The Kingmaker Series, #1

by Gemma Perfect

  If I was to refuse this man I have no doubt that he would kill me. And so selfishly I choose my life over somebody else’s.

  I can try to justify it all I like but I have broken my own rule. I have been caught up in someone else’s very dangerous game and now I am a player, like it or not.

  I have made a fire so that I can be comforted by its warmth. I have lit a candle so that the light can give me hope. I have strewn herbs so that the sweet smells overpower the sour feeling inside me. I am drinking calming tea and waiting for the knock that will come today.

  As I drink, I pray to the gods for forgiveness and I pray that the two souls who will leave this world soon will forgive me as well. And I hope to atone for their deaths by only doing good from this day forth. When this cloaked murderer leaves; if he leaves me in one piece, my life and the direction I am taking will change.

  I vow not to even sell a simple sick-making tonic. I will be a vessel for all things good and pure and true.

  There is a knock at the door and already I know it is him. My bowels loosen and I am afraid to stand up. There is no question as to what sort of man this is. A snake.

  A snake at my door.

  Before I open the door I quickly take out the evil vial from its hiding place. He will not know that I am sick from it, that I hid it away. He shall not see my true thoughts. I can cover them in myself as I can uncover them in others and I do so. I smile as I open the door. I am right, of course, that it is him, and cloaked today with his face covered in a dark hood he could be death at my door.

  And of course, he is. At the irony, my smile widens.

  “Good day.” He greets me politely, even warmly, and I know that all in his life are duped by this snake.

  “Good day, Sir.” I lower my eyes in deference. I will not have him thinking I need putting in my place. I see his guard beyond him, pretending to be waiting casually for his friend.

  “I trust you are well.”

  “Thank you, Sir, I am.”

  These pleasantries are making my stomach coil.

  “And my request?”

  “Fulfilled Sir, of course.”

  “Of course. The promise of coin can do wonders for a poor witch.”

  I am stung by his words, all the money in the world would not have turned my head on this; fear for my life made me do this. I turn and reach for the vial instead. He speaks again.

  “It didn’t take a lot for you to abandon your principles, then? Harm none? You know what a death draught does?”

  I face him with the vial in my hand, my knuckles white and my face probably the same. I do not want to anger him and yet I cannot stand the superiority and pomposity of him, judging me and trying to make us equal in complicity.

  And yet I suppose I am as bad as him. The fight goes out of me and I hold out the vial. The throbbing has become a physical thing, though real or imagined I cannot tell. It is vibrating through my fingers, it’s like it wants to move, wants to start working its bad magic and causing trouble. It is truly like a living thing and I cannot wait for him to take it away.

  He holds out a greedy hand, it is perfect and smooth – not a working man’s hand and yet it seems claw-like to me. I hate this hand and the man that it belongs to.

  I release the vial and relief warms me. The throbbing is gone.

  “Can I trust you? Is this really what I asked for?” he asks, his voice a menace.

  I nod. “Of course, Sir, it is not in my interests to trick you.”

  He laughs, a lovely sound, which upsets me. This man is someone’s son, friend, maybe lover. His voice is kind; his laugh is warm.

  “True.” Snake-like again, he pounces: “But I should test it, to be sure.”

  He holds the vial up, his eyes on mine. He starts to unscrew the tiny lid.

  My breath stops. And my heart batters inside me. I am sure that he can hear it, because he laughs.

  “Fear not, little witch. A man needs a friend. And one with your knowledge, skills and resources is priceless. You will be very useful to me.”

  My breathing has returned to normal and yet I feel like air is even harder to come by. This man is saying he wants to use me again, as an ally. I cannot stand this. I do not want to be his friend, ally or servant.

  He tucks the vial about his person and steps towards me. He places a finger on my chin and I shiver. He doesn’t take it for fear, but for pleasure, which is stomach churning. He smiles, predatory. “Thank you, little witch. I will see you again.”

  He turns away and then as an afterthought faces me again and drops a huge bag of coin on my chair.

  He leaves and I drop to the floor. Tears are scarring my face and sobs are breaking my heart.

  What have I started and what will I do now?

  15

  THE KING PUSHES OPEN Everleigh’s door, and sits on her bed watching her sleep. He couldn’t be prouder of how she is handling herself this week, and he wants her to know before it’s too late.

  The Kingmaker is a strange but powerful tradition; he can remember his own sister’s death day like it was yesterday.

  His two brothers and him, feeling small and scared, standing in front of her, crowds watching and cheering as they waited for her to die. Every instinct had told him to take her hand and run, before it was too late. He’d stayed rooted to the spot though and Halfreda had taken a small, sharp dagger. His sister didn’t hesitate or fight, just pronounced the age-old words: I am the Kingmaker and I willingly die to make one of you King.

  At the word, King, Halfreda had stepped forward, hugged his sister close to her, and then with one swift, practised movement, slit her throat. A guard had held a goblet underneath the wound to catch the blood and another took his sister’s lifeless form away from Halfreda and laid her on a wooden pallet covered in wreaths. It was ghastly to see and he had closed his eyes and never looked at her again. Saying sorry in his head, he had readied himself for the next part; the worse part, he thought.

