The Beginning of Everything (The Rising Book 1)

by Kristen Ashley

  “So, five hundred years ago, calves went without their sires, as they probably went without their mothers, though no horns could be displayed from the mothers to pointlessly boast of the might of their murderers.”

  He sat back on plush cushions that were bunched at his back against the ornate gold that made his throne.

  And he sought patience.

  Finding at least some of it, he said what he had been saying most every time he was confronted with his wife.

  And he decided to make one last go of it, therefore he tried to do it gently.

  “Ha-Lah, it is not lost on you, since you are Mar-el and have lived on this isle since your first breath, this is the way of our people and has been since history has been recorded.”

  “And, Your Grace,” he was not surprised she returned without a hint of patience, “it should not be. Not the whales. Not the dolphins. Not the octopus. I’m telling you, they do not only think, they feel.”

  “I have sailed the seas since I was a lad, wife, and this is not true.”

  “It is.”

  “It is not.”

  “Does a cow not keen when her bull is taken? When her calf is cornered?” she asked.

  He shifted in his seat for the she-beasts did.

  It was the most heinous thing he’d ever heard.

  And every seaman knew, you did not take a cow if her bull was near, not of any type of whale. You’d lose your ship, and your life, if you enraged the bull when you were close.

  “You stop the killing, you will find me not cold, my king,” she shared, not for the first time. “And you stop the killing, I daresay you make allies of the sea you would never have imagined.”

  Now that was frankly ridiculous.

  “And what will fuel our lamps, make our soaps, fertilize our soils, feed our people, our animals?” he demanded. “What will we sell to add to the treasury to keep our roads clear, roofs on our hospitals, arrows in our quivers?”

  “Something else, something from the mainland,” she returned. “They have oil. They have more animals who naturally make fertilizer. Grain by the bushel. Spices—”

  “Cease,” he bit. “We do not trade with them, they trade with us.”

  “But why?”

  “You forget, my wife, my sister, they cast us to this isle years ago when that isle was ours and they conquered it and wrested it from us, banishing our people here and doing it knowing we would not survive. Mar-el’s rocky shores dig deep inland. It does not have vast tracks to roam sheep and cow and sow seeds. We survived on the blessing of the great god Triton. His wife, our goddess, the beneficent Medusa. The spare sympathies of the sirens. They gave us the blessing of the seas. The bounty of the whales.”

  “The ire you hold is simply because we were defeated and you cannot abide the idea of Mar-el in defeat,” she retorted on a lift of her chin.

  There was the treason.

  Aramus ground his teeth.

  His wife was not done.

  “But even if that is so, now, millennia later, you hold tight to these transgressions that did not befall you, or me, your father or my mother, your grandfather or my grandmother, but beings who are no longer even bones in the earth, but long since ash who have mingled with the rock and the mud. You do this when we hardly suffered. We not only bested their banishment, we own the seas. It was the fates who brought us to this isle, my king. It was the fates who brought us home.”

  Aramus didn’t like it, but he couldn’t exactly argue that.

  They had not flourished on the mainland.

  On this isle, they had grown prosperous and they had grown fierce.

  His wife intoned just that. “We are the mightiest of all the kingdoms. We don’t clash in their silly skirmishes, losing man and blade and blood. Our fleets grow larger, our men and women strong and healthy and thriving. They’ve long since ceased attempting to raid our shores, even find their way east of our island, for they can’t pass our armadas and they know it. They can’t even send a ship with their goods across the sea for trade unless we allow it. If a vessel from the Northlands or the Southlands from across the Green Sea comes, it is we who decide if they sail through our waters.”

  Aramus couldn’t argue this either because it was all true.

  Ha-Lah was not quite finished.

  “We can use the bounty of our pearls, the treasure wrested by our raiders, sell the vast fleets of ships collected from the seas—”

  He had to put an end to this.

  She spoke blasphemy.

  All of it.

