Black Forest: Kingdoms Fall (Black Forest Trilogy)

by LaShea, Riley

  Black Forest: Kingdoms Fall

  Black Forest Trilogy

  Book One

  · · ·

  Riley LaShea

  Foreword

  If this book feels familiar, it should. Black Forest: Kingdoms Fall is a reimagining of my 2005 novel Bleeding Through Kingdoms: Cinderella's Rebellion. This will be the only time that, as an author, I allow myself to go back and redo a work I have already released, but I am glad I did.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 - The Maiden Awakens

  Chapter 2 - Queen Ino

  Chapter 3 - Akasha

  Chapter 4 - The Mirror

  Chapter 5 - Naxos

  Chapter 6 - The Blood Curse

  Chapter 7 - Rapunzel

  Chapter 8 - A Shared Song

  Chapter 9 - Snow White

  Chapter 10 - True Love's Kiss

  Interlude 1

  Chapter 11 - Into Chains

  Chapter 12 - Fleeing Naxos

  Chapter 13 - The Huntsman

  Chapter 14 - Aulis

  Chapter 15 - The Dwarves

  Chapter 16 - Worlds Collide

  Chapter 17 - Bucking Tradition

  Chapter 18 - Dreams

  Interlude 2

  Chapter 19 - The Problem with a Prince

  Chapter 20 - Hansel & Gretel

  Chapter 21 - The Herald

  Chapter 22 - Together

  Chapter 23 - The Crows

  Chapter 24 - The Return to the Cottage of Sweets

  Chapter 25 - Caratasa

  Chapter 26 - The Kingdom of the Wolf

  Chapter 27 - An Unexpected Encounter

  Chapter 28 - Christophe

  Interlude 3

  Chapter 29 - Sawyer

  Chapter 30 - The Storyteller

  Chapter 31 - A Night in the Forest

  Chapter 32 - The Great Fortress in the Sky

  Chapter 33 - A New Destiny

  Chapter 34 - The Gulf of Broken Dreams

  Chapter 35 - The Desert of the Sorceress

  Chapter 36 - The Road Home

  Chapter 37 - In the Clearing

  Chapter 38 - The Parley

  Interlude 4

  Chapter 39 - Before the Ride

  Chapter 40 - A Change of Heart

  Epilogue

  Note From Author

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Once upon a time, there was a library on a hill, where the shelves filled with more madness than words. It was attached to a cottage, but the living space was crammed into the room left over, an afterthought to the books, the hand-carved writing desk, freshly-plucked quills, yellowing parchments, and oozing black inks.

  The man who lived there had hair and eyes as black as the deepest night, and all his time spent indoors, hiding from the sun, hiding from the world, his skin was as translucent as gauze. He sacrificed little of his life to the spaces beyond the library, sleeping in spurts and forgetting to eat, so he was nearly as thin as the books he wrote.

  His were powerful hands. He had discovered it as a boy. With his hands, he could give birth to life. Manipulate, destroy and resurrect it. Pleasure and torture thrived at his hands' command. The power they possessed, it was stronger than the universe itself.

  His hands would create his immortality. Through his work, the man knew, he would live forever.

  It was on a night of temperamental weather, sleet and hail taking turns raking against the windows, so loud they pulled him from his short burst of sleep, that the dark man lifted his head from his desk, where he had proven more prone to sleep in recent weeks than his bed, and walked to the library's center.

  There stood a glass case, so reverently regarded it had the air of a sarcophagus.

  This was where She lived. She was the one, the one for whom he would be most revered. Her name would be spoken in every land. In every tongue. On every tongue.

  Sliding the heavy silver key he never let leave his neck into the lock, the man stilled for a moment, regarding the work. This would be the last of it, his final chapters, a happy ending for his greatest creation. She had been through Her most brutal trial. By fire indeed, he thought with a smile. Now, She was simply waiting for him, waiting for the happy ending promised to all his beloved characters.

