Schism: The Battle for Darracia (Book 1)

by Cash, Michael Phillip

  Beatha watched through narrowed eyes, waiting breathlessly. As he shook his head and spun around, her breath caught in her throat.

  After ending the call, he turned to his wife. “Generals Veril and Blyst are with us. They are sending a detail to take out General Vekin.” His bright-white teeth gleamed against this gray skin.

  “What of Swart?”

  “I am convinced I can turn him. He hates the idea of the accord.” He poured himself another glass of krayum, and it overfilled so that it puddled on the tray. Beatha eyed him with disdain.

  “He is a king’s man. I don’t trust him. You must kill him. If you don’t act soon, the entire rebellion will fail.” Beatha turned to look at Staf, his face a deeper gray than usual. “Do your nerves fail you, husband?” she asked, her gaze steely.

  “You dare question my honor?” Staf stood his full seven feet in order to menace his wife. “You dried-up piece of—”

  Their youngest daughter, Hilde, interrupted them, breezing into the room oblivious to any of their schemes. She was lovely, with long black hair; she had just learned to put it up with black ribbons. Staf and Beatha had introduced her to the court this year so she could make an alliance with one of the wealthy families that attended. It seemed like only yesterday when Staf had bounced this one on his knee. She was the last—and to his mind, the best—of his litter.

  “Where is Pacuto?” she asked, eyeing her parents warily, knowing she had disturbed an argument. Hilde had an acute sense of smell and could detect the odor of krayum on her father when she pressed her face next to his hairy cheek. It was never a good thing when Dado drank. His temper could become uncertain.

  “Never mind. You were told to return to the donjon and stay indoors. What brings you here, child?” Staf did have a soft spot for this child. She so reminded him of his own mother, dead these last hundred years. Hilde was brave and sweet, not like her sisters.

  “The queen requested Pacuto. I was searching for him. I have called him, but he does not answer.”

  Beatha stiffened. “Does she think a prince from the house of Nuen is her errand boy?”

  “Not now, wife.”

  “Where is the queen now?” Beatha demanded.

  “The Ambros room,” Hilde told them with a smile.

  The Ambros room was the queen’s private room, where the females congregated. The uppity servant girl who was always at the queen’s elbow had left, and Reminda had given her niece some much-needed attention. As the youngest of five at seventeen years of age, she rarely was noticed, with Pacuto soaking up most of her mother’s praise. While she could wrap her father around her finger, she never saw him much. He was, after all, the king’s brother and a great warrior, as well as the grand mestor.

  “She is seeing guests now,” Hilde said. “She needed Pacuto to escort the Quyroo leader to her room.” She smiled gayly. “The Quyroo and his mate have come. Oh, she is so pretty. I wish I had those star-shaped eyes,” she added, wistfully thinking maybe her cousin Zayden would notice her more if she did.

  Beatha reached out and slapped her hard across the face. Hilde gasped, her eyes filling with tears. She slapped her again and would have struck her once more had not Staf stilled her violence.

  “You dare to compare yourself to a Quyroo? I should send you to the Desa and leave you to deal with—”

  “Enough!” Staf roared. “Leave us, child, and talk no more of Quyroos.”

  “They are like us!” rebellious Hilde responded. “They are nice. They want peace.”

  This time Staf slapped her. “I said enough. Go to your room and stay there until your lady mother can stomach you once again. Take your filthy mouth and leave!”

  The room was silent as Hilde backed out. What they didn’t see was her quick turn to the anteroom, where she crouched low inside a giant wardrobe. She wanted to know what made them this jumpy. She’d bet her new hair ribbon they were hiding something.

  “I should give that one to Faetha,” her mother spat.

  Hilde cringed, thinking of the ancient man with his stooped shoulders and withered tail. She’d die first, she thought dramatically. Surely her mother wasn’t serious. They knew she wanted Zayden; she had made no secret of that. Though her parents were unhappy about his illegitimacy, he was still a king’s son.

  “Faetha is old,” Staf said grudgingly.

  “I tire of her antics. She is a handful.”

  Staf laughed. “Not unlike her mother.”

  “I was obedient. I married you, didn’t I?” she said craftily.

