Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
About the Author
Praise for the Novels of Diana Pharaoh Francis
The Turning Tide
“An original fantasy setting . . . a deftly woven mixture of adventure, intrigue, magic, and romance.”
—The Green Man Review
The Black Ship
“A high-seas adventure with descriptions so vivid, you may feel seasick . . . the world building is detailed and gives you a feeling of being there.”
—Romantic Times (4 stars)
“As wonderful as the action is, the interactions between the characters are even better. . . . The world building is fascinating!”
—Errant Dreams Reviews
“Francis spins an exciting tale with plenty of challenges and dangers . . . an exciting read . . . a rich and complex world.”
—SFRevu
The Cipher
“Francis has crafted an original world, real people, and high-stakes intrigue and adventure. Great fun.”
—New York Times bestselling author Patricia Briggs
“Lucy is as engaging a character as I’ve met in a long time.”
—Lynn Flewelling
“The first in a fascinating new series by Diana Pharaoh Francis, and so far, it’s shaping up to be a remarkably intriguing twist on the usual fantasy setting. . . . It’s a refreshing change of pace, and a setting that seems ripe for exploration. . . . This is definitely a fantasy to look out for.”
—The Green Man Review
“So well described that readers will believe that they’re in the midst of the storm that opens the book. . . . Intrigue, action, and a bit of romance make for a highly satisfying story.”
—Romantic Times
“Intriguing fantasy . . . a delightful read. . . . Genre fans will enjoy Diana Pharaoh Francis’s fine character-driven saga.”
—Baryon Magazine
Path of Blood
“Excellent characterizations, intriguing political maneuvering, and some fascinating battle scenes, both mundane and magical, make this sword and sorcery tale a must read for fans of Katherine Kurtz’s Deryni Chronicles.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A glorious conclusion . . . many surprises and plot twists . . . some so delightfully shocking and incredible that they will stun the reader as they are cleverly worked into the book and provide the unexpected.”
—SFRevu
Path of Honor
“A stubborn, likable heroine.”
—Kristen Britain
“Well plotted and exhibiting superior characterization, it is definitely a worthy sequel that Path of Fate readers will want to read.”
—Booklist
Path of Fate
“Plausible, engrossing characters, a well-designed world, and a well-realized plot.”
—Booklist
“This is an entertaining book—at times compelling—from one of fantasy’s promising new voices.”
—David B. Coe, award-winning author of Seeds of Betrayal
Other Novels
by Diana Pharaoh Francis
Novels of Crosspointe
The Cipher
The Black Ship
The Turning Tide
The Path Novels
Path of Blood
Path of Honor
Path of Fate
ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,
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First printing, June 2010
eISBN : 978-1-101-18784-5
Copyright © Diana Pharaoh Francis, 2010
All rights reserved
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For Tony, Syd, and Q-ball
Acknowledgments
As always, I have a lot of people to thank for their support and input into this book. First, I want to thank Tony, Quentin, and Sydney for their patience and willingness to ignore my more insane moments while writing. Next I want to thank Lucienne Diver and Jessica Wade, without whom this book would never have made it into print, and who, as always, gave me valuable feedback and advice to improve it. I also want to thank my beta readers, Megan Schaeffer, Christy Keyes, Melissa Saw-miller, and Kenna. They gave me invaluable feedback and made this a much better book. They also kept me from sticking my head in the toilet when I thought the book was broken.
I want also to thank all of you wonderful readers who have chosen to read my words. Thank you for picking up my books and for giving them your money, time, and attention. Without you, I could not do this job that I love so very much. For more on my books, to read my blog, or check o
ut some stories I’ve written, come to my Web site: www.dianapfrancis.com.
THE WORLD OF CROSSPOINTE
* Countries now ruled by the jutras
CROSSPOINTE
Chapter 1
Margaret had no intention of dying today, though her pursuers had other ideas on the subject and, just at the moment, the odds were in their favor.
She ran down a flight of steps, taking three at a time. Her skirts tangled her legs and she snarled silently as she lost her footing and twisted her ankle. She fell against the wall and pain spun around her leg in rings of fire. She bit down on her cry, tasting blood, then plunged onward, clutching her satchel tightly to her stomach. She could hear the voices of the Crown Shields too close behind. Their armor clanked and their booted feet echoed.