  Twisting the key, the man lifted the glass lid and pulled the leather-bound story from within, cradling it against his chest like a child. Desk clear but for his tools, he sat the tome gently before him and eased back the ribbon to the page on which he last left Her.

  Jarring sight pulling him instantly from the relaxed state into which drink had put him, the man thought with a nervous laugh he must have been overly tired when he quit work on Her story the night before. There was no other explanation for the steps of the palace to be empty where the prince had stood, no reason for The Girl to be gone from where She was in the process of fleeing.

  Turning back a page, the man's heart calmed when he saw Her standing there, anxious green eyes raised to the clock as it struck midnight.

  Flipping again to the page that demanded his attention, the man steadied his hand before picking up the quill and dipping into ebony ink. With assured strokes, he began the outline, watching the prince take form on the page. He would stand at Her back, calling for Her to stay. Perhaps, it would not be the same as the night before. Perhaps, it would be better.

  Dipping the quill into the bowl of water, he wiped the tip clean, and gathered more black ink. Quill pausing over the parchment, he took great care in laying down the first stroke, shaping the contour of Her head just so, before lifting the quill to admire the delicate curve of Her face.

  It was better, he thought.

  Line fading, the man frowned, watching the ink lose its pigment, turning gray on the page until it disappeared completely. Pressing the quill back to the paper with greater force, the tip threatened the parchment as he retraced the curve, only to watch it again disappear, evaporating as if it was no more than a water spot.

  Moving to a new position, he began an arm, long line imperfect as his hand shook upon the quill. Before he reached the end of one thin wrist, the top of Her arm faded once more.

  Dipping desperately into ebony, the man dragged his hand across the page, ink falling without order upon the scene. The blots remained as they fell, but The Girl refused. Each time his hand attempted to put Her on the page - head, arm, hip, gold-clad foot - She vanished before him, as if She never existed.

  Try and try again, the man fought the page until the sleet against the roof drove him to the edge of his mind, but no matter what he tried, words or image of Her, he could not get Her back.

  His greatest creation had vanished.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Maiden Awakens

  Water ran warm in the halls of the palace, a perk of servitude that, in months of cool winds, made even the freest of peasants long for captivity. Those who lived within the walls were not sheltered at their wishes, though, but at those of the king, who had them plucked from the stalls and barns and sanctuaries of the village as they appealed to him.

  Like the others, Akasha was also different. She too had been chosen, but at her own will, having placed herself in the king's path after she abandoned hope of any other life. Her parents had encouraged the decision, their concerns that she would never be matched, that they feared for her a lonely life, guiding her.

  Beautiful enough for a king, too ugly for a peasant, Akasha adopted their fears as her own. Harem girls turned servant, her parents told her. Chosen by the king, she would spend her whole life in the palace. She would never go hungry or cold. Taken in half a dec
ade before, a single cycle of the moon before the most brutal storm ever to hit Naxos scaled the town walls, the palace saved her from the flooding that killed half the village, including her parents. It was then Akasha realized she would also never die a peasant's death.

  Turning to pour the contents of the bucket into the waiting bath, Akasha screamed as a face appeared beneath the water. Bucket slipping from her hand, she stumbled backward, water splashing across the stone floor, as the face emerged, gasping for air. Behind Akasha, girls gathered, anxious for the chance to see something interesting for the first time in days.

  At the sound of the sentry, most rushed away again, settling back into lethargy, trying to look as if they hadn't seen a thing. Those who understood the danger, whom Akasha could call friends, remained with her, providing cover by pretending to discuss the finer points of bathing.

  Putting a hand to the emerging girl's hair, presently a ratty mop atop her head, Akasha pushed her down. "Shhh," she said when the girl would like to have struggled, succeeding in settling her to just above the level of the water and turning to feign innocence as her friends parted before her.

  "What happened here?" the sentry asked.

  "I am sorry," Akasha replied, stepping forward. "The bucket, it slipped from my hands."

