Non-Heir
The Black Mage Prequel Novella
Rachel E. Carter
Contents
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Map of Jerar & Surrounding Kingdoms
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Rachel E. Carter
Copyright © 2016 Rachel E. Carter
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
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Rachel E. Carter
www.rachelecarter.com
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Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
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Cover Design by Deranged Doctor Designs
Edited by Hot Tree Editing
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Non-Heir/ Rachel E. Carter. -- 1st ed.
Created with Vellum
To my readers,
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Because you asked for more Darren and I listened.
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Map of Jerar & Surrounding Kingdoms
1
The little boy grew up with rules. The most important was that of the second-born son. He didn’t understand what it meant at first, but it wasn’t hard to learn.
“Give him that knight, your highness.” A nurse points to a discarded pile of wooden figurines. “You can play with one of the others.”
A hand taps his shoulder. “No, your highness, that seat is for your brother.”
“Darren, you walk after Blayne, not before him.”
And finally:
“How many times have I told you, son? You are not to speak unless addressed.”
A moment passes as the boy’s vision grows black and a biting sting cuts across his cheek. He falls to his knees.
“You are to be silent. Only the heir should be heard.”
No one ever saw two boys when one was destined to wear a crown.
The nurse carefully tucked his brother in at night and then walked back to the door without a second glance. The servants brought out the best sweets but smacked his wrist if he reached for one first. The adults all smiled at his brother but drew silent around him.
He was nothing, even in the eyes of his brother. He could see it in the way the older boy accepted their favor like it was the most natural thing in the world. Never once did he offer anything to the boy sitting beside him, just taking for himself. Somehow, that was the worst part.
And it hurt the boy.
So he dealt with it the only way he knew how.
He retaliated and hurt his brother back.
For that transgression, the little boy spent a week in the room lined with shadows. He was only four at the time, so he didn’t remember much—except those eyes, blue like ice as the monster attacked.
His whole body burned.
He learned his lesson though. After that, when the anger became too much, he’d pick fights with the servants’ children instead.
Bigger, older, heavier boys. Girls, even. It didn’t matter who. As long as he was trading punches and tasting hot, coppery blood, he felt something besides that ache that constantly squeezed and tugged at his lungs. He could ignore the little voice that told him he was no one and he would never be good enough.
He didn’t always seek out children. Sometimes he took out his anger on the books his tutors gave him instead. He liked to watch them burn. He dreamed about orange and yellow licking across a page. Fire was ruled by no one and nothing. The flames were free. They ravaged others’ words and turned them to ash.
And they were bright, so bright.
He couldn’t look away.
A passing scholar reported him to the king, and the book burning stopped.
He tried throwing rocks at the palace gate. When the guards dragged him away, he went back to the children—or sometimes himself, a blade along his flesh if there was no one else around.
After all, pain made it stop.
Every day that passed for the next two years, the little boy’s hatred spilled over like a festering sore. It was a poison that ate away at him from the inside.
The rest of the world only saw the sun—burning, glowing, lighting up the room.
No one ever noticed the shadow in the corner.
Second-born, that was all the boy would ever be.
“W-we t-thank you—”
“Again, Blayne, louder.” The tutor’s nasal voice rang out in an impatient huff. It was as familiar as the princes’ own. They heard it five hours a day. “You are to be a king of Jerar, not a peasant.”
Darren watched his brother stammer on, stifling a yawn from his seat. He would much rather be spying on the soldiers in the barracks or practicing with sticks and pretending to be a knight.
These lessons were of little interest to a six-year-old boy, even if they were the only time he got to watch his older brother squirm.
Blayne scratched at his arm, and his cheeks grew pink.
“We thank you for attending our yearly s-solstice. The Crown thanks you for your service and offers you this f-feast.”
“With confidence!” The man adjusted his maroon collar with a roll of his shoulders. “Square your shoulders and meet your subjects’ eyes. You cower, and no one will ever respect a trembling halfwit.”
The younger boy hid a smile. The tutor was the only one who ever acknowledged his brother’s mistakes. Everyone else pretended Blayne was perfect.
The crown prince repeated the words from a paper clutched tightly in his hand. He was shaking.
Darren knew why his brother was so nervous. He’d heard the words his father said earlier that day. “No mistakes this time.”
Shiny, fat drops of sweat slipped from Blayne’s forehead as he adjusted his stance at the podium and began again.
It was the one time Darren was grateful to be the shadow. He only had to watch and smile. There were fewer chances to make a mistake that way.