At the bottom of the stairway she paused, trying to quiet her gasping pants. She peered around the corner. The long gallery was empty but for a scattering of pedestals holding bronze and marble statuary, a line of plushly cushioned benches along the left wall, and a series of doors recessed inside pointed archways marching along opposite. Margaret rubbed her knuckles across her tense lips as she glanced over her shoulder. Her mind raced.
She couldn’t afford to hide and wait for the Crown Shields to give up the chase. Not that they would. The mother-cracking regent would tear the castle down stone by stone to find her. And to add insult to stupidity, she’d let them herd her into the sovereign wing, which left her precious few escape routes.
But while she was out of time, she wasn’t helpless. In an instant she settled on her plan. She fled purposefully, threading her way through the gallery as fast as she could manage on her throbbing ankle. Her back itched as she listened for the guards to thunder down the stairs and find her.
She reached the other side before they spilled into the gallery. The noise of their arrival echoed. There was a crashing sound as a statue shattered on the parquet floor. Margaret ducked into a narrow cleft artfully concealed behind a display of lacquered Chaturakian armor. She went quickly to the door at the end and slid through, pulling it firmly closed behind her.
She paused in the shadowed corridor, listening. While the gallery outside had been deserted, the servant hallways were much more likely to be busy, no matter what time it was. She breathed a sight of relief. No one was lurking, thank Chayos. Licking her dry lips, Margaret turned right. Her plan was insanely risky, but she had little choice. She was trapped.
This passageway had plain wood walls and a rough slate floor worn smooth by hundreds of years of scuffling feet and trundled carts. Sylveth sconces lit by majick cast a dim yellow glow every thirty feet or so. Several tall cupboards lined the narrow space, with three plain doors interspersed between. Margaret tried the handles. The doors were barred from within, and a tingle in her fingers revealed they were also protected with powerful wards. Each led into the opulent quarters of the regent—formerly the lord chancellor—and his wick-sucking wife. Just months ago these rooms had belonged to the king and queen. But both had been murdered.
Margaret slammed the shutters on the memories before they could surge up and overwhelm her. She couldn’t afford the distraction, especially with the Crown Shields breathing down her neck. But one day, she promised herself again, she would find out who was responsible for killing her parents and cut them into tiny little pieces. Starting with the regent.
She tensed, hearing the murmur of voices and the soft metallic clink of armor and weapons. She edged to the corner of the cross-corridor and peered around it. A full squad of twelve Blackwatch stood in a cluster on the right side, talking avidly together in low voices. Margaret drew back out of sight, biting hard on the insides of her cheeks. She’d expected—no, she’d hoped—there would only be a pair. Even with a bad ankle, she could have handled two without undue trouble. No one ever thought anyone so small and fragile-looking could possibly be a threat. They would let her approach, and then she’d scratch them with one of the poisoned rings she wore. They’d died within grains.
Margaret drew a deep breath. She had counted on the regent sending his personal guard running after her instead of the Crown Shields. He trusted the Blackwatch more and as much as he wanted what she carried, it should have been a safe assumption. But apparently he was feeling too nervous to risk trusting his safety to the men and women who’d served the man he murdered. She turned and started back the way she’d come. But it was too late. Light wedged into the passage through the door she’d shut so firmly behind her.
She slid into the shadows beside a tall cabinet, pulling her skirts close. Her chest tightened and her hands clenched on the leather strap of her satchel. There was nowhere left to run. She was going to be caught. Quietly she lifted it over her head, and stretched up on tiptoe. The cabinet was too tall. She dropped her arms, tucking the strap beneath the top flap, and then lifted it high again. She rested it against the wood, and then gave a leap, thrusting hard with her fingers at the same time. The satchel jolted and dropped out of sight behind the tall molding.
Margaret froze. But the soft thud went unnoticed over the sounds of the Crown Shields and Blackwatch. Sooner or later they would find it, but it would mean a little delay and she wasn’t going to make anything easier for the cracking regent to get his hands on it if she could help it.
