The Kingmaker Complete Trilogy (The Kingmaker Trilogy #1-3)

by Gemma Perfect

  But now I have some sway. I have a say in the world. I have someone to wait on me.

  Oh, how different Everleigh’s life is to my own, and this is only a tiny taste of what she has always had.

  I pull back the covers on my bed, a bed that would fit five people, should the need arise, and the fabric is as soft as I imagine a cloud to be, and there is a hot brick just sitting on the sheets, wrapped in silk, warming my bed, but not getting it dirty.

  After living through today, and then Millard’s request for a coronation just for himself, and the feast, which had him grinning, laughing, smiling, joking, drinking, singing. I deserve this.

  I have a jug of ale and one of wine on the table beside my bed, should I be thirsty in the night, a plate of food, bread, cheese, cakes, in case I am peckish, a fire roaring and a heavy feeling in my body.

  This is payment for all that I have done.

  Given the death draught to Macsen, which he used to kill the King.

  Stood by while Millard killed his brother and Halfreda.

  Offered to crown him when no one else could.

  Watched him kill Archer.

  Watched him lock Addyson away in the tower.

  Watched him drive Everleigh away from her home, her crown, her birth right with threats.

  This is my payment.

  And for tonight I am too tired to do anything but enjoy it.

  8

  EVERLEIGH STEPS BETWEEN the two guards, their swords slack at their sides, their mouths just as slack, and wet with dribble. She cannot help but smile. Give even the most hardened guards some food and wine and their defences drop to zero.

  Sleeping like babies, snoring like fools.

  The door to Millard’s room isn’t locked, it doesn’t need to be with two burly guards stood outside. She opens it with the slightest of clicks and closes it softly behind her.

  His receiving room is empty, though the candles are still lit, and she quickly moves through it. There is no guard outside the door to his bedroom and she knows he sleeps alone.

  He had always had a page on a pallet at the bottom of his bed, but several weeks ago, he decided he needed one place where he had peace. It would be his downfall now.

  She puts her ear to the door and listens, he could be awake, he could still have company in there.

  She hears nothing.

  How long can she stay here wondering? She has to make a choice.

  She closes her eyes. Pictures her father, her other murderous brother, Halfreda and finally Archer. His shock of red hair, his handsome face. She remembers the prophecy, Halfreda’s teacher who brought it to show her. When she made the river rise. When she saved the deer. All the things that helped her to believe that she could be Queen, that she could live, after her whole life long she had prepared herself to die on her seventeenth birthday, sacrificed as all Kingmakers are and were before her.

  And yet here she is, alive.

  Ready.

  Ready to kill.

  She opens the door.

  Millard’s bed is straight ahead of her, she can see the shape of him under the covers, the small glow of a candle lighting him up, making him a target.

  She closes the door with the softest of clicks, and then moves towards him, stands next to him.

  Oh, he’s so handsome this brother of hers. Asleep, he looks like a painting or a statue, perfectly formed with an artist’s hand. Every feature pleasing to the eye, every part of him so lovely. He looks like a King; handsome and strong. And he can behave like a King, kind and fair...when he’s not killing everyone.

  She wipes at the tear slowly slipping down her cheeks. And the next one and the next one. Her crying is silent, she cannot risk waking him up, but she cannot stop either.

  All the sadness and pain, hurt and upset, the loneliness, the fear, it all mingles into searing hot tears that she is sure must be branding her face as they fall.

  She has the knife back in her hand before she realises it and she’s leaning closer to him, wanting to reach out and touch his lovely face before she ends his life.

  She doesn’t.

  Just holds the dagger above him, moving towards his neck.

  Inching closer until the cold, sharp point is against the warm, white skin of his neck. Ready and willing and able to kill her brother. Bring an end to this most evil of days.

  “Do it, little sister.”

  She freezes, the point against his skin but completely still. Halted.

  In the worst way.