  Halfreda had stood with the goblet of blood and while she chanted weird words nobody could understand, she poured the blood into three cups. She passed one to each prince, still chanting.

  The King had looked at his brothers, tears in his eyes. What a cruel world one of them would rule over. He had had no inkling or thought that it might be him; he genuinely had had no idea.

  He lifted the cup, determined not to look at the scarlet blood or to smell it and to try not to taste it.

  They had nodded at each other then, each of his brothers and him and lifted the cups up.

  The taste and smell were both disgusting and from that day on he could never eat meat that wasn’t cooked completely. The sight of blood made him feel faint.

  There was a hush from the crowd as they watched their beloved princes, their father, the King, watching over them, Halfreda sombre at their side.

  Without a sound, both of his brothers had dropped dead, being caught on the way to the floor and placed on the pallets next to their sister.

  Without a second to grieve, the old King took his crown and placed it on the new King’s head.

  People had erupted into frenzied cheering, some weeping for the dead people and some laughing; the mood had bordered on hysteria. The King would never forget it. It was an awful way to become King and he still missed his sister and brothers sorely.

  If he could change the way things were done, he would. Let the oldest son have the crown and be done with it, but you couldn’t fight history or magic or tradition.

  Everleigh stirs and the King smiles down at her.

  “Father.” She sits up, rubbing her eyes. “Is something wrong?”

  “All is well. For now.” His meaning is clear. “I am proud of you Everleigh. So proud.”

  “Thank you.”

  He takes her hand. “Are you coping as well as you seem to be?”

  She nods, wishing she could tell him the truth. She hates to deceive him but telling her father could have far reaching consequences. The King would have to act, make
decisions, tell her brothers. It wasn’t the right time for that yet. She needed to listen and take Halfreda’s advice.

  “I’m good, father.”

  He hugs her close and she cries, for what she knows, for what she wishes she could say to him, for their future together. He rocks her. “Let the festivities take your mind off things – that’s what they’re for. I will be with you till the end. If you need me.”

  She smiles up at him. The hand fate dealt her isn’t his fault. His own sister died at Halfreda’s hand. And then his brothers had died as well. He knows only too well how awful the Kingmaker’s role is. She is more than sure that he will be happy for her life to continue.

  “I will let you get ready for the hunt, lovely.”

  “I might not come.”

  “You have to come. It’s in your honour.”

  “It’s just so cruel. The poor deer.”

  “Oh, Everleigh, don’t you eat the poor deer when it’s served to you?”

  “Yes, but I don’t like thinking about how frightened it must be, while it’s being hunted.”

  “It’s just the order of things, sweet-pea.”

  “I know.”

  “And you must come. It’s for you.”

  Everleigh nods, duty trumps all things. She would have to find a more humane way of getting meat when she was Queen.

  ARCHER KNOCKS FOR HER when it is time for the hunt. Everleigh is dressed in her warmest gown, her cloak fastened around her neck. She smiles shyly at him and he bows to her and kisses her cheek.

  His mouth against her skin, the smell of him so close, transports both of them back to last night. To the storm. To their first kiss. Her first kiss; she hadn’t wanted it to stop. They had stopped though, after several breathless minutes, soaked to the skin and starting to shiver, despite the heat of their kiss. Archer had escorted her back to her room, and the little maids had run her a bath, filled her bed with hot bricks and she had lain for hours watching the flames of her fire and imagining a life where she was Queen and Archer was King, and they lived happily ever after.

  “The horses are ready, princess. We’re just waiting for the guest of honour.”

  Meaning her.

  “I cannot wait until Saturday, when this pretence will be over.”

  “I know, but then the trouble could really start. We don’t know what people will think.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  Archer nods. “Maybe. Millard was pretty blunt about it all last night.”

  That had upset her more than she could let on. “What could he do though? I’ll be Queen.”

  Archer shrugs. In truth, he has no idea how all of this will turn out. And when Halfreda had asked him to come to the castle, he had no idea that he would meet Everleigh and feel the things he felt for her. And who could say what would come next.

  He takes her hand and they walk out to the hunt together. Everleigh doesn’t care what anyone says about her not being chaperoned while in the company of a young man. She assumes they will be happy that she’s having some fun and comfort from someone and being so close to her death, what could happen? Her reputation is irrelevant now; there is no future husband to impress or placate.

  Really with two days left in this Realm, how can anyone deny her anything that makes her happy, that makes her last few days a little less miserable?

  “Last night,” Archer says, looking bashful.

  “I know.” Everleigh smiles shyly up at him, at his handsome face. Neither of them needs to say any more. It is written all over their faces.

  WILL IS GETTING READY for the hunt, but he sees Lanorie walking to the stables, and is trying to get another glance of her. What is it about her that strikes him so, he can’t say. Her lovely blonde hair, pinned up, her big blue eyes always so guileless and trusting. He knows a fool’s life is a lonely one. He knows his father has never loved, let alone married. He may have loved from afar, as Will is doing, but no woman would ever take up with a fool. She would be a laughing stock.

