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

by Gemma Perfect

  I slip inside the door and close it behind me. I put a finger to my lips before Lanorie cries out and I step towards her.

  She collapses into my arms and cries, oh so quietly, but she cries.

  I pat her and soothe her as best I can, rocking her in my arms. We sit upon the bed and she sobs some more.

  “It’s fine, Millard has no idea.”

  She wipes her hands over her tearful face and pushes her hair out of the way. She looks up at me, her little face miserable. She is only fourteen, still a baby really.

  “Is Everleigh pleased with me?”

  All she wants is Everleigh’s love and approval. If she only knew that she has always had it. Even after everything.

  “She is delighted that Addyson is safe but petrified for you. She wants you out of here.”

  “I want out of here too. I could hear rats in the night. Whether there are any or not, I heard them. I imagined them coming to take bites of me, little nibbles.”

  She’s crying again, did she ever stop? I hold her tight, trying to give her strength and comfort.

  “We’re not sure how to do it, yet...”

  The unspoken truth is, whoever we switch her with will die. As soon as Millard realises the trick, he will kill whoever is in the room out of pure fury.

  “I don’t want another death on my conscience. I’d rather die myself.” The words are brave, but her voice is shaking.

  “It won’t come to that. We’ll sort it out.”

  “Is she safe, Everleigh?”

  “Yes.” Do I tell her where they are or is that a foolish thing to do? I do not want to judge her on her past indiscretions, but I need to cultivate my wisdom, the wisdom that came so naturally to Halfreda.

  “And Addyson?”

  “Both safe, and both so thankful to you. We can’t believe how brave you were. All of us.”

  “I can’t believe how brave I am.”

  We both laugh and then cover our mouths with our hands.

  “So, you just wait. And keep being brave.”

  “I will wait. But I know I’m waiting for Millard. And not for rescue.” She sobs so violently that I can barely keep hold of her.

  “I came instead of him. He wants to visit his sister. If I can, I will keep him away.”

  “Thank you.”

  I rock her again as she cries, more quietly now. I feel so sorry for her. I don’t know her well, but I can feel the love she has for Everleigh, the hope in her voice that she will have impressed her Queen. And Everleigh did forgive her and does love her and is worried sick about her being in here.

  But I cannot think for the life of me what we can do. This King is a clever King, and he is thinking more than one step ahead of us. The only thing we can think of is a switch and yet it means the death of an innocent. A young innocent too.

  Everleigh will not do it and I do not want to either.

  I have dabbled in the dark side only once when I helped Halfreda to make a death draught and I don’t want to go there again.

  We want Everleigh to be Queen but with as little bloodshed as possible.

  Except for Millard’s blood.

  I’m not sure I care how much of his blood is spilled; it is the only thing that will stop him. Locking him up is too good for him.

  11

  WILL IS WOKEN FROM sleep by one of Millard’s men. They shake him roughly on his shoulder and then shout until he swims reluctantly away from sleep and stares up at them.

  “The King wants you.”

  Will dresses quickly, while the guard waits outside. Last night at the feast, he had tried to be funny, tried not to worry about Everleigh or Lanorie, but it was impossible. Everleigh had been his friend since they were small, two children growing up at the castle, with very different roles, but kindred spirits somehow. And Lanorie, a girl who would never fall in love with him – a fool is not a lovable man – but so beautiful and sweet that he mooned over her regardless.

  He had carried out all the tricks he had learned from his father, without any effort, just acting on instinct, while his thoughts flipped from one girl to the other, pain in his heart but a grin on his face.

  Millard had clapped him on the back, beaming, and Will had realised afresh what a maniac he was – like a small child, filled with benevolent bonhomie when the world was going his way, but able to change in a second and have a murderous tantrum. It was scary.

  He wonders what he wants this morning, and his tread is heavy as he follows the guard through the castle corridors to Millard.

  “Fool.” Millard raises a glass to him and Will smiles. Does he want to be entertained or to kill him? Who could guess?

  Millard walks towards him, goblet in hand, smile on his face, eyes sharp. Will bows low and raises his head warily, reluctantly.

  “Funny little fool. Always lurking around Everleigh. In love with her, are you?”

  Will shakes his head rapidly, happy to be telling the truth. “No, my King.”

  “Where. Is. She?”

  Will shakes his head again. “I have no idea.”

  Millard steps even closer, right in Will’s face. “I won’t kill your father, if I find out you are lying. I will kill you. And her.”

  “My King...” Will cannot think of anything to say.

  Millard steps back and watches him over the rim of his goblet.

  Will holds his gaze but then drops his eyes. He does know where his Queen is but he would never give her up for anything. He would happily die if it kept her safe.

  Millard nods at the guard and then at Will. “You may go.”

  Will bows low and backs away.

  Millard smiles at the guard. “Follow him.”

  Will walks slowly down the corridor and as he suspects, a guard follows quickly behind, but slows his pace when he sees Will. Will acts as though he hasn’t noticed and takes turns skipping and then walking to his room. Once inside he sinks to the floor.

