by E. M. Havens
Copyright 2013 E. M. Havens
All rights reserved
Cover Design: Brian Blount/www.webvisiongraphics.com
Book Design: E.M. Havens
I dedicate this book to my husband, Jon, for putting up with the exorbitant amount of time I spent on it, and encouraging me to spend more. I’m also grateful for your help in blocking out important scenes. It was inspirational.
Thank You
To my sisters, for being the first to read this and still be encouraging
Amy Mabie
Katy Edwards
Susanna Biegert
To my reviewers at www.thenextbigwriter.com, for being honest, supportive, and making me a better writer.
Amy S.
Andreas Wieseman
Ann Everett
Bonnie Milani
Genevieve
Janet Taylor-Perry
Juan Gutierrez
Judy Goodwin
Kenny Hippolite
Mark Cole
Rebecca Vaughn
Rory Noel Hawk
Sam Richardson
Sandie Innamorati
Even on a moonless night, Sam was sure of foot. Every rock, blade of grass or mound of earth she knew without the aid of lantern or mechanical torch. Still, she kept close to the flagstone walls of the mansion, slinking from pool of shadow to pool of shadow. She circumvented the intermittent glows that spilled from the windows of servants still about their business at this hour.
The glint of brass buttons gave away a patrolling guard and Sam clutched her hood and cloak tighter, making sure her golden brooch did not betray her position. The danger past, she unfurled herself from an impossibly small pocket of darkness; even for the slight frame of an eleven year old girl. The way clear, she closed the distance to the stable doors and slipped inside, spilling only the barest of light.
With purposeful stride, she approached one of the stalls. The stout horse within, black as the night was without, whinnied in recognition and tossed its blocky head in anticipation. “Shh,” she soothed and the stall door creaked open. The horse dwarfed Sam, but followed unbidden. He stood patiently while nimble hands tacked him. She led the horse to the stable doors and turned, hesitating for the first time. Breathing deeply the scents of hay and manure as though savoring a fine meal, and touching the gaudy beetle-like clasp at her heart, she squared her shoulders and turned again to leave.
“If ya don’t mind me askin’. Where will ya be goin’?”
Sam stiffened and spun on her heel, searching for the owner of the voice. Spotting him, she relaxed her grip on the reins and stared at her polished boot, digging one heel around in the dirt.
A man peeked from the door of an unoccupied stall. A strained smile complimented his sad eyes as he drew near. Thinning hair, more salt than pepper, was revealed when he removed his brown weathered hat, circling it nervously between his good hand and his mechanical one. The brass and silver contraption whispered in whirs and clicks as the fingers opened and closed. Cogs and pistons spun and pumped, nestled between shiny metal tendons and artificial bones. It almost behaved as naturally as flesh and blood. He took a few tentative steps forward.
“Ya know, just in case I want to come a callin’ or somethin’.” He punctuated with a wink.
Sam straightened defiantly and tossed her hood back, revealing golden hair pulled tightly into a short tail.
“Slag!” she said under her breath, rolling her fierce green eyes.
The man barked a sharp laugh. “Now ‘at weren’t too ladylike.” His words were stern, but his crow’s feet betrayed his amusement.
“I can’t do it, Zeb. I can’t be this person they want me to be.” Her eyes glistened with tears that threatened to fall, and her voice faltered. “I’m just going to go. I’m going to go, well… somewhere else.”
Zeb scratched his head. “Well ‘at there sounds like a plan, Miss Sam…I um…Lady Samantha. A real nice plan indeed. And ya know not a one of us would blame ya.” He took a few more cautious steps. “Not none of us.” He stooped down to one knee to be a little below her eye level. “Ya know, me, I was born to work hard. Work with me hands ‘til the day I die.” He chuckled nervously, and looked at his mechanical hand. “I wouldn’t even be able to do ‘at properly if it weren’t for you and Jas –” He hesitated, and looked to the ground. “Jasper,” he finished reverently.
