The Ryn (Eyes of E'veria)

by Serena Chase

  Advance Praise for The Ryn

  “Jam packed with page turning, heart-tugging adventure, The Ryn is a delightful tale not to be missed.” -Jenny B. Jones, award-winning author of There You'll Find Me

  “A perfect alchemy of fantasy and fairy tale, you'll willingly lose yourself in the story of a witty, pretty, totally relatable young woman who grows up, falls in love, and grasps her girl-powered destiny. This book will be a cherished read for all who understand that happily-ever-after dreams can still be made to come true." -Sandra Byrd, best-selling author of the Ladies in Waiting series, the French Twist Trilogy, and the London Confidential YA series.

  "Thankfully, consuming a good book doesn't translate to the hips like a good meal. With The Ryn, a re-imagining of Snow White and Rose Red, debut author Serena Chase creates a story world that features a captivating cast of characters, fascinating locales, and a satisfying romance. I look forward to the second book in the Eyes of E’veria series." -Tamara Leigh, author of Carol Award-Winner Splitting Harriet and Dreamspell

  “The Ryn is a beautifully rendered allegorical fantasy that captured my imagination from the beginning, my heart halfway through, and my soul by the final pages. . . . the perfect combination of whimsy and earthiness . . . Clever dialogue and delightful prose suggest Serena Chase has significant talent, the creative and evocative plot proves it. With action, chivalry, and sacrifice aplenty, this story will appeal to all ages. With shades of The Princess Bride, Lisa T. Bergren's River of Time series, and David Eddings Belgariad, this story is a keeper. Simply put, I adored The Ryn and can't wait to dive into The Remedy.” ~Rel Mollet, www.relzreviewz.com

  THE RYN

  Serena Chase

  www.serenachase.com

  Eyes of E’veria, Book One

  A young woman living in obscurity learns she is the long-lost heir to the throne and the key to defeating her Kingdom’s most ancient enemy.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people or entities, living or dead, or to businesses, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. That being said, if a reader should happen to discover a secret passage to E’veria or meet a Veetrish Storyteller out there in the wide world, please let us know . . . because that would be awesome.

  Copyright © 2013 Shawna Renee Van Ness

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system now known or yet to be invented, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, telepathic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise known or yet to be invented—without the prior written permission of the publisher CANDENT GATE LLC and copyright owner, except by a reviewer or media professional who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review or article.

  Original cover photography (character) copyright 2012 Lincoln Noah Baxter / (background scenery) copyright 2013 Jodie Gerling

  Cover design by JG Designs www.jodiegerlingdesigns.com, Manhattan, KS

  DEDICATION

  For Delaney Olivia & Ellerie Victoria

  …because some fairytales are more than true

  & Heather

  … because you are appreciated more than you will ever know.

  PROLOGUE

  Hiding in plain sight, the old man crept through the halls of the palace, his ancient heart keeping pace with the shifting of his black eyes. Festive gossip filled the air, but it held little information to aid his course. Instead, each phrase emptied the space of air and made him feel as if he could suffocate at any moment. Still, his keen ears captured each syllable, seeking some nuance that would serve as inspiration to help him bring an end to their joy.

  The late evening hour found the idle gathered in the main kitchen. He passed among them, largely unnoticed but for a young serving girl who offered him a cup of ale. To her, as to the rest of them, he appeared to be a harmless old man, just one more member of the gathering staff and servants awaiting news of the birth. But while he was old—older than any of them could imagine—he was far from harmless.

  “Should I brew her evening tea, I wonder?” A serving maid’s question caught his attention. “Perhaps add a bit of honey?”

  “Honey? Oh yes!” Another gushed. “It’s not her usual preference, but honey is well known for easing a babe’s passage.”

  The old man’s beard twitched upward. The curse his kind had waited centuries to deliver to this family . . . served in a cup of tea? Perfect. Reaching for the wineskin strapped just beneath his tunic, the old man removed the cork and took a swig so quickly that only the keenest eye could have marked the movement.

  A fresh kettle was put to boil and a gilded tray was set with a cup and saucer, each delicate piece emblazoned with the flowery emblem of the mother-to-be. He inched closer. Yes, he thought, this will do.

  The kettle whistled and the serving maid poured its contents over a small bowl of leaves. After a few minutes, the liquid was strained and transferred to the delicate cup.

  The serving maid paused and turned to her friend. “You’re sure about the honey?”

  “Oh yes, dear,” the older woman answered, nodding sagely. “It helped bring all four of my boys into the world.”

  Without earning so much as a glance, the old man, if that was what he could be called, whispered a word in his native tongue and plucked a hair from his beard. As soon as the maid finished her task he stepped out of the shadows.

  “I beg your pardon, miss.” He spoke humbly, carefully shaping each word to ensure his accent was hidden. “But might I have a drop of honey in my ale?”

  The young maid paused. “The winter’s got your throat a mite scratchy, does it?” She smiled. “Bring your cup here, then.”

  The cursed hair pulsed between his thumb and forefinger. As his hand passed over the hot, sweet liquid meant for the laboring mother’s lips, he released it.

