by Jayla Jasso
THE OMAJA STONE
JAYLA JASSO
The Omaja Stone
Copyright © 2016 by Jayla Jasso
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or by other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
ONE
Someone was walking slowly along the dusty road toward Stovy Farm. Two someones, upon closer inspection—a young man and a little girl. They were barefoot, Jiandra noticed as they started across the stone bridge that gave access to her land. It was early autumn, too chilly to go without shoes.
And something about their postures as they walked struck her as not quite right.
Her younger brother, Rafe, followed her line of vision. “Who is that, Sister?”
“I don’t know. Go get your brother from the barn.” Jiandra took his pail of raspberries and set it on the stoop as he ran to alert Elio.
The ragged-looking pair drew near, pale and gaunt. The boy looked about fifteen or sixteen and the little girl about seven. Their matted grayish hair and piercing silver eyes were unmistakable: they were Nandals, from the troubled country bordering prosperous Villeleia to the northeast. The girl stared up at Jiandra, her expression a mixture of fear and defiance. Now-dried tears had streaked through the dust on her cheeks, and dark circles ringed her eyes.
The boy spoke in heavily accented Villeleian. “Very, very sorry to bother you. We are lost.”
Lost. The word echoed in Jiandra’s mind, hung there like an omen. “Where do you live?”
He reached down to grasp the little girl’s hand. “Nowhere. We were living in a barn, but the farmer killed our father, and we fled.”
“Killed your father?” Jiandra’s gaze shifted to the girl’s face. She had the peculiar feeling she was seeing a reflection of herself from six years before when her own parents were killed.
Elio appeared at Jiandra’s side, towering over the Nandal boy. “Ho, there. What is your business here?”
“Do you need labor, sir? We seek shelter tonight in your barn. I work in whatever you need, sir. Also I know how to craft leather.”
Elio exchanged a glance with Jiandra. She was the eldest, and he and their other siblings looked to her for the final word on most everything.
“Wait here a moment.” She motioned Elio to follow her inside the cottage.
Elio closed the door behind them. “They look half starved. They’re Nandals, though.”
Nandals are not to be trusted, Jiandra could hear every neighbor for miles around screaming in her head. “He said their father was killed. They have no place to go. We could have been like that, Elio, if father hadn’t left us this farm.”
Elio nodded. “James had to leave for Wydefield this morning because his mother took ill.”
“So we’ll need another hired hand to help with grape harvest.”
“Do you think this skinny lad can haul a bushel of fruit or swing a sickle?”
She shrugged. “I imagine he’ll give it his best effort.”
“Well, I could use a leather worker to do something with those hides we’ve been storing in the barn.”
“Go and offer the boy a day’s wage for a day’s work. If he truly knows how to fashion leather, I can sell his goods at the market square in Kingston, and that will more than pay for their provisions.”
“Ever the soft heart, sister of mine,” Elio teased.
She pushed at his massive shoulder. “Just go.”
Elio opened the door and they stepped outside the cottage. To Jiandra’s dismay, the Nandals were gone.
#
That evening at Castle Villeleia, the annual Royal Autumn Ball was in full swing. Solange watched from the shadows of a dark alcove above the stairs as her older sister, Queen Riselle, sat high on a platform presiding over the affair with her usual demure expression. Clusters of eligible young noblemen stood glancing over one another’s shoulders, hoping to catch her eye. With her flaxen hair and crystal-blue eyes, Riselle was a renowned beauty even beyond Villeleia’s borders. Solange looked nothing like her sister, instead having inherited the dark hair and dark eyes of their late father.
Without warning, tall, handsome Sir Lyren of Caladia climbed the steps to Queen Riselle’s platform and motioned to the musicians to stop playing.
“Ahem! If I might have the attention of the guests here tonight, I have something to present to our fair queen.”
He knelt at Riselle’s feet, then reached into his coat and withdrew a sparkling bejeweled locket. “My Queen, please accept my offer of courtship.”
A collective gasp rose from the crowd. Riselle flushed deep red, glancing past him at the stunned faces of her guests. Solange leaned forward from her hiding spot, straining to hear.
Three, four beats of silence filled the air.
“My Queen?” Lyren pressed, his smile frozen. “What answer will you give?”
“I…ah…beg your pardon—” Riselle rose to her feet and rushed out of the room.
The crowd began to murmur, and Lyren remained immobile for what seemed like a full minute. He eventually stood, his smile transforming darkly into a tight-lipped scowl. He motioned to the musicians to resume playing, then followed the way that Riselle had fled.
Solange slipped into the darkened hallway to look for her sister. She found her on the balcony overlooking the lake behind the castle with two maids fussing over her. Solange ducked behind a large planter to stay out of sight.
Lyren appeared.
Riselle and the other girls looked up at him, apprehension in their eyes.
He cleared his throat. “If you please, Your Majesty, I would request a private word with you.”
Riselle hesitated.
“If I am to take your actions as a rebuff of my attentions, I would request to know your reason, my Queen, and in private.”
Riselle addressed her maids. “Allow me to speak with Sir Lyren for a moment.”
