The Rogue Trilogy
The Royal Rogue
Chivalry’s Code
Lost Prince of Nevaharday
Elizabeth Carlton
Copyright © 2018 Elizabeth Carlton
Cover Art by The Ink Mines Studios
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-0-578-40287-1
CONTENTS
The Royal Rogue
1
Chivalry’s Code
302
Lost Prince of Nevaharday
583
The Royal Rogue
BOOK I
Prologue
The sun charged against the western hills like a battle-raged warrior, smothering the land in fiery hues of orange and gold. Everywhere its light reached, shadows expanded, mocking the sun’s vain attempt to bring color and life to a broken kingdom.
The outer walls of Nevaharday brought no measure of hope with their towering presence. Across their solid walkways a new set of guards paced back and forth: twisted creatures from a dark realm known as the Abyss. Stalking on long legs that somehow held up their emaciated bodies, their bulbous eyes never left the walls’ perimeter. They watched unblinking, eager for any excuse to prove their dominance all over again.
A few miles from Nevaharday’s northern gate, shadows obscured the remnants of a village now burned and ravaged by war. Deep cracks marred the walls of the few stone buildings left standing, their surfaces blackened by the flames that helped tear the once lively town to ruin.
But a spark of life still lingered in one remaining house. Behind broken windows cautiously covered with thick blankets, a tiny flame swayed and danced at the tip of a nearly spent candle. Two unlikely companions hovered close to its meager light, their heads bowed over a scarred table in deep debate. Between them yellowed parchment scavenged from the ruins sat like a blank canvas.
“Write it down!” urged a flaxen-haired gypsy. He slid a quill and ink before the disgruntled prince, but the royal companion ignored him, his pale blue gaze pinned against the empty page. The destruction that mocked all he had hoped to prevent played over and over inside his mind. His grim expression reflected it all: the devastation of his kingdom, the ruination of his cherished lands, and the enslavement of his people.
The prince’s horse-like ears, pressed flat against his skull, understated the fury burning hot inside of him. He was livid, his temper barely held in check.
“Connor Prince,” an empathetic tone bled through the gypsy’s thick accent. He nudged the prince, trying to instigate a response.
“Why should I bother?” His Highness demanded. “What purpose will this serve?”
Patiently, the gypsy picked up the quill and placed it within the prince’s palm. “Nevaharday fell because it forgot the fate of its ancestors in Bresan T’ahnya too quickly. We cannot let future generations make the same mistake.”
The prince slumped into a defeated slouch. “I have given up everything I was; everything that mattered. Was that not enough?”
“Shadow’s hand will extend,” the gypsy pressed. “As his power grows, others will need answers.” He leaned over the table until he was nose-to-nose with the guilt-ridden prince, trying to instill some hope of redemption despite the burning ashes of defeat. “They will not understand if you do not write it down.” When the prince still failed to move, the gypsy put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “Do it for your people.”
His people. Loyalty tugged at the mournful royal. He tucked his chair under the table and hovered over the ominous parchment in search of the right words. At first it seemed impossible. Memories—both precious and painful—were still too fresh inside his mind.
“Start at the beginning,” the gypsy coaxed. “Start with you… who you are, what you are, where you come from. Trust in what I tell you. T’will get easier as you go along.”
Lifting the quill, the prince began to write; a task he struggled through. Page after crumbled page were swatted to the floor as he wrestled his weary mind for the right words, only to realize there were no “right words” for the war that had gone so terribly wrong.
Instead, he settled for the first thoughts that came to mind. The gypsy perched himself on a wooden stool and watched as the prince’s quill started to scratch against the page with newfound fervor. Finally, his thoughts began to flow…
As I sit here writing memories into history, I wonder whose eyes will fall upon these words. Will they know the name of the prince who wrote them? Will my kingdom—Nevaharday—be known as a legend, or will it too be forgotten like the ones that came before it?
My name is Prince Jaycent Connor, and within these pages my story will reside. This soil once belonged to the horse folk, but I fear we shall be folklore by the time these scrolls are unearthed, so let me explain. The rahee (or “horse-hearted” as it translates in the common tongue) are a unique race, different from men and elves and dwarves. Youngest of the four civilized races, we share a kinship with equines that has caught the attention of allies… and enemies.
The impact of that statement caused the prince to pull away and take a steadying breath. He paused, uncertain whether he could do this, but the gypsy wouldn’t let him stop.
“Keep going,” he whispered. Jaycent shot him an annoyed glance, a reprimand teetering on the tip of his tongue, but instead he just shook his head. The prince could not hold the gypsy at fault for anything. They were barely friends, different from each other as summer was to winter, but the gypsy meant well. Jaycent buried his temper beneath another layer of determination and returned to the parchment in front of him.
At first glance one might see our horse-like ears and think this relation is physical, but the true connection between horse and rahee lies within. For within every one of the horse folk is the ability to connect with a hoofed companion. There is no breaking of the animal’s spirit; no attempts to achieve domination. Instead, two spirits—rahee and equine—innately join to form a bond that is both intelligent and instinctive.