Samantha looked away too, now working vigilantly to stopper the dammed up tears. She already missed Jasper and didn’t understand why he’d gone. He was her mentor and friend. Why had he left right when she needed him most? Maybe he ran away from his responsibilities too.
The mammoth horse stomped impatiently, returning them to the present, and Zeb returned his gaze. “But you Miss …Lady Samantha. You was born for greatness. We all know ‘at.” He reached out timidly, taking her by the shoulders, and held her desperate eyes with his. “Ya walk out ‘at door, and ride away, yer destin’ for greatness. Ya turn around, and face a future ya don’t want nothin’ ta do with? Well, you’ll be great either way.”
Fervent shouts of anger filtered in to the stables. Samantha and Zeb both whipped their heads in the direction of the cries. She could hear her mother’s voice among them, hysterical as usual.
“Ya just know,” he said, returning his gaze. “Ya have all a us on yer side. No matter what. We all believe in ya.”
Zeb released her and stepped back, giving her room to make her move. Sam wavered and pulled at the seam of her riding pants. The frantic voices in the yard were almost upon them. Behind her, through the stable doors were freedom and uncertainty. Before her were the twin shackles of constancy and destiny. Neither path offered the peace that her young heart craved, and Zeb’s words troubled her.
She didn’t want to be great. She just wanted to be a child, at least for a little longer. But her body had betrayed her, had decided against that for her, and things would change forever. There was no going back. The stable doors burst open, and the guards along with her mother and father, The King and Queen of Perspicia, tumbled in. She shuddered, catching a glimpse of torch light glinting off the new keys in each of their hands. Her exit blocked, yet another decision was made for her.
****
The page walked briskly down the ornately carpeted corridor counting the polished gold numbers on the doors under his breath, which came in short ragged gasps. He pressed into his side with one hand. The other gripped, white knuckled, an elaborate golden tube. His crisp red uniform and brass buttons declared he was no ordinary page. The furrow in his brow did not ebb when he located the appropriate door. Instead, it deepened. He sucked a calming breath, tugging and straightening the gold embroidered jacket and tried to arrange his disheveled and sweaty hair.
Through the ostentatious hard wood hotel door wafted the giggles and growls of an adventurous couple. The page knocked. When there was no acknowledgment, he steeled himself, wiping perspiration from his temples, and knocked louder. Moans of displeasure penetrated the thick door, and moments later it swung open heavily, revealing a half-naked young man. he held only a bed sheet tenuously about his waist.
“What?” he asked, still looking over his shoulder at the pretty brunette blushing in the bed. He finally turned, a furtive grin on his face, to see the page.
“Prince Cole?” the page asked out of duty only. Everyone in the Arboreal Lands knew the younger son of King Arnold. They knew his carefree and irreverent ways. They knew as well the tales of the sometimes selfless deeds, and all too selfish conquests in his short eighteen years.
Cole’s grin faded as he took in the royal page. He ruffled his untamed brown hair, with his free hand and then wiped it over his scruffy face.
“What is this?” he asked, knowing the page would sa
y nothing even if he knew.
“An urgent message, My Lord.”
The page presented the tube but did not relinquish it. Cole’s features hardened in concern and he removed the signet ring from the middle finger of his right hand. He pressed the royal seal set with three rubies into a depression on the end of the device, and turned. The cogs along the edges clicked into place, followed by several pings and whirs within the cylinder. The closure sprang open.
Cole replaced his ring and cautiously reached into the tube, then pulled out the parchment. He thanked the page, and shut the door. As he read the message, gravity was suddenly too much for his body to resist. He grabbed the bedpost to support his weight.
“No,” he whispered to himself.
“What’s wrong?” asked a soft voice from the bed.
Cole had forgotten she was there. He saw the concern in her face and tried to give her a reassuring smile, but failed. Even her naked and beckoning form did not distract him from the letter. He pulled himself up on the edge of the thick mattress and slumped over the message, reading it again and again turning it over to make sure there wasn’t more.