  “You wanted me,” Staf told her, “and my bloodlines.”

  “I wanted your brother,” she said with a scowl. “I didn’t want your temper.” In a swish of shimmery fabric, Beatha turned to leave the room and thought that what she really wanted was to have the throne.

  “Wait!” Staf called to her. “Where will you be when the action begins?”

  The countess stilled her hand on the door. “I don’t want to be caught in the violence.”

  Hilde’s eyes opened wide, and she strained to hear the muted conversation. Violence? she thought. What kind of violence?

  “General Crafe is handling the center of the castle. He knows you. He will only go after the king and the consort.” Though her father’s voice was low, Hilde heard him, and terror seized her. “He will kill Drakko and the Planta woman.”

  “What will you do about Zayden?” the countess asked.

  Hilde’s back went straight when she heard the name. Pressing her ear against the door, she strained to hear more. What were they planning to do to Zayden? Her pointed teeth worried her bottom lip.

  “He is loyal to both the king and V’sair.” Hilde heard her father pace the room. “He is a problem and could be used as a pretender to the throne against us.”

  “Then he must die,” Beatha said simply. “What of Drakko’s guards? They are the best fighters on the planet.”

  “There will be collateral damage,” Staf shrugged his giant shoulders.

  “Collateral damage.” Beatha laughed. “Tomorrow I will drink a toast to Your Majesty.”

  Staf lifted his half-filled glass and nodded. “As I will drink to yours.” He dipped his knee and finished, “Your Royal Highness.”

  Hilde shrank back into the recesses of the wardrobe, her heart pumping with fear. What was she to do? Zayden was in danger. Her parents—to whom she owed her loyalty—were planning regicide. This was treason. Her king and queen were in danger. Oh, she thought, Great Sradda, tell me what to do. What should I do?

  Hilde stayed frozen in the wardrobe long after her parents had left their chambers, so nervous that she bit her fingernail to the quick. She counted to forty then did it once more for good measure and slid out into the darkened room. After running straight to the krayum decanter, she uncorked the lid and drank deeply, letting the purple liquid give her false courage. Holding the bottle to the light, she measured how much liquid was left and finished it. Great Sradda, tell me what to do, she thought. The liquor worked quickly and relaxed her taut muscles, her brain feeling just on the edge of fuzzy.

  Wiping her stained lips with her wrist, she walked just a bit unsteadily to the dimly lit corridor. Guards were everywhere! Her parents were crazy; the king and queen had too many supporters. It would be a bloodbath. She paused for a second, her cheek smarting where she’d been slapped. Drakko and Beatha would be terrible leaders—abusive, arrogant. Her father had no business trying to usurp the crown, yet, she thought for a moment, would that not make her a princess? Her back against the wall, Hilde dreamily pictured life as a royal—a real royal. There would be parties and balls as well as suitors for her hand. She glanced down at her lumpy, gray hand and heard her mother’s words echo in her head. Give me to Faetha indeed! I will see you in Aqin first, Mother, she thought indignantly.

  “Daydreaming, cousin?” Her eyes opened, and Zayden smiled down at her. Her tongue was thick in her mouth, and she stuttered a greeting. He was so impossibly handsome, and his warm
eyes were caressing her. “Is all well with you, Hilde? You look worried.”

  Oh, where to start? Where to start? If she protected Zayden and the king, she would betray her father and her house. Her family would be political and social outcasts. She stared back at him silently. His arm rested on the wall beside her head, his face close to her own. She closed her eyes, wishing he would kiss her, but instead she felt his fingers touch the ribbon in her thick, black hair.

  He released the bow slowly and held the ribbon as a trophy. Hilde’s locks streamed around her face, and she watched his eyes assess her. She knew her hair was one of her best features. She reached for her ribbon, and Zayden held it high over her head, a teasing glint in his amber eyes.

  “May I have this?” he inquired, with a crooked smile.

  Hilde loved the way one of his front teeth slightly overlapped the other. It made him endearingly imperfect and approachable. They had played together as children, and Zayden had been educated with the rest of them. Reminda had welcomed him and nurtured him, and he had a fondness for his younger brother as well as his pretty cousin.