  He knows he doesn’t have a chance of winning her heart; he wouldn’t even try, but he likes to look at her. Like a glorious tapestry or a picture by one of the masters, she is beautiful. She is rougher round the edges than someone like Everleigh, but Everleigh is exquisite, with all the trappings of a princess. Lanorie is a lovely looking girl. She works hard, has no airs or graces. Exactly what appeals to Will. She is funny too, and would happily lark around with him.

  He doesn’t follow her round all the time; he isn’t strange, but every now and then he catches a glimpse of her around the castle or in the courtyard. And then he follows her for a minute. Just to see her for a little bit longer. She makes him happy. And with the events of Saturday rushing towards them he needs every bit of happiness he can get; they all do.

  He can’t see her inside the stables, but he can hear her. She is talking to someone, so he’s turning to leave when he hears Everleigh’s name mentioned, and pauses. He sneaks closer and listens to Lanorie talking to a deep-voiced man. He can barely believe what he is hearing, but he knows who he needs to tell.

  Lanorie

  I AM MEANT TO BE RIDING out behind Everleigh on the hunt, in case she needs anything, but I have cried off. I sent the little maids to sort her out this morning and I am hiding away. My friend is with me and we are chatting away in a nook above the stables.

  He’s nagging me for more details and since I have told it at all, I see no harm in telling him some more. And as I gossip I feel like a traitor.

  I tell him everything I know, in detail, even the stuff I’ve already said.

  I tell him about the wise woman and how Everleigh made the river rise. I tell him how I watched with my own eyes the way she made the birds fly onto her hand. I tell how I saw her do it again with Addyson there, with the butterflies.

  He asks if Addyson knows and I say no.

  He asks if she has shown her powers to either of her brothers. I don’t think she has, though I can’t say for sure. I reckon Millard upset her last night, talking about how little time she had left. You could see that hurt her feelings. If he knew her secret, he wouldn’t be saying things like that. I don’t see her telling one but not the other. She loves them both so much.

  Does the King know?

  By the gods, he is like an old woman today, full of questions. Like he’s writing a play, or something.

  Who knows, who’s seen, who has she told. Does anyone suspect, blah, blah, blah. He’s getting on my nerves. I might have been wrong to tell him about Everleigh’s secret, but he is a pain in the backside talking of nothing else.

  We are in the stable, and the hunt has left so I feel safe enough talking to him about her, but would rather he held me and kissed me and told me he loved me.

  No girl wants to spend all her time talking about another girl. I may not be high born or fancy or a Kingmaker but I’m still a girl and I’m getting fed up of hearing her name!

  Ooh, isn’t that awful of me. Sometimes I despair. Cook’s right – a handmaiden with no proper schooling will never amount to anything. I haven’t even got the decency I was born with.

  Poor Everleigh.

  I know the only thing I can do now – I will stay out of her way, tell Cook I am ill and hide from Everleigh till after the death day when it all comes out about her living and being Queen. Then I will try to find work with another family. I cannot stay here, facing her daily, knowing what I did.

  And all for a few kisses off a handsome boy.

  16

  THE HORSES ARE THUNDERING through the woods, following the widest, most trodden paths. There are more than fifty riders; Everleigh recognises but half of them. The rest are visitors to the Realm, here to watch her die.

  All the men have arrows ready to fly; most of the women are there for the fun of it, the thrill of the chase and the speed of the ride. Everleigh is not there for either.

  Hunting is necessary; she knows that and she loves to bite into a succulent piece of venison, but the way the animal
s are caught, this cruel chase is just sad. She never rides out when the men hunt; she always makes some excuse or other and no one pushes her to participate. She doesn’t want to spoil the fun for others, but she doesn’t want to join in.

  The pain in the beautiful creature’s eyes as the life slips away from them would be too sad for her to see. She would have felt unable to eat anything she killed herself, so what was the point?

  Archer sticks close to her, enjoying himself and she understands that the ultimate thrill on a hunt is to kill a deer or a doe, otherwise it’s like coming last in a race; she just wishes she was sat inside by her fire, reading or singing or playing. Anything but this. She will be glad when it finishes and she can get ready for the ball.

  “Are you alright?” Archer shouts as they speed along.

  “Yes,” Everleigh shouts back. She’s had an idea; they don’t need the deer for tonight’s meal. That would have been sourced and prepped beforehand by Cook. She calls out, in her head, not aloud, for the deer to run away. She repeats it over and over, picturing the deer, thinking about the deer and telling them to run away. She speaks silently, telling them of the danger coming, the hunters coming.

  Will it work?

  Millard is leading the hunt and he calls it to a stop. All the riders come to a halt. Everleigh and Archer are near the back so can’t hear what is being said. The message comes back to all the riders; the deer seem to have disappeared.

  Everleigh smiles and Archer raises an eyebrow at her. “You?” he mouths.

  She nods her head. He shakes his.

  “What?” Everleigh tries to look innocent.

  The message comes back that they will try again but take the hunt in two directions, one back to the castle, and the other higher into the woods. The deer had to be somewhere.

  They are right of course, and Everleigh sends out more silent instructions to the creatures, guiding them safely to the river that runs through the woods, which isn’t on the course either pack of hunters is due to take.