  “What?” Her voice is shaky, thin, not strong and bold and Queen like. She thought he was asleep; his breathing hasn’t changed. Has he been awake the whole time?

  “Do it. Kill me. Push the blade all the way in until your hand is bloody.”

  “I can.”

  “You can. But the second my dead body is found – which may be in the morning, as I’m assuming my guards are no longer guarding – my men have been told to go to the tower and kill Addyson. If I die, she dies. It’s so deliciously simple, Everleigh.”

  Everleigh snatches the dagger away from his skin, failure and frustration filling her up, disappointment an actual taste in her mouth.

  “Not if I go straight to the tower, after I kill you.”

  “You could try, but there’s a guard on the way in and a guard outside her door. If the guard outside sees trouble coming, he knows to open the door, without hesitation, and kill Addyson. I had to be sure, Everleigh. I have to live.”

  She cannot think of a single thing to say.

  “Sorry, sister, you just can’t get a break today, can you?”

  Everleigh is silent, her mouth tight, her skin itching with impotent fury.

  She cannot do it. Even though Addyson is safe, Lanorie is not, and she cannot repay her love and friendship, the way she rescued Addyson, with having her killed. She cannot do it.

  And so, her hands are tied again.

  She cannot kill him now without having Lanorie killed.

  She has failed again.

  The knowledge makes her knees buckle, sick come up in her mouth. She swallows it, disgusted at the bitter taste.

  “And as I am such a good brother, and a good King, I’m going to give you a minute’s head start before I raise the alarm, but should one of my men, or one of my dogs, find you, they will kill you. They have been ordered by their King to show no mercy, so run fast Everleigh.”

  “I hate you.” Her voice is cold and hard and she wishes things were different, that he wasn’t just one step ahead of her. She wishes he was dead.

  “And, by the way...”

  “What?”

  “Happy birthday, sis!”

  She turns away from him, the knife heavy in her hand, pure hatred etched on her face, and runs from the room.

  She has no doubt that he will carry out his threats, if she is found here tonight, in the castle or the castle grounds, she will die.

  On her birthday.

  As she was always supposed to.

  The Kingmaker, dead on her seventeenth birthday.

  No!

  Fury and a refusal to lie down and die spur her on; she runs as though the hounds are already at her heels.

  She will not die like this.

  Not like this.

  She flees through the corridors, not caring how loud she is, not caring who sees her or hears her. She falls, sliding to a stop, her ankle turning painfully. She does not rest. She cannot stop.

  She can barely breathe as she flings open a door and falls out into the cool night air.

  She runs and runs and runs, cloaks flying behind her, boots slipping on the gravel, arms flailing, keeping her upright.

  She cannot fall again; she cannot be a target for men with sharp swords or hungry hounds with deadly teeth.

  She has to get away; she has to get to safety.

  She is crying, her breath ragged, her lungs exploding with pain. She cannot stop.

  She runs out of the castle grounds, she runs along the road, she runs and runs and ru
ns and when she sees Ginata’s little cottage, her heart is bursting, cold sweat pours off her and she feels as though she will never set foot outside of the safety of Ginata’s cottage or Della’s sight ever again.

  She flies down the path and with her hand on the door, finally safe, she stops. Bent in half, trying to breathe but failing to fill her lungs, tears and sweat stinging her eyes, her knees buckle and she drops to the floor. Cloaks swirled around her, she sobs as quietly as she is able.

  Now what?

  What now?

  She has no idea, no hope.

  She balls her hands into fists and pushes them against her eyes, bringing pain of her own making to the pain her life has become.

  A clatter to the side of her makes her jump.

  “Who’s there?” A young man she doesn’t recognise is brandishing an axe, eyes slightly wild. “Speak up.”

  “Please.” The end has come. This is one of the King’s men it must be. It registers a little late that he’s not dressed in livery or armour.

