Kingdom Soul

by Brittni Chenelle

  Kingdom Soul

  A Kingdom Cold Novel

  Brittni Chenelle

  Copyright © 2019 by Brittni Chenelle

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  I dedicate this novel to my mother,

  the woman who never gave up on me when I struggled to read and write, and who’s always lifted me up with her endless love.

  You are the armor that makes me feel brave.

  Contents

  1. Minseo

  2. Charlotte

  3. Minseo

  4. Charlotte

  5. Minseo

  6. Charlotte

  7. Lancelot

  8. Minseo

  9. Merlin

  10. Minseo

  11. Charlotte

  12. Lancelot

  13. Minseo

  14. Charlotte

  15. Merlin

  16. Minseo

  17. Lancelot

  18. Minseo

  19. Merlin

  20. Charlotte

  21. Lancelot

  22. Minseo

  23. Merlin

  24. Charlotte

  25. Minseo

  26. Lancelot

  27. Minseo

  28. Charlotte

  29. Minseo

  30. Lancelot

  31. Merlin

  32. Minseo

  33. Charlotte

  34. Merlin

  35. Charlotte

  36. Lancelot

  37. Minseo

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Also by Brittni Chenelle

  1

  Minseo

  Every night, when I close my eyes, it's the same. Rushing water, my body pushed against Charlotte's, my hand tightly pressed against her mouth, and the clanging of metal that ended my brother's life.

  I’ve been drowning ever since. My screams smothered by the waves, my movements slowed, and my tired arms unable to break the surface before another wave crashes down, tossing me through the abyss.

  Year after year slips by, but the memory returns like an echo. Again and again I wonder if Charlotte hears it too, wherever she is.

  I awoke to what felt like the gentle kiss of fingertips on my cheek only to discover the white petals of the cherry blossom tree had floated through my open window. The morning’s golden rays granted me a moment of peace before my mind acquainted with the world the way it was. A world without my little brother.

  I dressed quickly, unwilling to break the silence and hoped to sneak out before my attendants arrived. The sunlight seeped through the hanji walls, meaning it might already be too late to leave unnoticed, but all I could hear outside was the rustle of the cherry blossom tree.

  I slid the door open and stepped onto the clay platform below.

  “My prince, shall I fetch your breakfast?”

  My heart leapt as I eyed the kneeling servant, Mingee. “Don’t bother,” I barked.

  Mingee bowed and closed the door to my bedroom as I turned toward the palace. “Sir,” she said, her voice breaking. She shrunk beneath my gaze. “His Majesty wishes to see you in the throne room.”

  I could have kicked her, and the thought lingered in my mind for several moments before I dismissed it and turned away. I needed to get out of here before she further burdened my morning. I eyed the castle walls, wondering how big of a deal my father would make if I ignored his request and went into town. But the throne room wasn’t far from the front entrance, and I was in no mood to battle.

  I walked past a series of buildings, each made from wooden pillars and clay-tiled roofs with elaborate, brightly-colored woodworking designs framing each pillar. The clouds hung in the sky like spun sugar, pink from the sunrise still caught in them. Beyond the palace walls, mountains reached above, like walls of a fortress. The most striking element of Vires this season was the cherry blossoms now in full bloom. Still, the wind carried a bite of frosty air that tossed the white petals like snowflakes in a storm. I shivered as I passed the rooms of my mother and older brother Sumin, and I stopped when I reached Young’s. His attendant waited outside his bedroom like he’d wake up and ask for breakfast. My father was a senseless man. Almost five years later and he can’t even reassign the staff.

  I stepped to the edge of the palace lake, my father’s throne room platformed at the center of it. The lake, sprinkled with white petals, thrashed with a sudden gust of wind. The petals caught the morning light like stars twinkling in the night, like there was something left on Earth to celebrate. I crossed the stony gray bridge and kept my head down until I knelt at my father’s feet.

  “Rise, Minseo.” I stood up to find my father perched on his throne in his red hanbok, with golden designs that weaved up his sleeves and a slender black hat atop his head. I bit back a smile; he looked like a great stuffed bird on a nest.

  “There is a strategy session this evening. It’s time you attend,” he said, his gentle voice whispering around the room.

  “I can’t. I have plans to meet Junho at the—”

  “That wasn’t a request!”

  I wrenched my hands, suddenly aware of the cold glares from around the throne room pricking my skin. Hanbit—the king’s advisor—and a slew of guards I used to train with bristled.

  I bowed. “Forgive me, Father, I only meant my presence at these meetings in the past haven’t—”

  “It’s time.”

  I clenched my jaw and bowed before turning away and making my exit, swallowing the truths I couldn’t speak. He still had attendants outside my dead brother’s room and somehow believed I was the one who needed to move on. I exhaled my frustration through gritted teeth and reminded myself it wasn’t his fault Young died; it was mine. On my way out, I caught a flash of Jay Hyun, a soldier I’d once been close with. If he wasn’t working, or if I wasn’t inappropriately headed to drink first thing in the morning, I might’ve considered inviting him. He bowed to me as I left the throne room and stepped back out onto the stone bridge.