She drew a breath. She’d known in sneaking into the castle this time that there was a better than good chance she’d get caught. Her brother had forbidden her to try. But she was determined to see what was in the regent’s personal papers. The secrets she could glean outweighed the risks, whatever Ryland thought.
Margaret smothered a cynical snort. Ryland was younger by five seasons and still wet behind the ears when it came to the dirty work of politics. Never mind that he was the crown-appointed prelate and supposedly the regent’s equal in the regency of Crosspointe. Just like every other member of the royal family, he was in hiding with a price on his head. The regent had always been a greedy, ambitious bastard and he planned to keep the throne for himself, even if it meant destroying Crosspointe. Besides, she knew what had to be done and she wasn’t going to sit around and wait for her baby brother to give her permission, especially on anything so crucial.
She twisted her rings around her fingers. Each one held at least one poisoned needle. A flick of her thumb or a pressed gem was all that was required to pop them free. They were the best first defense against a superior force. Margaret could take out two or three attackers before they knew what was happening. She touched the six short throwing blades tucked into her hair. Her entire body bristled with weapons. She would not be taken easily. Her teeth clenched. These were the same men and women who should have been protecting her and her family. She felt no guilt about killing them. In fact—she smiled with predatory anticipation—it was good to finally make a stand.
The Blackwatch squad must have heard the Crown Shields entering the corridor, but they were too well trained to desert their post. That, and the two forces despised each other. The Blackwatch would never deign to acknowledge their rivals, thereby crediting the Crown Shields with being any sort of threat. But it still left Margaret trapped between the two, and the Blackwatch would come running at the sound of a scuffle. She’d be chewed between their jaws.
Boots scuffled as the Crown Shields organized themselves. At the same time, Margaret came aware of the rumble of a trundle cart coming from the north side of the cross-passage. The voices of the Crown Shields and the Blackwatch broke off suddenly. The jolting grumble of the cart drew closer. Margaret pressed herself into the triangle of shadow between the wall and the cabinet, knowing it was futile. Whoever was pushing the cart could not help but see her.
“Halt! Name yourself,” a Blackwatch soldier demanded.
From up the corridor, the sound of the wheels stopped and a husky feminine voice answered the Blackwatch’s challenge. “I’m Ellyn. Mistress Alanna sent me to fetch refreshments.”
There was a note of annoyance in her voice, as if she thought her interroga
tor should have known that. Margaret’s mouth twitched.
“Get on with it, then,” answered the brusque voice.
Ellyn didn’t answer, but the cart began to rumble forward into the intersection of the passages. Her blond head turned curiously, her gaze settling almost instantly on Margaret. There was a slight widening of her eyes and then her attention flicked away to the Crown Shields.
Margaret tensed, waiting for the lady’s maid to scream an alarm. But unbelievably, Ellyn continued on without a word. She disappeared and the Crown Shields rustled to life again, shifting instantly into a businesslike march.
They started past her, none looking to the left or right. Swords swung on their hips as they marched two by two. Some were armed with crossbows, others with pikes. Each wore chain shirts, helmets, plate gauntlets, and greaves. The first three pairs passed before a sudden wave of force rippled through the cross-corridor where the Blackwatch were stationed.
Margaret’s ears popped painfully as wild brambles of majick lashed her skin from head to toe. She gasped and tears burned her eyes at the sudden pain of the majickal attack. Her head knocked against the cupboard loudly as she jerked backward. But there was no escaping it. The Crown Shields shouted and thrust apart as thorny majick whipped across them. Purple welts rose on their skin. One dropped to her knees, screaming and grabbing her eyes. Another clutched his cods and moaned as he collapsed unconscious. Margaret sucked in a sharp breath. She wasn’t the target—or at least, not the only one. Who was the majicar and what did he want?
But she had no time to consider the question. There were ten Crown Shields left, and three had already seen their prey. Ignoring the flailing majick, they closed on her. She pressed back with artful fear, letting her mouth fall open and raising trembling hands. She let tears roll down her cheeks and made a little whimpering sound. More majick struck and she flinched dramatically. They lowered their weapons and moved closer.
The Hollow Crown: A Novel of Crosspointe Page 1