  A fat glob of honey dropped into his cup of ale. He nodded his thanks and backed away. A moment later a fresh hothouse rose was set on the tray and it was carried from the kitchen.

  Keeping to the shadows, he followed the serving maid until he was assured of the tray’s destination. Satisfied that his curse would be delivered as intended, he made his way back down the stairs and into the courtyard. He meant to be well away before suspicion landed upon him.

  He paused. Why hurry? No one would recognize a little old man as the famous enemy of their legends. To these common people, he and his kind were little more than a rumor, a tale to frighten children around the fire at night.

  Yes, he would wait a bit. These short-lived simpletons couldn’t possibly recognize him for what he truly was. They were far too removed from their history to recognize him as a Cobeld. Quickly but carefully, he moved out of the shadow, rounded the corner and—

  “HOLD! What is your business?”

  The Cobeld reached for his flask and took a quick swig.

  The knight drew his sword. “Cobeld in the courtyard!” he shouted. “Sound the alarm!”

  Shocked at being recognized, the Cobeld hesitated just long enough to find the sword’s tip pushing his beard against his windpipe.

  “Cobeld,” the knight growled, “what is your business here?”

  The Cobeld eyed the knight’s gloveless hand. All it would take was one touch, but first . . .

  “Death,” he spoke the curse in the knight’s own tongue, allowing a smile to part his beard. “My business here is death. Death for you, for the woman, and most especially for the child of the prophecy.”

  “Your blood will stain these stones before I let that happen.” The knight pressed the Cobeld back until his spine met a solid surface. “Are there more of you here
? Answer me!”

  “Why need there be more?” The Cobeld smiled around the words. “One Cobeld, one hair of his beard, and one . . . little . . . whisper.” He laughed again, reveling in the way the hairs on the knight’s wrist stood up at the sound. “The curse has already been delivered. You are too late to stop it.” Enough time had passed since the tray left the kitchen. It was as good as done. “The mother and her child will die. And so shall you!”

  He lunged then, beard first, toward the exposed skin of the knight’s hand.

  But the knight was young and nimble. He swung his hand away and the Cobeld stumbled, falling face first on to the white stones of the courtyard. A second later the toe of a boot flipped the Cobeld on to his back and the sword was poised to strike above his neck.

  “Killing me will not stop what has already begun,” the creature said. “For two centuries the Cobelds have hidden in the mountains, waiting and watching for the prophesied child. My curse,”—oh, he loved that it was his!—“will stop the child’s heart before she takes her first breath. My curse,” he claimed it again, “will usher in our opportunity to finally take the Kingdom that should have been ours from the beginning!”

  The knight’s knuckles, wrapped about the hilt of his sword, whitened. “Tell me where I can find the cursed hair and how to destroy it.” His voice was quiet now, but lethally so. “If either the child or mother is harmed we will wage a war the likes of which your kind hasn’t imagined since the days of Lady Anya,” he said. “But this time we will finish you.”

  “You will not succeed.” The Cobeld’s eyes shone with pride, for surely the curse was, even now, speeding through the woman’s blood and finding its way to the child. He could almost taste his triumph. “Not without the child of the prophecy.”

  He felt it then, a freezing tingle of cold light expelling from the recently emptied follicle on his chin: the curse, delivered.

  The knight’s jaw went slack. “No . . .”

  “Yes!” The Cobeld’s laugh crackled with victory as three guards rounded the corner, “You are too—”

  With an unearthly, grating sound of metal against metal, the knight’s sword sliced through the Cobeld’s beard, silencing his final whisper before it left his throat.

  ###

  Sir Drinius de Wyte stared at the nearly motionless form of his Queen. He’d come as quickly as he could, but he was too late. The curse had been received.

  Every moment she grew paler. Each breath was spaced too far from the last, and yet her tears, mingling with the King’s, seemed to have no space between them at all.

  She was slipping away. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  Drinius spared a glance toward Sir Gladiel. Agony twisted just beneath the stony surface of the other knight’s expression, a painful contradiction to the gaiety with which they’d slapped each other’s backs, and the King’s, hours ago when the Queen’s pains had begun.

  Gladiel met his eyes and one silent question groaned between them.

  How had this happened?

  They had posted additional guards. They had patrolled the surrounding areas for weeks to assure Daithia that her unborn child would be safe. How had the creature permeated their defenses? How had it gained access to the very cup meant for Daithia’s lips?

  Supported by the King’s strong hand, the babe rested in the crook of her mother’s arm, pink, healthy, and—most importantly—alive. Yes, the Cobeld’s curse had been delivered. But not as planned. And not in time to reach the babe.

  The Ryn.

  With bright blue eyes and the same flame-born hair as the mother she would never know, this baby must indeed be the child of the prophecy. But it would be years before she would be able to embrace all that entailed, years before she would even be allowed to know who she was or what she was destined to become.

  For now, they would call her Rose.

  But that was not her name.

  The baby startled. Daithia gasped. And then . . . her tears ceased.

  The soft lament that issued from King Jarryn was so low and full of sorrow that it nearly hollowed Drinius’s soul. Gladiel stepped forward and placed a hand on his sovereign’s shoulder. Drinius moved to Jarryn’s other side and did the same.