  He steps closer to her, axe at his side now. “You’re not a thief. Thank the gods.” He drops the axe. “What I would have done with my axe if you were, I have no idea. I can barely split a log.”

  Everleigh looks up at him, and he smiles.

  “Sorry, did I scare you?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Finn. Della’s brother. You’re the Kingmaker.”

  Everleigh doesn’t reply, just sinks back to the floor, this time the lightness of relief mingling with her tears. She may live through the night, after all.

  Confusion on his face, Finn steps closer to the Kingmaker who looks like a peasant girl and slowly wraps his arms around her. He cannot leave her on the doorstep. He stands up, holding her gently, and then the door to Ginata’s cottage opens.

  Della stares at him. “What’s going on?” She shakes her head as she takes in the two of them; she had been unaware that Everleigh had even left the cottage until she heard a disturbance outside.

  “Don’t ask me,” he says, “I just found her on the doorstep, crying. I thought she was a thief. I had my axe ready.”

  Della laughs, and opens the door wider for them to come inside. “What would you have done if she was?”

  He shrugs, not easy with Everleigh in his arms. “Why is the Kingmaker here?”

  “Not the Kingmaker. Our new Queen,” Della says, a smile twitching her lips, as Finn nearly drops her.

  Ceryn

  I WANTED TO RIDE ALL day and through the night, so we got there tomorrow, but Pitch’s steady galloping is making me drop off. The anger at wasting time and slowing down keeps me going a bit longer, until my head starts dropping again. “Weaver,” I call out to him, my voice angrier than I intended. It’s not his fault I’m tired. He is slightly ahead of me but slows to ride alongside me.

  “I need to stop.”

  He nods agreeably. He never thought we’d make it through in one ride anyway. I hate him being right.

  “We’ll stop at the next inn,” he says, never one to say I told you so.

  I would have.

  A good sleep, a good breakfast and then we still might get there tomorrow. It’s still a long ride to the next inn and by the time we tether our horses my skin is itchy, I’m so tired. I need to get my mask off, I need to sleep, but I need ale first.

  There’s one room left at the inn, and so we take it. There’s no nonsense from me about not being happy sleeping in with a male. We’ll share a bed because there’s no point one of us being uncomfortable on the floor, and it’ll be fine. I can’t stand girls who make a fuss. I’d rather do something I hate than let on and be judged like another useless girl.

  Weaver asks for two jugs of ale, he knows me well, and I carry the two cups. We ask if there is any food and the filthy inn keeper grudgingly gives us a hunk of stale bread. Neither of us care. It’s a long time since the rabbit and despite wanting to power through all night I am glad we stopped. He passes us a candle, almost down to the wick and Weaver thanks him. I stay quiet, or else I’ll lose my temper with him.

  We sit on the bed, and it’s surprisingly clean. Not that I would have made a fuss; when you’ve slept on the floor in the mud, any sort of comfort is welcome. My own home is bare to say the least, I’m not one for pretty curtains or lacy cushions.

  Weaver pours the ale for me and some for himself. I take off my mask and put it on the table.

  We tear the bread in half and chew. “Do you really think something’s wrong?”

  I nod as I eat, talking with my mouth full. “Maybe.” Do I want to admit my real fear, that something is very wrong? “Yes. He was wishy washy about why he was going and how long he’d be. And telling us he’d call for us if he needed us, I don’t know, just felt like he was keeping us away. Besides a week’s long enough.” I finish my bread. I could eat the same amount again, easily.

  “True. I thought it was strange that he went without us, to be honest. We’re always together.”

  “Exactly.”

  We are quiet as we drink. I finish the ale and fill up the cup once more, swallowing it down in a few quick gulps. I shuck off my boots and climb under the covers. The very thin covers. It’s cold in here and I’m glad we are sharing a bed.

  Weaver pulls off his boots and his top; he’s a boiler. I’m a freezer.

  We leave the candle on, it will gutter out by itself.

  I turn away from Weaver and wonder if I have drunk enough to sleep.

