King Callie: Callie's Saga, Book One

by B Lynch

  Contents

  Copyright © 2015 B. Lynch

  KING CALLIE

  PROLOGUE

  CH 1

  CH 2

  CH 3

  CH 4

  CH 5

  CH 6

  CH 7

  CH 8

  CH 9

  CH 10

  CH 11

  CH 12

  CH 13

  CH 14

  CH 15

  CH 16

  CH 17

  CH 18

  CH 19

  CH 20

  CH 21

  CH 22

  CH 23

  CH 24

  CH 25

  CH 26

  CH 27

  CH 28

  CH 29

  CH 30

  CH 31

  CH 32

  CH 33

  CH 34

  CH 35

  CH 36

  CH 37

  CH 38

  CH 39

  CH 40

  CH 41

  CH 42

  CH 43

  CH 44

  CH 45

  CH 46

  CH 47

  CH 48

  CH 49

  CH 50

  CH 51

  CH 52

  CH 53

  CH 54

  CH 55

  CH 56

  CH 57

  CH 58

  CH 59

  CH 60

  CH 61

  CH 62

  Ch 63

  CH 64

  CH 65

  CH 66

  CH 67

  CH 68

  CH 69

  CH 70

  CH 71

  EPILOGUE

  Thanks

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  KING CALLIE: CALLIE’S SAGA, BOOK ONE

  Copyright © 2015 B. Lynch

  Cover Art: Sina Kasra

  Cover Design: Aristotle Pramagioulis

  Editorial: Liz Flood

  Editorial: Carol Gyzander

  All rights are reserved to the author. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  KING CALLIE

  Callie’s Saga, Book One

  By B. Lynch

  PROLOGUE

  Wham-Wham-Wham! Prince Valric pounded impatiently on the door to the Royal Seer’s study. It was locked, of course; just like Royth to be so inconsiderate, Valric thought. His head tilted up, as he thought he heard footsteps. He pounded again, twice. Wham-Wham. “Royth, open the door,” he shouted, trying to spur the Royal Seer to action. “I need your help.”

  “What is it?” Royth snapped, from the other side. The door creaked open to reveal him - a tall, gaunt, shirtless dark-skinned man. His body was the color of loam, and glistened with sweat; long twists of hair draped down his shoulders and back, framing a stern, yet proud face. He had high, thin cheeks and a large nose, more likely to be seen on a kingly bust instead of a Seer’s face. Inside and outside of Castle Claine’s walls, Royth was an uncommon sight; Amanirens rarely traveled so far north, and those that took up residence in the kingdom of Barra could be counted on two hands. But for twenty years, two more than Valric had lived, Royth had made himself valuable to Valric’s father with his guidance, and his Sight. The Seer’s dark eyes softened at the sight of Valric. “Oh. My apologies, Prince,” he said, with an apologetic smile.

  “Why have you kept me waiting?” the Prince asked, as he pointed at the moisture on the Seer's body. “A vision, or a woman? And I’ll remind you, only one of these is a good excuse for your delay, Seer,” Valric said, with growing impatience. His father was dying, after all. He had been for months. Not that Valric had seen his sickly form, or bothered to visit it; he didn’t want to. Not unless he had a cure, and Royth hadn’t seen anything of use.

  “It was a vision,” Royth said, with politesse; he mopped the sweat from his glistening forehead. “The kingdom’s future. Crops and trading, invaders – countless other things. Dust. Flowers.” His speech was quick and clipped, and marked by shortness of breath. “All good reasons, I assure you.”

  “Invaders?” Valric asked, curious. None of the other things mattered as much as a good fight; something to bolster his name. “Who?”

  “I don’t know for certain,” Royth said, “It’s like remembering a dream, Prince. I need to write what I’ve seen down while I’m able, and I’ll figure it out later. And I apologize, but whatever you need, it’ll have to wait until I’m done.” Before Valric could dissent, Royth had turned around and gone back into his room, leaving the Prince at the door. Valric impatiently followed the Seer in, and shut the door after him. He’ll not push me aside so easily, the Prince thought. Who can care about crops and trading, when my father’s life is at stake? And who would invade us?