This is the gift that made us famous. Through it other races came to know us, admire us and some, well, some even feared us. But to speak of that would be to jump ahead of ourselves. For now, let us start with simpler times.
Before the shadows.
Before the mistakes.
And before the sacrifice that led me here, hunching over wavering a candlelight as I write down memories of things that came to pass, but can never be allowed again.
This tragedy began less than a year ago in Nevaharday, when my kingdom was just beginning to see its prime. The season was late summer. I remember because all of my people were brimming with excitement over an annual trade faire that would be held on our soil for the first time in rahenyan history...
Damn Wine
Inside palace walls, the citizens of Nevaharday joined together to celebrate the first time neighboring kingdoms had agreed to host their annual trade faire on rahenyan grounds. The honor provided Nevaharday with the opportunity to move up in the ranks of trade and foreign relations; a prospect that had everyone feeling giddy.
Well, all except for one.
The people present had expected Prince Jaycent’s smile to light up the hall. Instead, their honored host slumped at a long table, observing the mingling guests: a mix of nobles and commoners who for one night sat amongst each other as equals.
In front of him, couples danced in sync with one another while others milled about the room as they partook in small talk with newfound acquaintances. Rolling his eyes, His Highness took a long sip of wine. It was his fourth chalice of the evening and he had yet to leave his seat.
“Slow down, cousin. One more glass and you won’t be able to distinguish the beauties from the beasts,” General Mendeley took a sea
t beside the prince and motioned for a servant to pour him a drink.
Jaycent downed the rest of his share before raising his glass to the general. “Even the ugliest of ladies deserve flattery every once and awhile.”
“I agree, but unfortunately for them, I know you,” his cousin chuckled. “Come morning, you will think very differently.”
Eldest of the two, Rayhan Mendeley was broad shouldered and in his mid-thirties. Sworn in as a soldier when he was barely fifteen, Rayhan’s fate had been set at an early age by his father and former general, Siren Mendeley.
The leather-skinned warrior taught his son everything he knew about battle—often through firsthand experience. Rayhan’s relationship with Siren had been a never-ending clash of wills, fists, and daggers. It was a tough way to grow up, and Jaycent’s own father often went out of his way to shelter Rayhan from the old general’s temper.
But it did nothing to taint the good that resided within Rayhan’s soul. When Siren lost his life on the battlefield, Rayhan was given the opportunity to change the Mendeley legacy.
His honorable service and unyielding devotion to the oath called Chivalry’s Code earned him the respect of Nevahardans and many influential figures across the northern realm.
Tonight, he wore his surname with pride. A dark silk tunic hugged his solid figure, its ornate silver buttons trailing from belt to collar. Upon his neck a brooch shaped like a unicorn’s bust secured a decorative blue cloak over his right arm while his belt flaunted a battle-weary sword that rarely left his side.
The blade masked its many notches beneath a diamond-crested scabbard; a gift from Jaycent in honor of his cousin’s twenty-one years of service.
“You are dressed particularly well tonight,” Jaycent tugged the sleeve of Rayhan’s uniform, causing the five distinguished medals on his breast to jingle against each other. “Who are you trying to impress?”
Rayhan tossed him a humored glance. “You would not believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
The general nodded toward a petite young woman immersed in a heated discussion with one of Jaycent’s leading advisors. Her long black curls bobbed up and down as she filled the elder’s ears with her own theories on royal politics.
The prince choked mid-swallow. “Arelee Denicarli? You came to this affair with the horse breeder’s daughter?”
Rayhan smiled and nodded. Arelee was a childhood friend of both cousins. Notorious for her outspoken disposition, she never failed to wreak havoc against the nobility’s sense of propriety.
“I’m surprised you managed to get her here in a dress,” the prince muttered.
“Yes, well, it was a challenge,” Rayhan admitted, eyeing her with amusement as he leaned back into his seat. “But I figured the court needs its feathers ruffled every once and awhile. Otherwise palace life becomes rather monotonous.”
“Monotonous is putting it too lightly,” the prince replied. “Are you courting her?”
Rayhan cocked one eyebrow, reminding the prince how ridiculous his question truly was. There had only been one female in Rayhan’s life and he had fallen for her like a struck bird.
She was an elven maiden, but other than that the prince knew very little. The general spoke of her rarely, usually in passing. Yet the tone of his voice when he mentioned her told Jaycent what words could not.
“You know, Rayhan… it has been a long time, and you are not getting any younger. Maybe giving Arelee a chance is not as foolish as it seems.”
The elder cousin ran a finger around the rim of his glass, staring at the deep red liquid as if it held an answer. “Or maybe it is.”
The prince shrugged apathetically and the two fell silent for several moments before Rayhan took the initiative.
“What about you? How come you are not out there sweeping a lady or two off their feet?”
Jaycent snickered as he let his pale blue eyes trail toward a couple of young damsels in the corner. They giggled nervously, flattered by his attention. “You cannot mean love, cousin. You and I both know I have little heart left to share.”
“That is quite a pity.”