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” Weaver says to my back.

  I cannot be so optimistic. I have been quietly in love with Archer for three years and something is telling me that something is wrong.

  I think Weaver knows. I don’t think Archer does.

  “I know how much you care,” he adds, his voice quiet.

  “We both do,” I say, admitting nothing.

  Weaver laughs. “You’re right. We both do.”

  I wonder for a minute if he loves Archer like I love him, but I dismiss it. Weaver might sew like an old woman, but he is never lonely in his little cottage, and he knows the village girls well enough.

  Love takes many forms and I know he loves Archer. Not quite like I do, but enough to worry and join me on this trek.

  I love Weaver too. He is one of only two humans who have anything to do with me.

  Villagers are happy enough to take my food and coin, but I see the looks they give me, the weird girl – is she a girl? – who hangs about with the two lads, hunting, riding, with that strange mask on, short hair, boy’s clothes.

  I try not to care, and when I have had my ale I can sleep without worrying, crying, wordlessly defending myself, while my thoughts, upsets, rejections swarm around me like angry bees.

  Weaver and Archer took me on face value. A girl who dresses like a boy and swears like a soldier, cuts her hair short and doesn’t care for beauty or fancy things. I fight as well as either of them, I eat well, I sleep well – with ale – and I am happy for the most part.

  And the first time after I met them that I took my mask off neither of them showed any reaction, not fear or repulsion or even curiosity and then I loved them both.

  These boys of mine, they love me and protect me and I do the same for them.

  And my love for Archer? A secret I’m happy to keep.

  I have lived with rejection all my life. My mother and father both tried to love me for a while and I wish they hadn’t because when they eventually did throw me out, I was old enough to remember them. I hate them for that.

  I will never make Archer say out loud that he doesn’t love me too.

  Better to stay quiet and always have some part of him, even when he is older and marries and has children; I will know them and love them and keep my broken heart to myself.

  And when I am alone forever, I will have my little secret and it will keep me warm. I can pretend that things are different. That I’m not a freak.

  9

  WHILE EVERLEIGH DRIFTS off into a nightmare filled sle
ep of hounds and guards, Della fills her brother in on their new neighbours, the danger that surrounds them and what their part in it is.

  The two of them eventually sleep and they are all woken up abruptly by Addyson’s screaming.

  Everleigh shoots out of her chair, and stumbles, unsure of her surroundings.

  “Everleigh!”

  Everleigh follows the sound of her little sister’s voice and holds her close. “Just a nightmare,” she says, smoothing Addyson’s clammy forehead and sweaty hair.

  Addyson is shaking as she sobs, will she ever get over all of this upset? Everleigh can’t help but wonder at the life the fates have given her sister: Cursed from birth, shunned by her father, put up with by her brothers, loved only by her. People are superstitious and scared of her and her curse has kept her lonely all her life. Only paid help to play with, no one that really spent time with her because they liked her. And there is so much to like. She’s sweet and kind and funny. She’s young with all her life ahead of her, but what life? Even with Everleigh to help and protect her, most people can’t see past the curse, like it’s a physical thing, an actual mark upon her that flags her up as different.

  Della comes in with a cup of wine for them both. Everleigh smiles. One person who isn’t scared of Addyson. Della takes Addyson’s hand. “You’ll be fine, lamb.”

  Addyson sips her drink and smiles at Della. “I keep having nightmares. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, it was time for us to wake up anyway. No point lazing around all day, there’s jobs to do.”

  Nightmares that Everleigh has helped give her. After Macsen killed their father, and thought he had killed Everleigh, Everleigh went along with the pretence that she was dead, so that she could more easily take the crown, but poor Addyson then thought her sister and her father were dead. Then she had to watch one brother kill the other, before seeing Everleigh come back to life. Then Millard had her locked in a tower, alone and scared, only eleven years old and already so aware of the evil and twisted world she lived in.