“Cole?” A delicate hand touched his shoulder, bringing his racing mind to reality.
“Bad news, beautiful.” He stroked her hand in reassurance. “This isn’t going to happen today. I think you’d better leave.” He gently kissed her fingers. He helped her gather her things and saw her to the door. She stood on tiptoe and pecked his cheek.
“You know where to find me,” she purred, a seductive smile curling her lips.
He growled deep in his chest and gave her a kiss on the forehead.
Once she was gone he fell, more than sat in the high backed armchair before the empty hearth. He read the message one more time to convince himself that his entire life, every goal, every belief, every wish changed. His destiny diverted.
A pang of remorse began to grow inside him as he fought his selfish emotions. He should be thinking of his family, of his country. He could only think of himself in this moment, and what the two simple sentences on the page meant for him.
Morgan is dead. The crown falls to you.
10 Years Later
Achillea Millefolium. Cole scrolled the words across the page of a thick tome in a flourish of swirls and curls. Finding the ink pot beside him, banked with soil to insure against spillage, he dipped his pen and drew up more black ink.
Yarrow. He added in a plainer script. He recorded the date, location, and quantities among other important information. Blowing gently on the recent additions to speed their drying, he set the book down carefully. He reached into his leather satchel and removed a roll of brown paper. He selected an amount and proceeded to collect samples of the unique white flowers with slender fern like leaves. Making sure to cover it completely in the paper, he tied it loosely with string.
His specimens secure, Cole sat back against a tree to enjoy the warmth of late spring. Breathing in the fresh air of the unspoiled countryside, he reveled in his last moments of freedom. He tried not to think about the hours, days, even years ahead. Instead he concentrated on the munching of his dapple gray gelding, Octavious, and the twittering of song birds in the branches above him. He let the languid breeze caress his face and bare arms where he’d rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. He should be wearing a waistcoat. He didn’t care. The wind flirted with strands of too-long hair that fell on his forehead. The peace and solitude settled deeply in his soul, and he began to drift.
A sudden snort from Octavious and his nervous pawing jarred Cole from the edge of slumber. The animal’s acute senses must have detected something he couldn’t. Cole stood slowly, hand on the pistol at his hip and searched the now quiet glade. He retrieved his rapier propped against the tree, and watched his horse flick uneasy ears. Finally, a faint thrumming reached Cole. He knew the sound, and the tension in his shoulders melted.
“It’s okay boy,” he assured Octavious. The noise grew. Searching for the source above, a shadow passed over him from behind. Cole turned and looked up, shielding his eyes from the midday sun. A pulsating hum reverberated through the clearing, bouncing off tree trunks and amplifying the drone. Octavious spooked, but Cole was there swiftly with a calming hand, and the horse settled.
After a moment, he could make out the form of the air ship. A few more moments, and it was out of the path of the sun. He could see the gold adornments and brass strappings reflecting the sun’s rays. The richly stained wooden vessel was suspended from an air bladder of a uniform deep blue; Perspicians.
He watched as the mechanical wonder from the technologically advanced island disappeared over the tree line, a trail of smoke and steam left in its wake. Its destination was certainly the capital, Arborea, and the castle. The forest creatures began to stir again, and Octavious resumed his endless chomping.
And just like that it was over, the thrumming, his solitude and his whole life. Again. As he gathered his things, stowing the book reverently in his satchel, he recalled the day ten years ago when he thought his life had ended along with his older brother’s. Yet it hadn’t changed much at all. It seemed he would be able to live his life as he saw fit. He had been allowed to pursue his own interests and shirk most of his royal responsibilities. Still, one day he would take the throne, a day far in the future. A day he refused to think about.
He chuckled to himself thinking how different he had been back then and the circumstances that had brought him out of the dark years following Morgan’s death. His humor faded quickly. He didn’t want to think about them right now.
Cole still valued his freedom to do as he pleased, but his goals were certainly more commendable now, at least for the most part. All was well, until the Alliance. The slagging Alliance!