When they were gone, Lyren stepped closer to Riselle. “Forgive me, my Queen, but our daily transactions to go over the treasury report over the past few weeks have been so agreeable that I have quite fallen in love with you, and I thought that I noted the same feelings in your looks and words. Was I mistaken?”
“Our transactions have been appreciated, dear Sir Lyren. I am in debt to you for your assistance.”
“In debt?”
“Yes, and because you were a loyal friend of my father’s, I have looked up to you and am most grateful to you, especially in our time of grief at his passing.” Riselle glanced down at her hands. “But—my feelings for you do not go beyond friendship.”
“I see.” He paused, seeming to calculate his next move. “With your permission, I take my leave then, Your Highness.”
She nodded. He bowed to her stiffly and disappeared into the darkened castle hallways.
Riselle released a tense breath, then turned to grip the balustrade in both fists.
Solange emerged from the shadows, went to her sister’s side, and wrapped her arms around Riselle’s waist.
Riselle hugged her close. “Were you listening?”
“Yes.”
Riselle rested her cheek atop Solange’s head. “I miss Father.”
Solange couldn’t speak, for tears had clogged her throat.
They heard the music stop in the Great Hall, and the Castle Steward making an announcement to the guests. “Her Royal Highness has retired for the evening
.”
Agitated murmuring ensued, and the Autumn Ball ended on that inauspicious note; with the queen absent they had little reason to continue the celebration. A pall fell over the castle, a palpable letdown almost as depressing as the late king’s passing earlier that year, and Solange went to bed with an uneasiness in her chest.
In the morning, she awoke to terrified screams from the lake behind the castle. She threw on her robe and rushed to the balcony overlooking the lake to see what was the matter.
The castle guards were running across the lawn toward a maid who was carrying out the chamber pots. She pointed at something large floating near the bank of the water. The guards waded in, grasped the object, and turned it over.
They shouted back toward the guard tower. “’Tis Queen Riselle!”
#
Solange stayed completely secluded for weeks after Riselle’s body was discovered, consumed with anger and grief. Her maids brought meals that she barely touched, and her governess occasionally urged her to go for a walk for some fresh air and exercise, but to no avail.
The authorities conjectured that Riselle had killed herself, overcome with the loss of her father and overburdened with the duties of becoming queen at the age of twenty-one. And with two Villeleian monarchs dead in a matter of months, the mood within the entire city had become suspicious and foreboding.
A fortnight after Riselle’s burial, the council of advisors convened a general assembly of noblemen to decide on the matter of rule of Villeleia. As they gathered in the Great Hall, Solange slipped from her room, stole through the passageways, and hid behind a curtain to watch the proceedings.
Sir Lyren of Caladia stepped forward to address the assembly on behalf of the council. “Good council members, assemblymen, noblemen of Villeleia: in light of recent grievous events, Felipe’s second child, Solange, cannot be expected to immediately assume supreme rule of this great nation. She has just turned fourteen, and is still in seclusion, no doubt devastated by the loss of both her father and her sister Riselle. According to the law of succession, if a monarch dies and the next heir is under the age of eighteen, the Royal Council of Advisors must decide whether the heir is ready to take the throne or appoint a regent instead. Princess Solange is clearly not ready. The members of the council hereby recommend that we appoint a Regent to rule Villeleia until Solange reaches the age of eighteen.”
“Here, here.” Several nobles called out their agreement.
Lyren continued. “It will be necessary, therefore, to elect a regent as acting ruler. This person should be capable, experienced, well-versed in the politics of our nation, old enough to rely on his maturity, and yet strong enough to survive the pressures and anxieties of governing so great and wealthy a nation.”
Indignation and fear burned in Solange’s chest. She stepped out from behind the curtain and stood beside the throne. “Should this person also be trustworthy?”
Lyren—and the entire assembly—looked up at her in surprise.
Solange kept her gaze steadily upon Lyren’s face.
He recovered, flashing a smile at her. “Little Princess Solange, what a pleasure to see you here.”
Solange didn’t return the smile. “You were about to recommend yourself for the position of regent, were you not, Lyren of Caladia?”
“Well…” He chuckled tersely, glancing back at the nobles. “Yes, I was.”
“Do you think that the regent of Villeleia should be trustworthy?”
“Certainly.” He turned away from her to smile at the nobles. “Of course.”
“Then I must demand that you withdraw your bid, Sir Lyren.”
“Pardon?”
“I demand that you withdraw your bid,” she repeated, more firmly.
The assembly hall was deathly silent.
Lyren glanced at the Council, then back at Solange. “What is this about? What do you intend, Princess?”
“You killed my sister.”
A gasp rose up from the audience of nobles, and Lyren shook his head in disbelief.
Solange moved forward a step and grasped the arm of the throne seat to steady herself. “You proposed courtship to Riselle at the ball in an attempt to become king. When she refused, you snuck into her room, dragged her down to the lake, and drowned her.”