  “For what?” Hilde asked softly, her green eyes luminous.

  “A favor. I will wear it on my arm tomorrow for the tournament.”

  Oh, what to do? What to do? Hilde thought wildly. A fat tear slid down her pebbled cheek, making a shiny path to her lips.

  “What is it, cousin? What disturbs you?”

  Hilde threw herself into his strong arms. Placing her head on his chest, she heard the reassuring thump of his heart. Glancing up at him, she asked, “Where is your loyalty, Zayden? Is it to your father or your house?”

  “What crazy talk is this?” He pushed up her pointy chin with the pad of his finger then wiped the puddle of wetness from beneath her eyes. “My father is my house. Surely you know that.”

  “Does not it bother you that you are Darracian, firstborn, and yet V’sair will rule?”

  “The Elements have made it so.” He shrugged and pressed his shoulder against the wall. “I will serve my father unto death.” Zayden liked Hilde and though she was young, thought her spirited. He recently had asked his father if there was a possibility of a marriage there. He was past the age and had longed for a family since his mother had died. The royal family usually married within the family; it just remained to be seen if Zayden was considered royal enough.

  “Yes, yes, I know.” She pulled away to look out at the night sky from the portal. The moons glowed back, illuminating the red trees of the Desa. “But who would you serve first, your father or your king?” she persisted.

  “My father is the king. You know that.”

  Hilde sighed in resignation, wishing the entire situation to go away. Perhaps she had dreamed the whole thing up; her parents always complained that her imagination ran wild. She eyed Zayden once again and said, “Come escort me to the Ambros room. I have yet to see the Quyroo leader’s woman.”

  Zayden inclined his handsome head and held out his beefy arm, allowing her to place her hand on top of it. His body heat warmed her chilled hands, and she sniffed loudly.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, taking a cloth from a pocket in his tunic for her to wipe her eyes. He pressed it into Hilde’s hands, and when she put it to her face, she inhaled his musky scent, which remained on the cloth. Hilde held her breath then shook her head. They walked arm in arm to the queen’s salon. In the distance an alarm sounded, and they paused; Zayden looked alert and watchful.

  “What is it?” Hilde whispered.

  “I’m not sure. Everyone is edgy with the Quyroo delegation coming here. I’m not exactly comfortable with the whole thing myself.”

  She stopped him and looked him full in the face, holding his hands. “You don’t agree with your father’s policies?”

  “It’s not my place to agree or disagree. I follow his orders, and if he desires to change the social order, then by the grace of the Great Sradda, I will follow his command.”

  “What do think of Reminda? Do you believe she has tainted the king’s thoughts?”

  “Where is all this coming from?” Zayden asked her.

  The alarm was more strident, and he saw several guards rush from one of the palace rooms. He called out to one of them, “What’s going on?”

  The guard glanced at Hilde and hesitated for an instant. “Go on!” Zayden ordered.

  “Captain Pacuto has gone on a rampage and killed several Quyroos. The king has ordered his capture.”

  Hilde gasped in horror, her head feeling light, and she felt as if she were listening to the conversation from a distance. “It is true,” she whispered, as her eyes rolled, and she lost awareness of everything around her.

  Chapter 12

  Tulani plucked a fruit from a low-hanging tree branch and handed the sweet offering to the prince. V’sair took a healthy bite, smiling as the juice ran down his chin, staining his skin a bright yellow.

  “Delicious,” he murmured, pulling her close once again to kiss her, the juice making her lips as succulent as the ripe fruit. “You are delicious and juicy and sweet.”

  “Sire…”

  “V’sair,” he reminded her.

  “V’sair, we must be off. It is not safe in the forest at night. My parents’ lodge is just through these bushes.” She gestured toward the dense foliage. Hother walked behind them, her hoofs muffled by the carpet of leaves on the ground. The silence of the brush was cut by a scream, so loud and heart wrenching that V’sair dropped Tulani’s hand and raced toward the source. As he rounded a bend in the trees, the forest cleared, and he found himself looking at a hut engulfed by flames.

  Tulani ran to the spot next to him and gasped, “Mo’mo!”