  "All right, let us see then," the sentry said, taking a step forward.

  Around the room, Akasha knew, there were girls a breath away from telling the sentry what they had seen. There was always a rush to tattle within the harem, to stem any punishment that might land upon observers for the crime of silence.

  Coming only as far as the bucket, the sentry grabbed it from the floor. "Hm," he said, examining its edge. "Splintered."

  The word, so simple, seized Akasha's breath. Her own eyes had seen nothing, but arguing the fact was not merely pointless. To argue it to a member of the king's guard was mutinous, and mutiny was punishable by death.

  Or worse.

  From the side of her eye, Akasha saw the eunuch stand, carefully watching, and willed him to sit, as with a nod to the matron the sentry stepped aside and the matron took his place, gaze sympathetic as it captured Akasha's own. "Hold out your hand." The matron's compassion was kept purposely from her voice.

  Doing as she was ordered, producing the hand palm-up, Akasha stared at the matron's shoulder, refusing to flinch at the sound of the whip pulling free of her belt.

  Leather cracking, the matron delivered one lash against Akasha's palm, painful, but only just.

  "Harder," the sentry commanded, and the second lash opened skin, forcing a pained breath over Akasha's lips.

  "Harder," the sentry said again, and with the third lash, Akasha cried out, eyes falling shut at the burn of her flesh splitting fully.

  Whether it was the sight or sound that appeased him, the sentry was clearly satisfied as he shoved the matron aside and towered over Akasha once more. "This does not belong to you." He brandished the bucket as if it was gold. "It belongs to your Royal Highnesses. Next time, you will be more careful, yes?"

  "Yes," Akasha responded, teeth clenched in pain.

  "And if you do have an accident," he continued, "you will hold your tongue, or I will give you good reason to scream." Turning, he thrust the bucket at the matron, causing her to expel a rush of air as it hit her protruding stomach with more force than necessary. "Keep them more in line, or there will be no use for you here."

  Assured steps carrying him back to the door, the sentry passed the eunuch, whose eyes turned to Akasha, awash with too much concern. With a small shake of her head, she warned him away, and the eunuch sat back down in his corner, gaze returning to the air before him, where he stared, as was his way, at nothingness.

  Glancing past Akasha to the bath, and the girl within it, the matron was curious, but not curious enough to involve herself in anything else that might bring punishment upon her. As the wise woman walked away, a swarm of younger, less pragmatic girls, more interested in entertainment than security, gathered back around as Akasha turned to the bathtub, tucking her uninjured hand beneath the newcomer's back to help her sit.

  "Who are you?" she asked, but, looking about in confusion, the girl did not seem to possess the answer.

  Eyes finally finding focus on Akasha's hand, her face fell in sympathy. "Look at what he did to you," she said, her voice somewhat unusual, a lilt to her speech Akasha had never heard.

  "It is nothing," Akasha replied, dipping her hand into the water, biting back the cry that tried to escape as pink swirled into it. "Come now. Come out of there."

  Responding at once to the order, the girl rose to her knees and stepped over the side. Once out, she just kept coming, the dress she wore so wide and ornate, it was a wonder it fit into the tub at all. A gown, indigo her mother would have called it, as fancy as any Akasha had ever seen. The girl looked much like a drowned royal, but no royal Akasha had ever laid eyes upon.

  "Where am I?" the girl asked.

  "You are in the palace," Akasha returned gently, watching emerald eyes go wide in panic.

  "The prince?" the girl breathed. "He is here?"

  Gasps loud at her back, Akasha felt the ears of the palace close in upon them as she stepped closer to the girl, looking for signs of fever, though it was hard to see anything beneath the sopping dress and flop of hair, which the girl finally, thankfully, pushed back, revealing a lightly tinted face and streaks of pale color mixed amongst her red tresses, as if she had been born into one color and worked into another with many hours in the sun.

  As a child, Akasha had similar streaks through her dark hair, and, for an instant, she envied the girl.