  The King wept. And it was all Drinius could do not to fall apart beside him.

  Queen Daithia was gone.

  When the baby began to fuss, King Jarryn slipped the child from her mother’s arms and into his own. He stood.

  “Drinius,” he said, his voice rough with grief. “You and Alaine were to be godparents. Are you yet willing to accept that charge, knowing how much more it now entails?”

  Undertaking the hastily devised plan to ensure the child’s safety would increase his responsibility a hundredfold, but Drinius would pledge nothing less than the Knight’s Oath to see it done. “With all that I am and for all of my life, Your Majesty, I accept the care of your daughter.”

  “Thank you.” The King’s voice was a whisper, but Drinius had never heard words of gratitude so steeped in gravity.

  The King cleared his throat. “And Gladiel,” he said, turning, “if for any reason Drinius should be unable to serve in this capacity, will you take my daughter’s well-being upon yourself?”

  “With all that I am and for all of my life,” Gladiel’s deep voice rumbled with equal conviction, “I pledge my honor to that course.”

  The King looked down at the infant in his arms. Her blue eyes, still swollen from the rigors of being born, blinked up at him. He kissed her brow and traced the line of her jaw with his forefinger. When he spoke, his voice was barely loud enough to hear.

  “It is the right thing to do,” he said. “But I’m not sure I can bear to let her go.”

  Drinius exchanged a look with Gladiel. They were both fathers. The prospect of secreting his own child away, of disassociating himself even to the point of keeping the child’s name from her, seemed a terrible burden to bear.

  “But for her safety,” King Jarryn said finally, “I must.”

  And then, placing his hand on her forehead, the King closed his eyes. “Sleep, child,” he whispered, “until the sea is beneath you and you are well on your way.”

  The infant’s eyes drifted closed. She did not even stir when her father’s tears dripped on her cheek.

  As Drinius took the hope of E’veria into his arms, he prayed that, somewhere within the baby girl’s heart, she would treasure the “I love you” the King whispered just before he trusted his heir to a knight’s keeping.

  PART I: ROSE

  CHAPTER ONE

  16 years later

  Rose took a deep breath, enjoying the crispness of the air and the free and joyful scent of snow, so recently delivered to the world. A sudden whirl of breeze lifted the glimmering dust of winter off a curved drift beside her mount. She held her breath as the tiny flakes danced circles with the wind before dipping into the shadow of the hill. Smiling, she lifted her face to the sky. Atop Lord Whittier’s steed, on a hill overlooking Mirthan Hall, the air seemed newer somehow than it did in the wide valley below. Perhaps it was.

  Or perhaps it just seems that way because I’m so seldom allowed this view. Her grin’s mischievous path was arrested by a tiny pang of guilt. Not that I’ve been allowed it, exactly, today.

  A cold, northerly breeze grabbed a lock of Rose’s hair, momentarily tainting the clean, airy scent of the snow. She frowned. Borrowing a horse and riding beyond what Lord Whittier had deemed “a safe distance” from Mirthan Hall seemed a mild infraction compared to the constant scent of deception that was, even now, tickling her nose.

  The blackened curl teased her senses with competing scents of the same lie. Every day she applied a sweet herbal tonic to her hair in the hope that it would mask the darker, earthier scent of the ebonswarth root dye that lingered within each strand. Oh, how she detested that smell. It had been weeks since she had last applied the dye, but at times like this, when her nose was under a direct assault from it, prox
imity served as a pungent reminder of her promise to deceive those she loved.

  Rose had given her word at the age of eight, too young to realize what such a vow would entail. And as soon as Uncle Drinius had obtained her promise, he had made an announcement that, however briefly, had broken her heart.

  “You’ll have more freedom in Veetri,” Uncle Drinius had said after informing Rose that he would deliver her into the care of Lord Whittier de Barden, Duke of Glenhume. “It will be an adventure,” he’d said.

  Oh, how excited she’d been to learn of their destination! Veetri! The land of the Storytellers! It sounded wonderful . . . until she realized that “delivering” meant that Uncle Drinius would leave her there. And that it would likely be years until she saw him, or Aunt Alaine and Lily, again.

  She had cried. Yelled. Begged. But there was nothing for it. Her father had ordered it. Her nameless, absent father. And not even Sir Drinius de Wyte would gainsay him. Not even if it broke a little girl’s heart.

  Rose scowled and buried her face in the roan stallion’s mane. She inhaled deeply, hoping to drown the smell of that which blackened her hair in the much more pleasant scent of horse.

  “Ah, Falcon,” she sighed. “You’re a beauty, you are. I’d dye my every garment with the rancid stuff if it meant I could ride you every day.”

  Falcon nickered as if he thought that a fine idea. And when Rose exhaled . . . her darker emotions drifted away on the wind.

  It had been an adventure, coming here, Rose admitted, giving in to a slightly begrudging smile. Away from the overprotective eye of Uncle Drinius and the restraining, albeit loving, hand of Aunt Alaine, Rose’s spirit had found its wings in Veetri. And although she grieved at being parted from Lily, who was more sister than cousin, in Veetri Rose had discovered a new family to call her own.