The prince rolled his eyes. “You speak of emotions as if they are worth chasing.”
Rayhan took a sip of his drink, offering Arelee a smile over his glass as she glanced in his direction. “Who said they were not?”
“What, and end up like you? Pointlessly flattering women while dwelling on a lover from long ago? Please. Love is a fool’s notion.”
The pained look on the general’s face caused the prince to regret his loose tongue.
Damn wine, he thought to himself as he quickly tried to smooth things over. “I spoke too boldly…”
“You spoke with the tongue of a wounded boy,” came his cousin’s brisk reply. The general slid his chair out and rose from the table. “Two years have passed since the King and his Queen’s passing. Tell me, cousin, how long will I hold the throne as its steward and general while you lament?”
“Not this again,” Jaycent groaned. “I told you, the throne is yours to keep.”
“It is not. The throne belongs to the Connor family. As its sole remaining heir, it shall always be yours.”
“It is a burden I do not want.”
Rayhan clicked his tongue in disappointment. “Were King Donovan sitting here, would you still dare to say those words?”
“If King Donovan were here, I wouldn’t have to,” Jaycent snapped.
His cousin slowly shook his head. “You will have to face your pain one day, my prince.”
“I feel nothing,” Jaycent argued.
“Aye,” Rayhan murmured, “because you smother your feelings with wine and mead. Now if you’ll excuse me, there is a lady here I have neglected long enough.”
Straightening his tunic, the general added, “In the meantime, get out of your chair and mingle. Who knows? Perhaps you will even have a bit of fun…”
Jaycent sighed as the general approached Arelee and, with a sweeping bow, offered her a dance. She accepted and the two took to the floor.
Watching the pair, the prince pondered whether his cousin was truly as happy as he seemed. Like Jaycent, Rayhan had suffered many trials in life. From a wicked father to a love he was forced to abandon, it was hard to imagine how he could still find reasons to smile.
Was his joy real or did his cousin simply put up a façade? Either way, you couldn’t tell with General Mendeley. He hardly ever revealed such private things.
The prince grabbed Rayhan’s abandoned glass and stood, granting part of his cousin’s request by getting out of his seat. Weaving his way toward the door with some difficulty, he finished off the last of the wine only to frown when the few remaining drops clung stubbornly to the bottom.
“Your Highness?” a masculine voice called out from the crowd just as Jaycent reached for the handle. “A moment of your time, please!”
The prince rolled his eyes before facing his pursuer, a false smile in place as he mentally reminded himself to be pleasant.
The young rahee shoved through a disgruntled sea of guests and bowed hastily, a nervous grin splayed across his lips as he sputtered out a greeting.
He was a commoner, and from the looks of it a foreign one. Standing a hair’s breadth below six feet, the stranger bore a tan that rivaled even the most weather-worn of Nevahardan farmers.
Jaycent guessed the rahee couldn’t have been much younger he was, though he was built like a war horse. His eyes were dark amber, reminding the prince of the fiery sun over the southern coast.
A place, he assumed, this rahee was from. Beneath the stranger’s worn cowpoke hat and chin-length curls sat a high collar vest popular in the horse folk’s southernmost kingdom.
What could a rahee from Sarrokye possibly want from me? the prince thought to himself.
With a sweep of his arm, Jaycent opened the door and motioned the commoner forward onto a balcony. “Let us talk outside.”
Although peasants weren’t usually permi
tted to approach him without formal introduction, the prince wouldn’t revoke the opportunity tonight. Not when this rahee seemed so eager, if not desperate.
“Thanks, Your Highness. I won’t be wastin’ your time, I promise.”
Jaycent struggled not to wince at the Sarrokian's drawl. “For once in my life I have time to waste. What is on your mind? You seem distressed.”
“I am,” as the prince joined him on the balcony, the commoner proceeded with an uninspiring story of how he had moved to Nevaharday from Sarrokye several years ago to begin a new life as a farmer. He loved the kingdom and its vivid seasons, but all that he had built here seemed to be in peril now. “Ya see, a week ago we common folk were shown the blueprints you approved for the trade route. As I looked them over, I happened to notice the new road cuts through the middle of my fields…”
Jaycent tried his best to look attentive as the curly-haired farmer rambled on, but it wasn’t easy. Drunkenness settled like a fog inside his mind. “What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t, Your Highness. It’s Milo. Milo Kasateno. I live in a village called New Haven, just outside of the city.”
“Well then, Milo, have you tried to set up a time to discuss this at length with my cousin, Rayhan Mendeley? He is Nevaharday’s steward, after all.”
“I tried, but…” Milo glanced through the glass in the balcony’s door to where Rayhan stood, his figure surrounded by people desperate to engage him in conversation. “I couldn’t get through the crowd. When I saw you, I thought you might be able to help, being the prince and all…”
Jaycent winced as he realized how discourteous his words sounded. Was he really so useless that he could not even be of help one desperate farmer? He did his best to shirk any and all responsibility related to his birthright, yet this was such an easy request. One that didn’t take a crown to fulfill.
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