  If Millard suspects that he knows where Everleigh is, it may be that he can’t see her again until she is Queen. He will not risk her life. But he will speak to Ginata.

  He waits a while and then ventures out of his room. The guard is still there, pretending that he’s not there for Will.

  “Got such a headache,” Will says as he passes. “Really need something from Ginata.”

  He walks to her room and leaves the guard standing outside, just down the corridor, still trying to look nonchalant.

  Ginata opens the door and smiles, pulling Will inside.

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  “I know. Millard still thinks I know where Everleigh is. He just called me in to ask me again.”

  “Did he tell you what she did?”

  “Who? Everleigh?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. What?”

  “Came here in the middle of the night, and tried to kill him.”

  “She did what? Why did you let her do something so stupid?”

  “I didn’t let her. I didn’t even know. Which is lucky, because when Millard questioned me, I looked like I didn’t know anything. We need to go to her, tell her that she’s in more danger than she obviously thinks she is. He’s furious. He’s got Wolf and Brett out looking for her.”

  “He’s having me followed.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a guard in the corridor now, pretending that he’s not following me. I came here to get something for my headache, which I really do have.”

  “You can’t go to her, then, we can’t risk that.”

  “I know.”

  “Did he tell you that she tried to kill him?”

  “No. But he doesn’t trust me.”

  “Huh, so that means he trusts me...”

  “True.”

  “That’s good. I’ll go to see her, while the guards follow you. I saw Lanorie.”

  “Where? In the tower?”

  “Yes. She’s so scared.”

  “I don’t know how we can get her out.”

  “Only
by leaving someone in her place. He wanted to visit her, but I went instead. We can’t let him find her. But...”

  “What if we just kill the guards?”

  “Just?”

  “Well...”

  “Will, we can’t.”

  “Why not? Millard will kill her, if he finds her in there.”

  “I don’t want to become that type of person.”

  “So, let her die?”

  “Let me keep Millard away. I will tell him that Addyson’s fragile and that I will visit her daily until she’s better. If he finds out she’s not there, he’ll kill me too for lying to him. In the meantime, we try to think of another way. Once Everleigh is Queen she’ll be safe. If I can keep him away that long.”

  “That might work. And Everleigh? How do we get her on the throne?”

  “Millard is having another coronation on Saturday, we can interrupt it properly this time. Make her Queen.”

  “Plans sound so easy, when you say them just like that. We thought yesterday would be easy.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  They are both silent, remembering the death, the blood, the violence of the coronation. The horror, the shock, how frightened they had all been, unsure if they would live or die.

  “Right, you distract the guards, I’ll go to my cottage, see if I can talk some sense into our Queen.”

  They both smile.

  “I’ll just mooch around outside, turn some cartwheels, juggle some balls, try out a few jokes.”

  “Sorry you can’t come.”

  “Tell her I love her. Tell her. And it’s only because I might be followed that I’m keeping away.”

  Will leaves Ginata’s room with three potions that will clear his head and calm his mind. He drinks one down as he passes the guard, shouting, “Cheers,” as he goes.

  Ceryn

  WHEN I WAKE UP, I AM snuggled into Weaver, his arm across my chest. We are warm and comfortable and I wish we weren’t on this mission. The more the time passes the surer I am that something is up with Archer. He could be injured or captured; the King’s men aren’t fans of ours and one of them might have recognised him. His hair makes him pretty recognisable. Of course, he mostly covers it with a hat, and when he jousts he’s always in disguise.

  I wish we weren’t on the way to the castle. I wish Weaver had my heart instead of Archer. I wish I looked normal. How simple would life be?

  Weaver rolls over and smiles at me, without flinching. “Shall I see what there is to eat before we set off?”

  “Yes.” He has a much friendlier nature than me, and without arrangement he tends to do most of the talking when we are out and about. Unless we are out and about trying to upset people; in which case I manage perfectly well.

  There is a jug of water in the corner, next to the bucket we’ve used to pee in. I splash some water on my face, cleaning away the fog of sleep and the dust of yesterday’s journey.

  I am ready to go.

  Almost.

  I pick up my leather swatch off the table. I love the rough feel of the leather, the dirt, the sweaty smell. It sums me up. Practical. Worn. Smelly.

  The door opens without a knock and I look up expecting Weaver with more stale bread.

  Instead there’s a crash of pottery and a high-pitched scream, as someone – all I see is a flash of blonde hair – runs from the room.

  I quickly try to do up my mask, but I’m fumbling. Unusual for me.

  There’s a rush of feet to the door, Weaver’s voice calling, “Ceryn. Are you alright?”

  The inn keeper bursts in before I can cover my face.

  “You!”

  I say nothing, just stare defiantly at him, my mark uncovered, my eyes hard.

  Weaver comes behind him and pushes past him. “We’re leaving.” He places a hand on my arm. “It’s fine. Let’s go.”

  “How dare you come here. This is a fine establishment. A nice place. You! You!” He runs out of words and I start to laugh. I will not cry in front of him.

  A group of people join the inn keeper, shouting and jostling.