  “This is our insurance,” he clipped.

  “This is our treasure, our due, our commodities, and our reward for not allowing them to best us. You do not bow in victory, Your Grace. You crow it to the heavens and hold it over those defeated.”

  Aramus said nothing for part of him felt, uncomfortably, he couldn’t argue that either.

  It would seem when the fierceness went out of her beautiful features, and they gentled, his wife, too, had decided to seek patience and for the first time in their acquaintance, reach him a different way.

  “I am not the only one who thinks this way, my husband,” she said softly.

  “And you touch the pulse of all Mar-el?” he asked curtly.

  Though he knew she didn’t, he also knew she spent most of her time out and about in Nautilus when he was gone (and even when he was ashore).

  So she undoubtedly knew better than he.

  She shook her head, which shook her shining curls. “No. But our coffers grow, and it takes months for a ship to cross the Green Sea and come back with coin for our goods, and different goods for our people. It takes nearly half a year to get to The Mystics.”

  “You tell me things I know,” he replied.

  “It takes less than a day to sail to Triton,” she stated carefully. And even more carefully, watching him closely, she finished, “They banished us centuries ago. It is our king who keeps us banished.”

  His wife said no more.

  But it was safe to say, especially with that last, he was now at his end.

  He stood and walked to the edge of the dais, staring down at his bride.

  “It is my duty as king of my people to keep them safe. To build their wealth. To protect our secrets. To guard our magicks. It is also my duty as king to provide an heir, which, wife, I will do, with your cooperation, or without. And now, it’s my duty to shield them from the tidals, the threat of the Beast rising, and this I will do as well, sewing my seed in you.”

  She glared up at him, her exquisite face no longer gentle, but set.

  “Lena shares that we will need to attend the weddings of the King of Firenze, the Prince of Wodell, and Prince Cassius of Airen, all happening to bring about the prophecy so we can know peace. That is what I will give to those who abide on the mainland. And I will only do it in order to protect my sirens-damned own.”

  Ha-Lah said naught, just continued to glare.

  He continued to speak.

  “Amass your chests with appropriate garments. Arrange for your servants to travel and attend you. We set sail in a week and we’ll be gone months. And I’ll warn you, you have until the time our feet hit Firenze to make your decision, wife. Or I’ll make it for you.”

  She continued to glare up at him for long moments before she demanded, “Am I free to leave?”

  He crossed his arms on his chest and jerked up his chin.

  At that, she whirled and strode much faster, the skirts of her gown drifting like blades of sea lettuce around her calves and feet, and in far less time than she’d made the trek to his throne, she disappeared through the mighty doors.

  To the truth, he didn’t quite credit Lena’s words of that morning, and wouldn’t have, if the waves were not hitting with regularity, the tremors forewarning them.

  But Aramus knew something not many did.

  Something his father had shared with him very late in his training, in fact, close to the great last king’s passing.

  And t
hat something was that the Beast did not make this isle those many years ago because water harmed it or because the Beast feared the salt, the wet, the ibex-whales or even the angmostros or sirens.

  It was confounded in arriving at his isle for a wholly different reason.

  And if his wife and he, Mars and his future bride, True and his intended, and Cassius and his female warrior did not mate…

  They were all damned.

  6

  The Lore

  Frey Drakkar

  Adela Tree Glade, Outside Fyngaard

  LUNWYN

  Northlands

  Frey Drakkar stood in the snow, shielded by the elven mist, watching the adela tree before him glow as the diminutive shapes formed at its base, touched it, and grew to human proportions.

  He looked to his left at his son, Viktor.

  Vik showed no surprise at this magic, not anymore. As the next Frey in line, even if he didn’t hold that Keerian name, his first, as his father did, his son had been attending his meetings with the elves for the last fifteen years, since he was ten.

  Frey looked back to the elves who were now standing in the snow, with one having gotten close.

