate her life to service, would she be free of this restlessness? Would the purple cord of a Sword Sister in her braids free her from unwanted attentions? She could only dream the answer was yes; as heir of Lord Edrix Faxinor, her life was not hers to live as she pleased.

  "Your brothers and sister have likely driven your father and the servants to distraction,” Lady Arriena continued with a sigh that was part laughter.

  "And half dismantled the castle?” she added.

  "But that is half the pleasure of returning. The surprise of seeing how much damage they didn't do, and putting it all back together."

  Andrixine smiled. She truly was eager to get home, too, to see her siblings and fit back into the daily routine of Faxinor Castle. Her guilt at keeping her mother so far from home through fall and winter overshadowed her own joy at homecoming.