He mounted Octavious and spurred him toward the city with a sharp kick, more out of frustration than need to encourage the horse. Octavious loved to run, and Cole loved to let him. He pointed his steed in the direction of home and gave the beast his head.
Although he had managed to cooperate as little as possible over the years with his father, King Arnold, his duties as Prince could no longer be ignored. Duty. He just couldn’t understand how societies so technologically advanced, and continuing to advance, could hold on to such archaic and simply barbaric traditions. Tradition. Duty. Ritual. Custom. Honor. People would do strange things in their name. His people. The nobles. They would die before giving up their antiquated ways even in light of recent medical, social and scientific advancements. Senseless.
He much preferred the common sense of the common folk. The workers, the backbone of their society cared little for these affairs except honor. Honor to them however, was a different beast than it was to the nobles. A commoner’s sense of honor had everything to do with a fair days work for fair wages. To a noble man honor was simply another series of steps which, if not followed properly, was cause for meaningless lawsuits or duels.
Yet today he would give his life as he knew it for tradition and honor. He would do his duty for his people and his country. He would sacrifice for nobles and commoners alike, for the sake of their security against the advancing Fate Army. He would solidify the Alliance of the Island of Perspicia and his own Arboreal Lands by marrying not only a woman he didn’t love, but a woman with whom he had never spoken or even seen.
He crested the final hill and urged Octavious faster through the flat plain ahead. A haze of smoke and steam were now visible from the growing modern city and all its entrapments. In contrast to the boxy houses and slate tiled roof tops the spires of the ancient castle that stood sentinel grew steadily as Octavious galloped on.
Arborea, it was Cole’s childhood home and future residence as King. His lips pressed together in a resolute line. He’d do it. He would marry. But he would not be happy about it. He supposed he may never be happy again. He could just make out the gilded air ship descending beyond the city walls. His bride had arrived.
****
“What the hell is this?” Co
le yelled, as he stepped into his bedchambers, blinking against the bright afternoon light that glared through the balcony doors. Servants bustled about the stonewalled room, placing folding chairs in two rows at the end of the four poster bed. One black-and-white-clad maid stopped her tucking of the deep burgundy coverlet in tight corners under his feather mattress to stare wide-eyed at him.
King Arnold pushed off from the writing desk in the corner. His father had probably been waiting there for him a while. Good.
“And where have you been, son?” The question matched Cole’s in intensity. They didn’t even bother ratcheting it up anymore. They simply exploded on each other if they were within hearing distance. King Arnold stormed toward his son, tugging and straightening his stiff red jacket with tails. The thick gold embroidery along the edges and up the buttons blared in noble style. His dark but graying hair didn’t budge from its strict part as he tramped across the room. “It’s your wedding day for God’s sake, and look at you! Dressed like a peasant, unwashed and in need of a barber.”
“Sorry to have disappointed you…again.” Cole leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms. “You know that’s all I’m good for. Except for maybe a good show!” He nodded towards the chairs being assembled.
The King stopped a few paces from the door and acknowledged the set up. His shoulders dropped, and his features softened almost imperceptibly. “I tried to stop The Verification.” This was spoken, not yelled, but the feigned sympathy made Cole all the more defensive.
“Slag you!” He pushed off, trying to brush past his father. The king unhooked his cane from the crook of his arm and barred Cole’s way. He stared down into the ruby eyes of the carved gold dragon head that was the handle, then back into his father’s. Cole flung the gaping maw from his chest and wove through the servants to his study door at the head of the bed.
“I tried!” the king growled from behind him.
Cole slammed the door to the adjoining room on his father’s lies. Lies that killed Morgan, and lies that continued to hurt his children. He tossed his satchel on the couch, and dropped beside it, trying to block out the sounds of preparation next door. He stared across the room at his own red coattails hanging from a rack, remembering the fitting he missed this morning. Hopefully it fit well enough.