  “It will not wait,” Valric said, as he stormed after Royth. “You need to tell me how to save my father.” Valric stumbled over a pile of books, and cursed under his breath; he looked around, and found only one clear, narrow path between stacks of scrolls and books. He pursued it, carefully. The Seer's room, nested in Castle Claine’s northeast turret, was centered around circles of knowledge; on the farthest edges of the periphery were Royth's library, a bird-stand, and - opposite from Valric - Royth’s desk. The Seer himself had already navigated the labyrinth of books, and come out the other side, writing furiously at his desk. Valric passed a carved bust of a distant god, held on a sturdy altar - Royth’s favored god, Kembo, who wore a gold circle atop of his forehead, decorated his face with streaks of green, and who cried sunset tears. Valric only knew the name because of how often Royth invoked him; otherwise, he was ignorant of Amaniren gods. Beneath Kembo’s chin rested a carved stone cup that held burning incense, and to the statue’s left, an open jug of spirits that burned Valric’s nostrils as he walked past the table. At the very center of the room lay a wheat-colored cushion for sitting. Valric stepped over it, and strode towards Royth with impatient purpose.

  As the Prince approached, the Seer did not notice, or care – his quill made fevered scratches, and raced through pages of parchment, stopping only to sip on ink. Royth was wholly absorbed in the task, which only angered the prince more. As the Seer moved to dip his quill in the inkwell, Valric attempted to snatch it away; the Prince did not expect the snake-quick grip that strangled his wrist, or Royth’s terrifying glare. It wasn’t the look of a man who read fortunes; it was the look of a hardened man, who’d snap Valric’s neck for the smallest transgression, and fear shot down the Prince’s spine. After a few tense seconds, Royth released his hold, and returned to his writing. Valric backed away and rubbed his wrist, and waited for an apology; he got nothing in return.

  After another minute of frantic scribbles, Royth laid down his quill, and turned to the Prince. “How exactly,” Royth asked, annoyed, “Did you think I would save your father's life?”

  “You’ve saved mine twice - and the moment he needs you most, you have nothing? I don't believe that, Royth.” The Prince fumed with accusation, but kept his distance. Royth closed the gap with slow, deliberate steps, and spoke carefully, matching his words with a terrifying glare.

  “What kind of man do you think I am?” Royth asked Valric. “You think I would be so ungrateful, so selfish, that I would let your father die if I knew the cure - afte
r everything he's done for me? After keeping vipers from your very neck as a child - after I have sworn my life to this country, to him, my King - you'd call me traitor?”

  Royth’s voice never rose above a stage whisper. But the fury in his earth-dark eyes put fear into the Prince’s heart, more than any thundering voice could. The depths of Valric’s confidence were drained.

  “No,” Valric said, frightened. “I just – I thought you hadn't done everything you could.” He did his best to stay his ground, to assert his authority - and yet, he found it difficult. He only wanted to walk away, to never see that gaze again. But desperation fixed his feet; he had to stay. If I don’t, Father dies, and my title is gone. Caliandra’s, too, he thought. His father had been plucked from his barracks by destiny; when the previous king died, Rionn Feor had been chosen to rule Barra by their kingdom’s greatest treasure - an ancient magic axe, named Peacebringer. It had been forged in a long-ago age, and few such weapons still existed; all other magic had died off, save those with Sight, like Royth. Seers were hardly more common than magic weapons.

  Royth's nostrils flared. “I have,” he replied. “And I’m wondering why you’d think otherwise.”

  “I know you see things. I want you to help him.” Formerly confident, the prince stammered his reply. Valric struggled to look Royth in the eyes, into the frightening, deadly orbs - but he summoned the courage, and he made his plea. He had to. His father’s death meant he’d become a lesser lord; and as such, scarcely better than a merchant.

  “I have tried,” Royth replied, cold as stone. “As have your father’s healers. There are no salves left.”