Once the tutor was satisfied with Blayne’s speech, he ordered the two boys to their books.
The princes practiced over and over again, reciting the noble families and their relation to the Crown. Darren had his own names for Baron Langli, the man who loved to bring up his holdings at every meal, and for Lady Jasmine, the lady who slapped her servants in the halls, as well Lord Havesh, the man who smiled when he was cruel.
Darren’s names were better than those listed in the books. He used his pen to etch pictures in the pages, adding tails, extra legs, and fur. Blayne never complained. He liked to look at them too.
Blayne once said those were their true faces. Darren agreed.
After what seemed like hours, the man finally set them free. Both boys were tired and hungry, and while they were required at the palace tailor for new clothes, Darren convinced his brother to steal away to the kitchen first. Dinner wouldn’t come for three more hours, and with Blayne by his side, the servants would listen. They hated Darren. T
heir children always tattled.
“We should go soon.” Blayne’s eyes darted nervously toward the servants’ passage. He hated being late. Their father always said a king was on time.
The boy made a face. “You always worry.”
“You could stay.” Blayne swallowed. “You don’t need me here.”
Darren peeked out at the cook, Benny, who was scowling in his direction. He would never yell at the two boys for being in his quarters, not so long as one of them was the heir. The moment his brother left, the man would take the treats away.
“Just one more?”
The younger prince didn’t care if they got caught. Blayne was the worrier, not him.
“Where is he?”
Their father’s deep baritone came thundering down the hall, followed by the clatter of boots. For a moment, Darren’s stomach clenched tight, and then Blayne was shoving him through the servants’ quarters.
A second later Blayne was gone, jerked back out into the light as the door slammed shut behind Darren.
“You were supposed to be fitted for tomorrow.” Their father’s voice was low; Darren cowered behind the wall. He knew what that tone meant. The king had an audience.
“Where is your brother?”
“I… I d-don’t know.”
“And I suppose this little trip to the kitchen was your idea, too?”
The boy could hear Blayne’s quick intake of breath. He always grew quiet around their father. He sought to appease the king with obedience; Darren knew it would never work, and so he never tried.
Still, it was better not to provoke the monster.
Darren wondered why Blayne hadn’t told their father the truth. The servants hadn’t said anything, but of course, they wouldn’t unless addressed. That was another rule.
Darren held his breath, waiting.
“Are you lying to me, boy?”
He heard his brother’s gulp and then an even quieter whisper. “N-no.”
The king made a dissatisfied tut with his tongue. “Come with me.”
“Yes, Father.” Blayne’s last word came out a squeak.
The boy pressed his ear against the wooden panel. There was the crunch of boots as the man turned to the door, and then his brother’s hurried steps to match the longer stride. A minute later, when Darren was sure the two were gone, he turned the handle and peered out into the light.
The cook was already bustling around the stoves, attending to his preparations now that the king had left the room. The air was thick with the scent of baking bread and some kind of roast.
Darren’s stomach growled. The servants scowled in his direction, resenting his continued presence.
The boy reached out to steal one last apple tart and bumped against one of the serving knives. It came tumbling down, but his nimble fingers caught the hilt just before it reached the marble floor.
It was a bit too big for his hand, not meant for a child, but he liked the heft of it. And it was better than the sticks he used when he was pretending to be one of the guards. Wielding it made him feel like a daring thief or a knight. He could be a hero like the ones in the fantastical tales the nurse used to read before bed.
And so he took the knife and the tart and scampered out of the room, no one the wiser.
Darren was just licking the buttery crumbs from his fingers when he reached the Crown’s hall. It was a bit intimidating with its stone walls and swirling red and purple tile.
Two men in matching gray mail watched him as he scurried toward his chamber door. His steps echoed across marble as he ducked his head and made his way past. The knife was hidden in the back of his too-big boots. He needed to hide it before he went to the tailor, that man looked for reasons to tattle to the king.
Darren reached for the handle, which was still a bit too high without standing on his toes, and he heard a thud. His hand stilled as it happened again, followed by a whimper.
All at once, the boy’s victory was gone, and in its place was a racing heart. It slammed hard against his ribs, over and over. His palms were sweating and there was a burning in the back of his throat. He wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening.
But he couldn’t.
Darren was good at pretending, and perhaps he would have been able to, but his brother had just lied. For him.
“Just imagine you are somewhere else.” That was what Blayne had told him the first time it happened. It was their way of coping with the monster in the dark. The secret they shared. Sometimes together, other times alone.