  “My lord Frey,” Nillen, the Speaker of the Elves, murmured.

  “Nillen,” Frey greeted.

  Nillen looked to Frey’s son. “My lord Viktor, my other Frey.”

  Vik grinned at the elf. “Nillen.”

  Nillen dipped his chin and stated, “Congratulations are premature, but I extend them to you for your upcoming coronation.”

  Frey drew in breath.

  It was time.

  His son was twenty-five.

  When he turned twenty-six, he would become King of Lunwyn, taking over for his grandmother, who Frey himself had sat on that throne.

  Queen Aurora was still sharp, and as savvy as she had been two and a half decades ago.

  But Viktor Drakkar was ready to rule.

  This did not mean Frey did not still see him as the dark-headed boy in short pants dashing around the decks of The Finnie with a wooden sword, learning swordplay from Frey’s men…and his own mother.

  It was just that now, he was as tall as his father, nearly as broad, the elves attended him, and they both had command of the dragons.

  Not to mention, he had his grandmother’s cunning, his father’s strength, his mother’s charm and the loyalty to his country of all three.

  So yes, it was time.

  Viktor gave a short bow. “Thank you, Nillen.”

  Nillen again dipped his chin then looked to Frey, and his expression had Frey bracing.

  “I have news of great import,” Nillen announced.

  “And I have ears so let us hear it,” Frey invited.

  “The Beast rises.”

  Frey stared at the elf in his blue cap with its white feather, his icy eyes, his pointy ears, and he could not believe his own.

  “Do you mean the Beast across the Green Sea?” Frey asked.

  “The exact,” Nillen confirmed.

  “’Tis only lore,” Frey stated.

  “Regrettably, it is not,” Nillen refuted.

  “By the gods,” Frey whispered.

  “That can’t be,” Viktor declared.

  “I am sorry, my young lord,” Nillen said to Frey’s son. “It can, and it is.”

  “It’s been—” Frey began.

  “Over three thousand years,” Nillen finished for him.

  Vik shifted beside him.

  “What magic is this?” Frey demanded.

  “We are unsure. He has been a mystery to us as well. We believe it to be a sorcerer, very powerful. So much power, he is hidden. Even from the elves. Feedings, as he did back then when he made the surface, blood, this through sacrifice. Torture, in this case rape—”

  “Fucking hell,” Vik bit out.

  “Collaborators,” Nillen carried on, “who performed these rituals for centuries, which did naught but stir the Beast. It is this sorcerer, his seed mixed with the blood, torture and sacrifice, that rouses the creature.”

  “And you don’t know who he is?” Frey asked.

  “We don’t even think he knows who he is,” Nillen answered. “Though we know he does not know what he does. We feel he thinks to rouse the Beast, surface him, and control him. But not even the elves could control that monster. Not the sirens or the fairies or the Green Men or the gods or goddesses of that realm. Certainly not the false gods of the scholars who reside there. And my lords, if he is not stopped, this time, he will traverse the sea.”

  “Bloody fucking hell,” Frey clipped out.

  “Can it be stopped?” Viktor queried.

  Nillen tipped his head to the side. “There is a prophecy. It is our reading the witches of that realm have initiated its commencement. But we fear they don’t understand where the true power lies,” Nillen shared.

  “And the true power?” Frey prompted.

  “They facilitate the matings of the four most powerful witches of that realm to the four most powerful warriors,” Nillen explained.

  “This sounds bloody familiar,” Frey muttered irritably.

  “Indeed, but it is not the matings, my lord—” Nillen began.

  “It’s true love,” Frey deduced.

  Nillen nodded. “The passion they share will surely augment their power, all of them, in the females, their magic, in the males, their strength and invulnerability. But they must come to love each other, Frey Drakkar. Or all will be lost.”

  “And what are we to do about this?” Frey asked.

  “You command the dragons. If the Beast rises, they will, as ever, be indestructible. But they alone cannot defeat him.”