  “Then see into my future,” Valric insisted. His fear had transformed into nervous desperation. “Find something. You have to. We have to save him.” It was the crux of his plan; in a sleepless night, wracked with concern at the King’s sickness, the Prince’s mind had drifted to odd places. In the midst of those strange thoughts, he found one that still seemed sane in the light of day: the Seer knew how to help him, and refused to. “Please,” he said, finally.

  Royth regarded him cautiously. “Why so urgent?” Royth asked. “Your father has been dying for months. Shouldn’t you make your peace?”

  The suggestion jolted Valric. He couldn’t. He wasn’t ready to make his peace. He didn’t want to. Valric reached for the nearest lie he could find, regardless of how it might hurt him. “But you will! You have to! The kingdom itself is at stake! Somebody’s been poisoning him. I know it.”

  Royth raised an eyebrow. “Poisons work in hours, not months,” Royth said. “And the kingdom is not in jeopardy. The whole kingdom will have their chance to make Peacebringer whole again, and you will still have a title. You will just not be a Prince anymore,” Royth said, reaching out a hand to pat Valric on his shoulder. “And that’s hardly as bad as you think.” Just as Royth’s dark-brown hand touched the green fabric of Valric’s tunic, the Seer’s head jolted backwards, as if yanked by some unknown force. Royth’s muscles tensed, and he desperately gasped for air. Valric had seen Royth go into the vision-trance before, but never had he been so scared, afraid to move - or so thrilled by it. This is it, he thought to himself, delighted. This is how I’ll keep my crown.

  —

  It was rare that Royth’s visions were so clear.

  The King’s throne sat atop a carpet of bleached bones, in the crumbling ruins of a broken building; A dying bear, sick with infection, wasted away under Barra’s torn and tattered blue standard; Queen Sophine, Princess Eliya, and Princess Caliandra were forced back to back, choked and bloodied by a crown-collar that dug into their necks - their screams part of a painful chorus that echoed in Royth’s mind, girded by a thousand braying horns.

  Red clouded the sky in a slow spread, as blood would trickle into a pond. Royth blinked, and he was again at the ruined building - but it had become…elsewhere. He found the throne again in a great field; Valric sat astride it, enrobed in the sky itself - billowing storm clouds hued with blood, sparking lightning about his chest. His crown was not gold, or silver, but the jawbones of the dead, lashed together by fire. Valric’s familiar green eyes, same as his mother’s and Caliandra’s, filled Royth’s heart with fear.

  Suddenly, the Prince’s army stood before him; it was filled with terrible, nameless beasts in armor, and men and women pulling machines of war as though they were oxen. The Prince called them to action, and Royth found himself in a battlefield, caught between Valric’s monsters, and an army of the dying. He saw pallid faces, and limbs so weak they struggled to hold up swords; they did little to stand against the Prince, who held Peacebringer low on its handle, and swung it like a farmer’s scythe, cutting down wheat. The prince laughed as Royth ran away, only to find himself on a path of crumbling bones and earth, towards a kingdom that fell away into the black unknown. Royth tumbled with it, and screamed as he fell into darkness.

  Royth’s head jolted upright in a cold sweat. Valric was waiting for him, his expression frighteningly eager. The young Prince’s anticipation unnerved Royth even more, given what he’d seen.

  Gods and saints preserve us, Royth thought. He’s the next King.

  “What did you see?” Valric asked, curious and excited at once. Royth hesitated to answer, dwelling on the images - but as he held his tongue, a new thought emerged. The man he once was - from the buried years, before Barra, before he became Royth - whispered from the depths. You can save them all, the once-buried man said. But your next moves must be perfect.

  “Naeb’s Coil,” Royth finally said, feigning surprise. “Of course.”

  Valric was puzzled, but Royth saw his expression take on new anxious dimensions, coupled with excitement. “We can save your father,” Royth said, his eyes darting back to Valric’s, filled with new passion. Easy enough to fake.

  “How?” Valric demanded. “Tell me.”