But now Darren couldn’t pretend. Blayne could have made Darren share in the blame and the consequence, but he hadn’t.
He just wants people to like him. Blayne always wanted to please. The boy supposed he wanted his little brother to like him too.
The problem was it had worked, and now the guilt was weighing Darren down, keeping him there. He knew what he had to do. He had the knife.
Maybe this time will be different.
It wouldn’t change anything.
But Darren wanted to be a hero, and heroes couldn’t be cowards—even if they were little boys.
So he fell back on his heels and forced one foot after the other. He tried not to think about what waited inside the chamber ahead.
None of the servants were allowed to enter the hall. They couldn’t hear what came from the dead queen’s chamber. Even if they had, they would have played the pretending game. It was the rule.
Pulling the knife from his boot, the boy gripped the hilt so tightly his knuckles turned white. He could hear the cries grow as he drew close.
Inside was the only thing that scared him.
“I am a hero,” the boy whispered.
And then he opened the door.
The man didn’t notice him at first. That was good. The boy’s whole body had gone numb, and the air locked in his lungs.
The chamber was barren and dark. The king had ordered all the furnishings removed the day his wife passed, shortly after Darren turned two. Now it was a room of shade. No tapestry aligning the walls and the marble floor was left uncovered, making it one of the coldest rooms in the palace. A great pine chest was tucked neatly in a corner, its lid thrown open to reveal an assortment of weapons: leathers, whips, and a long stick with a ball of metal spikes attached by a chain. Several hilts were stained a rusty red.
Against the back of the chamber were two sets of iron manacles chained to the wall. One of the pairs was occupied.
Blayne’s short black bangs were clumped in blood, and purplish spots were forming beneath the tears of his shirt. One leg was sprawled out in a strange position.
Darren almost lost the contents of his stomach at what he noticed next: a bone sticking out of his brother’s soiled trousers.
Blayne was doing his best to avoid the lashes from the leather strap in his father’s hands. Only Lucius never missed. Every time it landed, it returned to its handler with a hiss as hot blood splattered the walls and streaked down the boy’s chest.
Darren swallowed and it felt like glass. The hand clutching the knife felt useless, limp at his side.
He could run now. It wasn’t too late. The monster hadn’t seen him yet.
But then Blayne cried out again.
Darren’s gaze shot back to the chains. His brother was writhing, sobbing, trying to hide from the king’s rage.
Blayne should have known better. The boy understood the best thing was to face the monster head on and to let it pass.
Trying to hide only made it worse.
But the crown prince had always been weak. Darren supposed it was because of their mother. Like Blayne, she had preferred to smile. That’s what they told him, anyway. Darren couldn’t remember.
The boy only knew how to frown.
But he didn’t want to lose his smile. Blayne was the only one who ever smiled at Darren. Everyone else just played pretend because that’s what the rule demanded.
So as his brother’s sobs cut the air again, the boy dove forward, his kn
ife slashing out against the monster’s back. He pretended to be a knight and the monster a dragon.
Lunging, he cut along its leathery wing before jumping out and ducking fire.
His first try caught the beast off-guard, but the next did not.
His father backhanded him across the face. The impact sent Darren staggering back against the wall. He never had a chance to catch his breath.
The king was holding him up, a hand wrapped around his throat.
Darren gasped for air as black spots clouded his eyes. He could feel the man’s hot breath as the monster swung him right and then left, only to toss him at the wall with all the force of a brick.
The boy crumbled to the floor as the knife slipped from his hand. This was worse than the other times. He had never fought back.
The man grabbed one of his wrists and Darren whimpered.
“Don’t!”
The king silenced his eldest with a fist to the jaw. The boy screamed and hid his eyes from his little brother on the floor. He couldn’t protest again.
Darren curled in a ball.
In one swift kick after another, the man’s boots slammed into every soft space he had. A thousand needles stuck him from the inside, and hot metal coated his tongue. Each blow burned and seared his skin until the boy was sure he was afire.
Darren clenched his eyes shut as he tried to be still. But the monster wasn’t done, and it was angry. He felt each time the dragon tore at his flesh. His talons came in many forms.
Cold marble chilled the boy as something warm pooled beneath him. Darren couldn’t breathe. The pain was back, and it was terrifying. The darkness was about to take him away, but there was one bright thing that kept him awake.
The boy with the smile.
When the monster finally stopped, when he finally left, the younger boy could barely hold his breath, but then he caught sight of the other across the room. The boy with the smile was still awake.
Non-Heir: The Black Mage Prequel Novella Page 1