  "The prince is dead," Akasha scarcely whispered, afraid just saying the words. The king did not like reminders of his son, it had been told to them several times, and he would take any tongue that dared utter them.

  "Dead?" the girl returned far too loudly, and Akasha glanced toward the door, expecting the sentry to rush back in at any moment. "Prince Friedrich is dead?"

  Head spinning back toward the girl, Akasha squinted. "Who is Friedrich?" she asked.

  "The prince," the girl countered quietly, catching on to the need for secrecy.

  Moving closer to the newcomer, mouth inches from her ear, Akasha dropped her voice to a breath. "It is Prince Salimen who is dead."

  "Who?" the girl returned instantly, and Akasha watched confusion come over her face, heartbreaking in its sincerity.

  "She is mad," a woman on the verge of making the transition from life in the harem to a life of palace servitude spoke up from the gathering around them.

  "No, I am not," the girl said at once, standing taller against the accusation. "I am not mad."

  "Confused then," the older woman argued. "She needs out of those wet clothes."

  Not sure if the woman was right in regard to the girl's mental state, Akasha knew she was right, at least, in regards to the gown. Reaching out, Akasha's hands came to an abrupt stop when, with a well-trained flinch, the girl pulled away from her touch.

  "Let us help you," Akasha said carefully, reaching more slowly for the girl, and the stranger let her help with trepidation. Akasha could see it unguarded in the girl's eyes, hear it in her anxious breaths, as the other girls moved to help when the removal of the dress proved too difficult for her alone with so much water weighing its many skirts down.

  Layer upon layer removed, the girl was left in nothing but a thin slip that clung sheer against her skin, exposing a body that could be beautiful but for protruding bones that made it look as if she had never eaten a proper meal. An unexpected find beneath such luxurious fabrics, it was a reminder of what might have been Akasha's fate had she survived the great flood, and she shivered at the sight.

  "Make sure they are hidden," she heard the older woman instruct the younger girls, and the stranger anxiously watched her fine clothes disappear.

  One of her friends stepping forward with a blanket, Akasha watched the girl carefully accept it, as if she expected a trick to the
offering. "Thank you," she whispered, pulling the blanket around her, her eyes taking in the room, from its arched, painted ceiling to the berths in which they slept to the girls themselves, who awaited the fall of night when they were dedicated to serve the kingdom.

  Finally returning to Akasha, the girl's eyes turned sharp. "Your hand," she stated, and Akasha glanced to the fresh blood on her palm, moving to the bathtub to wash it away again, withholding her gasp at the pain, before wrapping it in a drying cloth.

  "All is well," she said, turning to meet the girl's gaze, which looked so lost, Akasha lost her breath.

  Hand reaching out gingerly to the stranger, Akasha was surprised when the girl let it land without recoil. "What is your name?" she asked.

  "Cinderella," the girl replied.

  "Cinderella," Akasha repeated, and the name sounded as foreign as the girl's voice. "I am Akasha. Come sit with me."

  "Wait," Cinderella shook her head, breaking from Akasha's hold and wandering off.

  Trailing her across the room, Akasha could feel the nervous eyes of the girls still waiting to turn on them at a moment's notice.

  At the only low window, Cinderella came to a stop, looking out past the bars, meant more to keep people in than out, and gave such a violent shudder at what she saw, Akasha took a step back, fearing she truly was mad.

  "Are you unwell?" she asked when the stranger continued to stare, her eyes unblinking, as if they could not accept what they saw.

  When she turned to Akasha, Cinderella's face was in flux, fear and wonder, each as real as the other, flashing in rapid succession.

  "This is not my kingdom," she replied at last.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Queen Ino

  The servants of the palace worked with the diligence of ants, hurrying to and fro, turning the grand hall into a mockery of good taste. With every fabric streamer wrapped around a banister, every white candle replaced by waxes died pink and yellow, every gaudy centerpiece bursting candied flowers and brightly-colored beads along the table, the hall came more garishly to life.