  Her mother’s body was sprawled on the steps in a pool of blood. Her father was dangling upside down from a branch as the Darracians used him for target practice. V’sair stopped and grabbed her shoulders. “Stay back. Stay hidden in the shrubs,” he whispered urgently.

  “No. I have to go!”

  He kissed her full on the lips. “Stay and wait for me. That’s an order from your prince.” He walked into the firelight, commanding, “What is this outrage?”

  Pacuto stepped from the shadows, triumph written across his hostile features.

  V’sair looked puzzled when his cousin appeared out of the darkness. “Pacuto?” he questioned.

  An evil grin slowly spread across his cousin’s face. Pacuto dropped the sack ofrandam crystals and shouted, “The devil comes to us! Great Sradda deliver me!”

  “What is the meaning of this?” V’sair demanded.

  Pacuto and his men surrounded the prince, their long spears menacing him. He glanced back into the shadows, warning Tulani with his eyes not follow him into the open.

  “V’sair, V’sair…You have lead us on a merry chase. At last…” He motioned toward the bag. “…a double victory. A fortune in crystals for me and my men, and a personal triumph for the house of Nuen.” He spat close to V’sair’s foot. “Where is the girl? Tell me where your little playmate is. Didn’t your mo’mo teach you to share?” he taunted, grinning triumphantly.

  “This is crazy. What are you doing? You will jeopardize the accord!”

  “The accord and your father’s reign are finished! This is the beginning of the end of your father’s tyranny. The possibility of peace dies tonight with you!” Pacuto laughed. “But this is hardly a fair fight, is it, men? I can sweep off his royal head..” He waved his tryath near the prince’s face. “No, no, this will be too easy. You have begged for the chance to test your skills with the Fireblade. I will kill you as you mangle that chance. Then I will take the girl on your cold body!” He threw his tryath to the ground then withdrew his Fireblade, which roared to life.

  V’sair’s breath caught with rage, his face suffused with blue. He nodded to one of his henchmen, who removed his sword from his belt and threw it to the prince. It landed at his feet with a thud, and Pacuto continued, “Oh, this will be fun. Pick it up, V’sair. T
his is your opportunity to finally take the test of the Fireblade. Defend yourself!”

  Without taking his eyes off his cousin, V’sair bent down to pick up the handle of the blade, but it was useless without the engagement of the soul of a warrior. He was not trained and never had held one, and for the moment, it was deadweight in his hand. He knew it took years to learn how to clear the brain to accept the Fireblade’s power. He turned his burning eyes on his cousin.

  “By now your lady mother has been spitted by my father’s blade; your father the king will be looking for his head; and it is the dawn of my house!”

  Waves of hatred unfurled throughout V’sair’s body. He pulsed with anger, his eyes slits of rage. The tang of the blade hummed as the sword turned a faint red, vibrating with a force he barely noticed through the haze of pain that glazed his eyes. Pacuto watched with amusement and held up his sword, which blazed with the power of experience. It glowed red from top to bottom, and he thrust it for a killing shot; he was mildly surprised when V’sair deflected it.

  The strength of Pacuto’s strike resonated from his arm to his heart, the bruising force of his strength nearly incapacitating the prince. He caught a glimpse of Tulani and warned her shocked face, urging her silently to run to safety. She stood frozen in horror, her hands cupped over her mouth in silent fright. She worried that she was distracting him, so she slid back into the shadows of the foliage.

  The two men circled each other, the crackling fire the only sound of the night. They moved to the ancient dance of death, testing each other with a flick here, a feint here, a parry there. Pacuto expertly flicked with deadly accuracy, opening small wounds along V’sair’s torso. Stepping forward, Pacuto rushed in, his sword flashing before the prince’s eyes, and he felt it push into the meat of his thigh, to the bone. Shock warred with pain, and he pulled himself off the blade, hearing the sucking sound of his flesh as the sword slid free.

  “This is too, too easy, V’sair. And to think you had pretensions to the kingship. I am ashamed to call you my kinsman.” Pacuto laughed, showing two rows of sharp teeth. “Then I will find that Quyroo slattern and sink my Fireblade into her.”