  I tune them all out, but one woman pushes through to stand in front of me. Her voice is loud and rises higher. “The devil’s mark!” She spits on the floor, right at my feet, before fainting into her own phlegm, which starts me laughing again.

  Weaver recognises that I am hysterical and grabbing our bags, my mask and me, pushes through the angry throng and out into the sunshine.

  He whistles for the horses who are already untethered ready for us to go. He helps me onto Pitch and jumps onto his horse, Sweet Mabel.

  The crowd hiss and boo and shout at us as we ride away.

  We gallop for ten minutes, until we are well clear of anyone and then Weaver slows to a stop. I copy him.

  He jumps off Sweet Mabel and pulls me off Pitch.

  I sink into his arms, crying and crying and crying.

  Only Weaver could see me like this. Weaver or Archer. I feel vulnerable and I hate it.

  It is at times like this when I am glad I do not have a mirror. I haven’t seen my face since I was about ten or eleven. After I was thrown out of my home but before I found my band of brothers.

  My parents had told me what was wrong with me before they chucked me out. The fear on their faces made it clear. They tried their best, I suppose. Put up with me for ten years. Fed me, clothed me, ignored me. I cannot remember either of them hugging me or kissing me. I think they were too afraid of me to throw me out but too afraid to love me.

  One day they cracked. The strain was too much I guess. I was ten when they threw me out, old enough to remember them and old enough to hate them.

  My life had been no life at all up until that point. I had never been out of our house, my parents had obviously been too ashamed of me to let me be seen, and it was only after they threw me out and told me never to come back, that I realised what they had saved me from.

  As I walked along I could see for the first time what was wrong with me reflected in a hundred faces instead of only two.

  I stopped hating them and felt sorry for them, for what I had made their lives in to.

  People shrank back from me, ran away from me, screamed in fear, clutched their hearts.

  Men hit out at me, threw things at me.

  Children pointed at me, cried when they saw me, threw stones at me.

  Was I really that bad?

  Apparently.

  The first night of my newfound and unwanted freedom ended up with a beating so severe I don’t know how I survived. I have tried to push away all my old memories; they are too painful, but while Weaver rocks me and hot tears scar my face, they all come flooding back.

  That night I was aware of being followed, which seemed crazy as I had no clue where I was even going. I was heading away from the life I knew but didn’t like where I was going.

  How was I going to survive alone with so much open hostility aimed at me?

  I almost didn’t.

  A voice called out to me and when I turned, three grown men started laying into me. Kicks and punches. Spit and swear words.

  I curled up into the smallest ball I could and went completely limp – something that’s worked in fights since then too, though I hold my own better now. I can kick and punch and swear now. I try not to spit. Much.

  But I couldn’t then.

  Eventually one of them called a halt. Called the other two off. “I reckon you’ve killed it.”

  It. That’s what he referred to me as.

  I survived. Though I’m not sure how. I crawled to a bush, hid underneath it and the next morning when I opened my one eye, the other was crusted shut, there was a hunk of bread in front of me. I ate it greedily and poked my head warily out from under the bush.

  Stood a few feet back was a beardy, old, fat man who looked like he smelled.

  He did.

  But that beardy, old, fat man saved my life.

  His name was Carter and he took me with him. H
e was only passing through the village which helped; he took me with him on his travels and eventually when he was too old and ill to travel anymore, we settled in the little cottage that I now call my own.

  He also made me my first mask. He showed me my face in a piece of mirror and then he helped me hide it away.

  Carter was a hunter; we would travel from village to village. He would hunt rabbits or ducks or sometimes he’d fish. Then he’d sell his wares, we’d eat the rest and then when he’d had enough, or he’d annoyed some village husband by being too friendly with his wife, we’d move on again.

  He was never afraid of me.

  I asked him why one day.

  “Are you afraid of me?” was his answer. It wasn’t much of an answer and yet in a way it was. I had nothing to fear from him and I knew it. He had nothing to fear from me and he knew it.

  He reached for the mark on my skin one day, towards the end of his life, and I shrunk back from his touch. “Let me.”

  I leaned forwards and he smoothed the mark as though he could rub it away. “People are only afraid of things they don’t understand. Because they don’t understand it, they try to call it a name, to make it something, so they can understand their fear of it. Blame someone else for their lack of understanding, knowledge, empathy. The devil didn’t mark you, my sweet child. Why would he? He’s got more troubles to cause than colouring in someone’s skin. The men who hurt you the night I found you – they were the devil’s work. Hurting a little defenceless girl because she has a mark on her skin. Have they never seen a freckle? You are nothing to do with the devil, let me tell you, Ceryn.”

  He died not long after and I cried the whole night long, holding on to his old, spotted hand. The one person who had loved me.

  By then I could fight and hunt and fish and swear and hold my own – he gave me those gifts. I was defiant about my mark, though I still hid it. I wasn’t stupid.

  After I had known Archer and Weaver for three months I unveiled myself to them. Neither of them said a word; they would have guessed that I was hiding something. They both kissed me on my marked cheek, one after the other, and nothing was ever said.