  A few hours later, I slammed down my empty ceramic cup. “More!” I bellowed, my head bobbing back and forth at the table.

  Junho lay his chopsticks on his bowl of rice before reaching for the bottle of rice wine we call makkoli. “Shouldn’t you sober up a bit before the big meeting?” he asked.

  “More,” I commanded.

  Junho sighed and picked up the bottle, pouring the white liquid while his opposite hand lay politely on his chest. “You know, man, maybe he’s right. Maybe it is time.”

  I slammed my hand on the table, rattling the dishes and sending one of my chopsticks flipping through the air and onto the floor. The clatter cut the babble of the other customers and drew their eyes to us. I raised my hand to wave away their attention and the room soon buzzed once more. Junho’s face reddened, but it might have been that way from the makkoli.

  “You and I both know those meetings are pointless. What is the intent of having a great army if you can’t use it to avenge your son’s death?” I groused. “The man is a coward.” I reached for my chopsticks, but one was still on the floor.

  Junho nodded, his eyes flickering toward another table. “That may be true,” he said, pouring himself a shot, “but how are you going to change that if you never attend the meetings?”

  “Your Highness,” a mousy voice whispered. A woman, who appeared to be in her late fifties, held out a new pair of chopsticks.

  “Thank you,” I said, trying to dismiss her with my tone. I turned back to Junho who held out his shot glass. “Gombe,” I said, clashing my glass into his. J
ust as I was about to throw back another shot, I noticed Junho’s eyes flash back toward the table to our left.

  I lowered my drink. “What are you looking at?” I asked.

  “Oh,” he said, “I think I know that guy.” The corners of his mouth turned up. “Don’t look.”

  I turned.

  “Don’t look!” he whispered sternly. He concealed his face in his hands.

  The other table had three Viran men sharing a pot of Mayontang, a red fish soup, and drinking makkoli. Judging by the quality of their clothing, they were upper-class citizens, and the three empty makkoli bottles on their table indicated they’d likely been there as long as we had. Two of the men chatted loudly, but the youngest man on the far side of the table who seemed to be in his early twenties quietly and conspicuously stared down at a small plate of kimchi.

  “Stop looking,” Junho said, drawing my attention back. Junho dug into the fish with his chopsticks, pulling out the meat of the jaw muscle, my favorite, and stuffing it into his mouth. “Look,” he said, “it won’t be as bad as when you first returned home. It was all so fresh. Nobody blames you for losing it as you did.”

  “You’re killing my buzz.”

  Junho’s gaze drifted to my left once more, and I snapped my head to look. The three men rose from the table, scrambling for their wallets. The young man smiled shyly at Junho before his gaze met mine, and he quickly turned away and hurried out of the restaurant.

  I shook my head and turned back to Junho. “Does that guy owe you money or something?”

  Junho shook his head. “Should we get you some water?”

  “Nah,” I said, picking through fishbones to get some meat. “It doesn’t matter how many meetings I go to. My father will never attack Camelot.”

  “What about Charlotte?”

  I halted. He must have been drunker than I thought to mention that name. My mouth dried. “What about her?” I spat.

  “She could still be out there.”

  Charlotte was certainly dead, and I didn’t appreciate Junho’s mention of her. For almost five years, I’ve tried to overcome losing her. At first, I tried convincing my father to allow me to seek revenge. When he refused, I tried the company of other women, but there was no antidote to be found in my bed. No, antidotes came in bottles. Drunk, celibate, and numb, I’d drunk nearly every day to drown out those memories, and I endured headaches and nausea all so that names like hers never drifted in. The room spun, but with one mention of her name, I was transported to five years ago, when my wounds were still bleeding and her tearful eyes turned from me that final time. Anxiety pooled beneath my skin as I felt her name reverberate around the room. Surrounded, my only option was to escape the restaurant and get some air. I stood, dropping silver coins onto the table in front of Junho. “Don’t be a fool.”

  2

  Charlotte

  I watched intently as four-year-old Morgana threw a handful of dead orange flowers in the air. “And then the witch blasted the king with another fireball!” Her soft round face was bright with excitement. She shouted as she leapt to the other side of the room, picking up a strategically placed stick.

  “Nooooo!” she called back in a deep voice as she waved the stick in the air. “Her power is too great. Now I must die!” She dropped to the floor only to bounce up and race to the other side of the room. “Next, I’ll go rescue the—”

  Gabriel clapped his hands loudly, interrupting. Morgana opened her mouth to continue, but I joined in with Gabriel, clapping and cheering. Morgana’s wrinkled forehead smoothed as she forgot all about the second part of her show and beamed with pride, her smile bright even with a missing front tooth.

  I bit down on my bottom lip to refrain from laughing. This was the tenth play Morgana had put on today. “What an exciting story, my love,” I said, scooping her into my arms.