  “And their fire, can it destroy the Beast?”

  Nillen shook his head. “Slow it, perhaps. But if one should get within arm’s reach, the Beast can send it nearly back to Lunwyn with one swing.”

  Slowing it wasn’t much.

  But it was something.

  And they’d need something if even half of the lore of that Beast was true.

  Including the fact it was immune to dragonfire. Not a being on that earth was immune from the fire of his dragons.

  “Where the dragons go, I go. Or Vik goes,” Frey reminded the elf.

  Nillen dipped his chin. “This is so, my lord Frey Drakkar.”

  Well, one thing could be said about this, his gods-damned son and the future king of his country was not going to cross the bloody Green Sea.

  One other thing could be said.

  Finnie, his wee wife, Lunwyn’s Winter Princess until Vik found a wife and made a daughter, was going to be all for a voyage across the Green sea.

  Because no matter the venture, Princess Seofin Drakkar rushed to face it.

  And further, she would never allow her husband to leave, even on the most dangerous mission, without her at his side.

  Not ever.

  Bloody.

  Fucking.

  Hell.

  7

  The Warning

  G’Drey

  Tent City of Travelers, Outside a Firenz Bazaar, Riverside of the Tebes

  FIRENZE

  G’Drey moved into the tent, eyeing the monster.

  The desert he had traversed these past four days had been…hot.

  The bazaar he had just attended had been…bizarre.

  And this creature before him was…mountainous.

  Drey’s mouth watered.

  He’d seen from his window in his rooms in Go’Doan when the Firenz warriors would visit the city.

  Not to worship.

  They had their own gods.

  Not to study.

  It was rare when any warrior of the Firenz came to read the tomes of history of the continent of Triton, or what they knew of the Northlands and the Southlands across the Green Sea, or what they knew of The Mystics across the Triton Sea.

  Definitely not to attend the Go’Da, the university in Go’Doan that many from all over Triton attended. Mostly sons (and some daughters, but t
hose were usually Nadirii) of aristocracy, some of the higher classes who did not have a lofty birthright but did have the ability to pay tuition. And some scholarships, gifted minds from the lower classes, who were usually eventually recruited into the Go’Doan Order.

  No, whatever the Firenz were there for, Drey, as a Go’Tish, or training priest, had no idea.

  And the Go’En, the high priests, did not enlighten him.

  He’d been training for bloody damns ever. He was beginning to think you had to lick the arses of the entire rank of Go’En (and he’d done his fair share of arse licking, the kind he liked but mostly the kind he did not).

  Now, after he’d waited so long, but with the worst possible timing, he’d finally been advanced to a Go’Ar, no longer in training, but not yet a high priest. And as such, sent on his first missionary assignment to the Fire City of Firenze, traveling through that realm to join his fellow priests there and take up his role.

  This did not make him happy.

  He did not like being away from his chosen one.

  But in his travels, meeting this warrior with the bladed leather kilt at his hips, chest straps, forearm shields and mighty crossed broadswords at his back, he was beginning to rethink matters.

  Especially when the colossal warrior unbuckled the strap at his chest and the broadswords fell with a heavy thud to the thick carpet that covered the sand and stone beneath their feet.

  “Toga, via,” the warrior commanded, and Drey felt his rumbling voice, and his command, right through his arse.

  His shaft was already hard and had been since before he entered the tent.

  “I speak your language,” he shared in Firenzii.

  “Then take your robe off,” the warrior stated in the same language.

  With no delay Drey’s hands moved to his gilded belt even as a small niggle of guilt slunk into his head that he was not being faithful to his chosen one.

  This niggle vanished as the leather blades of the kilt fell to the carpets and he saw what was straining against the tight leather trunks underneath.

  His belt was gone, and his bleached robe hit the carpet about two seconds after, leaving him only in his sandals.

  The warrior didn’t even look at him, which Drey did not like all that much.