  Royth ran back to his desk, and began to write down ingredients at a feverish pace - convincing ones. “You must act quickly. You haven’t much time, on account of what we need.” He hardly needed to look at Valric to know the reaction. “I will take care of the other ingredients, but the most crucial, I’ve left to you… petals from Naeb’s Coil. It blooms but once every ten years, beyond our border to the east, in the Erimeni Freelands.”

  Royth heard a brief pause before Valric spoke. “How far beyond the border?” the Prince asked, his voice full of caution.

  “Less than a day’s ride, under the shade of Nemi’s Fist. There may be a settlement nearby. You should be careful, Prince, and quick - the flower needs to be fresh, and the Erimeni won’t be forgiving if they catch you in their lands. Draw swords quickly, if you find them. They don’t forgive trespass easily.”

  Royth once learned the secret of a good lie from a woman with a hundred names: be a sculptor of truth. The truth was raw marble, waiting to be carved into a brilliant falsehood. All a liar needed was to cut away the trivial, the unessential, and the harmful, and create a new image that fit both outcome and expectation… or, better still, prejudice. Valric cared little for herbs, and cared much for danger - but now, he wanted hope. Royth gave it to him, with ink and untruth.

  The Seer’s guilty hands sketched a map, and a rough drawing of Naeb’s Coil. He marked the parchment with caution to travel quickly, to underscore the urgency in the prince’s mind, and blew on the page to dry the ink faster. Valric looked on with eager anticipation. Once the ink had dried, Royth pressed the parchment it into Valric’s hands. “Depart on the hour, and ride like lightning,” Royth said, keeping Valric’s gaze a little longer. “You understand?”

  Valric nodded. “Thank you so much,” he said, tears of gratitude welling in his youthful eyes. He clutched the paper, and wrapped his arms around the Seer in a tight embrace. “You’ve saved us.” he said.

  “Do not thank me yet,” Royth replied, almost faltering. Valric’s words had hit him harder than he expected; the Prince was perhaps too excited, too eager. And he would only spread the lie further. “Get
me the flower. Then thank me when he is healthy again.”

  Valric nodded. “I understand,” he replied.

  Valric ran out of the room like a shot; in his wake, he left gnawing guilt. Royth retreated to the center of his room, and picked up the bottle of woja, at the foot of Kembo’s altar. He took a burning swig into his mouth. The numbness could not come quick enough for his liking - but before it arrived, Royth told himself a final lie, the grandest of them all, and chased it with another drought. One day, he told himself, I’ll be forgiven.

  CHAPTER ONE

  After hearing those three words, Princess Caliandra could not possibly hate her sister more.

  Tears fell from her verdant eyes, and traced a path down her cheeks. They fell carelessly upon her white sleeping gown and rolling brown waves of hair. “Why are you telling me this?” Caliandra demanded of her stony-faced sister, Eliya. Caliandra’s sister anxiously balanced on the edge of the bed, as if she might fall. Caliandra’s cavernous room felt all the greater for Eliya’s presence. “Haven’t I suffered enough because of him? Haven’t I, Ellie?”

  “I thought you would want to know.” Eliya replied, hands calmly folded in her lap, her gentle jaw clamped firmly shut. Caliandra saw little sympathy in her green eyes - the common gift from their parents. “You were to be married to him, after all, and I thought… Well, clearly, I thought wrong.” Eliya’s hands flew up in exasperation, and her expression softened, ever so slightly. “I’d hoped you’d have moved on. It’s been two months.” No, it’s been three. A lifetime in the Barrish court, Caliandra thought. I can only imagine how slowly time moves for our cousins in Silenia, in the Emperor’s court; that might well be an eternity.

  “It’s been three, Ellie. He moved on,” Caliandra said, between sobs. “But what about me? There were few before him, and that - that bastard…he changed. The moment Father took ill, he changed, and then, the engagement was off, and - ” She stopped, momentarily overwhelmed by sadness, and raised her hands. “What kind of man is married not months after breaking an engagement?”