  “Brava!” Gabriel said, tickling Morgana who squirmed out of my grasp. “Time for bed,” he said, chasing after her. I watched them play. Morgana looked too much like her father to be mistaken for anything other than Viran. The only bit of myself that I saw in her was the wild mop of curls on her head and the face she made when pouting. Even her skin looked more like Young’s than mine.

  I was sure people suspected Gabriel was not her biological father. Gabriel’s skin was a warm chestnut brown a bit like my father’s, but his had red undertones. Mine was a lacey brown with a distinctive yellow that shone brightest in the sun. Both were several shades darker than Morgana.

  Biological or not, I could hardly remember a time before our family of three. The past was filled with days I didn’t relish to reminisce and these last four years had changed me from a broken girl to a strong woman.

  Gabriel entered the room, his bulky frame strong and muscular. He kept his hair short, but the waves of his naturally curly hair were still visible. He had a thick black beard that framed his kind eyes beneath the wide ebony eyebrows above, but his most striking feature was his curly eyelashes that flitted with every smile. I often found myself wondering how a man so intimidating in both size and features could also be so beautiful.

  “She’s promised to go to sleep now,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Did you triple check that all the candles are—”

  “Char,” he said, putting a hand gently on my shoulder. “It’s been two years. I don’t think there will be another incident.” His gaze was warm, his charcoal colored eyes gentle—like the breeze on a hot summer day—and his eyelashes like the rays of the sunrise in a world with a blackened sun. He pulled me in and I buried my face in his chest, letting myself relax. Some families are made and others found. From the day we met, Gabriel felt like he belonged with us—cosmic restitution for a lifetime of sorrow. Even as strangers, we forged a haven for Morgana with the shattered pieces of our former selves. But one shadow from my past lingered, threatening all we’d built, and I couldn’t hide from it in Gabriel’s embrace.

  My calm shattered as a flash of orange light shot through my memory and sent a cold shudder down my spine. “Regardless,” I said, pulling away, “I better see if there’s any news.” For the last couple years, worrying had become routine. I grabbed my cloak and headed for the door.

  “Ask Lynn if she’s got any leftover scones,” Gabriel said.

  “Will do,” I called over my shoulder. I closed the door behind me and took a deep breath; the cool air still tangled with the last bit of winter. As I moved toward the center of town, I looked back at my peaceful cottage tucked away on the outskirts. We were safe; he wouldn’t find us here.

  I scurried by the other cottages as I went. I heard the chatter of the townspeople and saw the glow of the torch-lit streets ahead, but it wasn’t until the dirt paths became cobblestones that I considered myself in town. I heard the clop of horses on the hard stones and hustled toward the tavern on the west side of the square: Blue De Loon.

  The tavern sat alongside a busy street and was always packed with locals, mostly due to the friendly barkeep Lynn who had an affinity for baking that brought people together like nothing else. Still several blocks away, I could taste the sweet, doughy scent wafting through the air. My mouth watered. Lynn’s cooking drew a bizarre mix of locals to the tavern, but that made it a good place to gather information. If he was still looking for me, Lynn might have heard something.

  I pushed open the doors of the tavern, and the rush of sugary air hit my face. I was not surprised to find the tavern filled with boisterous people, goblets of ale on each table with plates of half-eaten scones and cookies. There was hardly an empty seat, except for the few vacant stools at the bar. Lynn rushed about refilling the goblets, her fluffy hair pulled into two puffs on her head. She looked up from the keg and smiled at me, motioning to an open stool at the bar.

  A crash on my left sent my hand instinctively to the dragon-hilted dagger I kept hitched to my belt. A handsome brown-haired man with silver strands in his beard bent down to retrieve his spilled goblet. His gaze met mine, and a twisted smile grew
at the corners of his mouth. I rolled my eyes and took my seat at the bar next to an old man who seemed somewhere between asleep and awake.

  Lynn rushed over. “Charlotte!” she said, her voice muffled in the noisy tavern. She reached over the bar and hugged me with her free arm, two full goblets of ale in her opposite hand. “I’ll be right back,” she said, rushing out from around the bar and toward the tables in the back.

  “Charlotte, eh?”

  I turned to see the old man grin with a toothless smile. “I like that name. It reminds me of the former Queen of Besmi—”

  “Sir,” I jabbed, “mind your words carefully.” I scanned the tavern.

  The man threw his head back and laughed, his white hair only present just above his ears. “I’m too old to be shipped off to one of the king’s camps. I’m above the law.”

  “He can still kill you.”

  He took a gulp from his goblet. “Just this morning I met a baby with the same name.” He looked up at me, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “Guess you can kill a kingdom in body but not in soul.”

  Yep. He was going to get us both killed. I lowered my voice. “Excuse me, sir, have we met before?”

  “In another life, perhaps.” He stood and thumped three copper coins onto the bar before grabbing his jacket and heading for the door.

  Lynn rushed over, her hair buns bobbing with each step. “Sorry about that. So, what’s new?” Lynn’s bronze skin accentuated her beautifully curved nose.