Lyren’s face turned red. “Preposterous! How dare you make such an accusation! Your sister took her own life. Everyone is aware of that fact.” He turned to address the assembly. “Gentlemen, our little princess has gone mad.”
“I have evidence that you were in her room that night.”
“What evidence?”
“This.” She held up the torn scrap of fabric she’d been clutching in her fist behind her back. “You left it beside her bed when you kidnapped and murdered her. No doubt torn by her struggling hands from your cravat, the purple-patterned one you wore to the Autumn Ball.” She held it higher for all to see. “Look at it, gentlemen. Why would a torn piece of material matching Sir Lyren’s cravat be lying on the floor near Riselle’s bed, the very next morning after she was murdered?”
Lyren laughed, then looked sheepish. “Well, I must confess, it is true I was in your sister’s room that night, and you have found the proof of that visit.” He turned to face the nobles with a chagrined expression. “Begging your pardon, advisors and nobles of Villeleia. I didn’t want to sully the queen’s reputation, but…we were lovers. I tore my cravat off that night in the heat of passion and ripped it.”
“Liar!” Solange screamed. “My sister would have nothing to do with you in that way! You preyed on her weakness and inexperience!”
Lyren chuckled condescendingly. “Gentlemen, witness the ravings of an imaginative child. How can anyone believe this insanity? She should be committed to a nunnery.” He faced Solange, his smile fading. “I say we lock her up for her own safety. She hardly leaves her quarters as it is.”
No one moved or spoke.
“Seize her!” Lyren shouted at the castle guards.
They stood still, looking uncertain.
“Guards, I say, seize the little slanderer!” Lyren lunged toward them as if to force them to act.
No one moved; all remained frozen to the spot. Tense seconds passed.
Solange never blinked. “Guards.”
They looked up at her.
She channeled the fearlessness and resolve that her late father had possessed. “Arrest this man for treason and murder.”
The castle guards drew their swords and moved toward Lyren.
“You all are mad.” Lyren backed up a step, shaking his head. “She does not have the power to demand this; she has not been named queen. Guards, seize her for maligning a government official! I command you to seize her!”
The guards reached for him, and he turned to flee. The noblemen in the assembly moved out of the way, and the guards caught Lyren before he reached the end of the hall. They forcibly bound him as he spat obscenities and curses, thrashing about in fury. He swore to kill Solange and take his revenge, but she stood her ground beside the throne, watching as they hauled him away to the dungeon.
When he was gone, every noble and every councilman in the assembly turned to face her.
She stood perfectly still, staring back at them.
“All hail Queen Solange!” a nobleman shouted. There was a brief pause, and then every man in the room took up the thunderous cry:
“All hail Queen Solange!”
TWO
Gerynwid peered down into her scrying fountain, watching as they dragged Lyren from the Great Hall, kicking and screaming like a madman. She glared at the image of Solange’s resolute young face in the water.
“A fourteen-year-old queen?” she spat at the image. “Spoiled, imperious brat. Who does she think she is? She’ll never be able to command this nation.”
King Felipe had betrayed Gerynwid’s love when he decided to marry Jesenia of Mirebreach instead of her, and for twenty-five long years Gerynwid had plotted against him, his sickly wife, and th
eir wretched little offspring. She should have been queen, not Jesenia, not Riselle, and certainly not this impudent little brat Solange.
Plunge your dagger deep, again and again, a deep, gravelly voice sounded forcefully inside her head. Feed my hunger for blood from her ripped flesh. She must die.
The sorceress paused for a moment. “Who are you?” she asked aloud. “Friend or foe?”
Ally, she heard the voice reply.
“Show yourself,” she demanded, glancing around the tower room.
I am bound and cannot enter your realm. You must enter mine.
Gerynwid stepped back from the fountain, shook out her silky black hair, and raised her talon-like fingernails to the sky, whispering the incantations that would invoke a trance. The demon’s voice grew louder, vibrating through Gerynwid’s veins with violent, pulsating energy. Her crystalline-blue eyes rolled back into her head as her spirit entered the realm of the demons, and she turned and saw a massive throne behind her, with a huge demon seated on it. She knelt before him, her gaze traveling up over huge booted feet and thickly muscled legs.
“I am Lord Ujagar.” His voice was a tortured growl. He rose to his feet and towered over her, a seven-foot-tall giant with the body of a man and the gruesome face of death itself. He had sunken cheeks, razor-sharp fangs, and two rows of small curved horns, one row beginning at each temple and snaking back over his skeletal head. His gaunt, skull-like face twisted into a furious scowl as he glared down at her with lidless, bloodshot eyes.
“Lyren has failed you. Retrieve the magical stone he found, and I will help you kill Solange and take her throne.”
Gerynwid gazed up at his well-defined, powerful torso, his ferocious visage.
A slow grin spread across her face.
When night fell, she stood in the center of her tower room, spread her arms open wide, and whispered an ancient incantation: Felsor Volana Immetari. She shapeshifted into a black-feathered griffon vulture, flapped her wings once, then dove out of the tower window in a graceful swoop. The large fowl formed a fearsome silhouette against the moonlit sky, flying south toward Kingston.
