Justice

by Rhiannon Paille

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Maps

  0 - The Great Library

  1 - Orlondir

  2 - Hexes and Immortality

  3 - Swimming with Merfolk

  4 - In Love

  5 - Limbo

  6 - Farewell Ceremony

  7 - Snow

  8 - Storm Clouds

  9 - Exile and Death

  10 - Mallorn’s Cabin

  11 - The Other Flames

  12 - Terra

  13 - Ancestor

  14 - Ten Thousand Years

  15 - Vultures

  16 - The Desecrated Village

  17 - Horsemen

  18 - The Cabin by the Lake

  19 - The Blossoming

  20 - Carnelian Secrets

  21 - Talina Tavesin

  22 - Man on the White Horse

  23 - Hopeless

  24 - The Citrine Flame

  25 - Morgan Le Fay

  26 - Hexes and Vortexes

  27 - The Beach

  28 - Amaltheia

  29 - The Sands

  30 - Aulises

  31 - 7000 BCE

  32 - The Azurite Flame

  33 - The Disease

  34 - Marry the Land

  35 - Nothing Left

  36 - The Field of Boulders

  37 - Crestaos

  The Guide

  About the Author

  JUSTICE

  Rhiannon Paille

  How far would you go to destroy yourself?

  Krishani always knew he would have to go to the Lands of Men, but he never thought it would be like this. Enemies everywhere, an ancestor he can't respect, elders he can't trust, a curse he can't stop and friends he can't help but hate. Desperate to end the pain, he sets out on a quest to find the other Flames and face the enemy that took everything from him.

  Praise for Justice

  “Krishani easily could have become pathetic, obnoxious and tiresome in the hands of a lesser writer. But Rhiannon Paille paints a portrait of a desperately grieving hero – whose stubborn devotion just makes him all the more desirable. You will root for him, even when you believe deep down (as he does) that he doesn’t have a prayer.”

  – Cory Putman Oakes, Author of The Veil

  “Paille writes the high fantasy that we've missing on the shelves. She brings this magical world alive, and evokes a roll of emotions chapter and chapter with characters that never cease to surprise. Justice asks one of the hardest questions: How far would you go for love?”

  – Natasha M. Heck, aspiring Author

  * * *

  Smashwords Edition – 2014

  WordFire Press

  www.wordfirePress.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61475-187-8

  Copyright © 2014 Rhiannon Paille

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover design by Mae I Design

  Interior Art by Linn Borsheim

  Map by Christopher Boll

  Book Design by RuneWright, LLC

  www.RuneWright.com

  Kevin J. Anderson & Rebecca Moesta, Publishers

  Published by

  WordFire Press, an imprint of

  WordFire, Inc.

  PO Box 1840

  Monument, CO 80132

  Electronic Version by Baen Books

  www.baen.com

  * * *

  Acknowledgments

  Nobody ever talks about the down sides of publishing in the acknowledgements so I’m going to start there. My journey hasn’t been easy. This book barely happened, the only reason it’s here is because it was a first draft and I have a handful of fans who want to read it. (Thank you to these fans, more about you later)

  I went through a major upheaval this year. You know I wasn’t lucky enough to get a literary agent on the first try, or the second try, or the hundredth try, but I did try. I wasn’t paid an advance so I could sit back and write books (instead of working the infamous day job) and I wasn’t given a hoard of fans on a silver platter (because the publishing house loved my book and the marketing team got me big time reviews on publishers weekly and kirkus and USA Today.) The point is, I’m no book sensation. I’m a prairie girl that has been writing since I was twelve and wanted to see my stuff published.

  I took the wrong road. Ultimately, Small Press is not for me. I found myself paying for all the marketing, cover design, book trailer, promotions, etc. I found myself getting one royalty cheque in a whole twelve months (and it was 32 bucks.) I made the decision in August to break away and continue the journey on my own.

  Around the same time I broke off with the Small Press, it seemed like everything caved in. I had to start the series from scratch. SCRATCH.

  After I was finished with all the pulling my hair out and crying, I decided to put on my big girl panties and relax. I’ve been my own boss for the past eight years, publishing is just another business. No it’s not easy, and no I’m not going to have the support of the bigger companies, but I learned enough from the people I had previously worked with to do it myself.

  Admittedly, I chose people I trusted in the beginning. Marc Wolfe, Hugh Rookwood are artists I’ve known for years, and their work is amazing. Marie De La Rosa is from Paranormal Reads and she has lightning quick turn around. These guys did artwork and typography for the books so that I wasn’t dead in the water. I can’t thank them enough for tirelessly working with me.

  Regina Wamba of Mae I Design was brought in later to give my covers a much needed face lift. I can’t thank her enough for working on an amazingly short deadline and getting me something that’s fucking gorgeous. She’s secretly a ninja or a cyborg.

  Cory Putman Oaks, Natasha Heck, Melanie Chartier, Joy Whiteside, Rae Smith, and Sabina Grosse BETA read this book and left reviews on Goodreads for it. I am eternally grateful to anyone who picks up this book and falls in love with it. I sometimes adopt my fans, like Melanie who I also have to thank for helping me at C4 Comic Con. I couldn’t have handled it without you!

  Also, thank you to my daughters/cleaning fairies Sapphyre and Jade. You’re both growing up so fast, and I can’t wait until you’re old enough to read my books. (Seriously, a few more years.)

  And to my husband who handles as much as he possibly can so I can write more books. I really can’t do this without you, the housework alone would bury me.

  Lastly, to the fans I haven’t met, I hope you love and hate this book for all the right reasons. If you want me to continue writing you need to review it, tell your friends about it, and start a riot! (Not for real, but you know what I mean.) The only way this series is ever going to get into the hands of a bigger publisher is you! The more people who get on board this crazy train, the better chances it has of going somewhere. As the creepy guy at Disneyland once said, “If you don’t row, we don’t go.”

  I’ll do my part and keep writing you fiction that keeps you glued to the page, doesn’t follow the traditional rules (what’s a “satisfying ending” anyway?) and makes you angry, sad, and swoony.

  “I’m not giving up, I’m just giving in.” Never Let
Me Go – Florence + The Machine.

  * * *

  Dedication

  For Primo,

  thanks for taking the nights off

  * * *

  0 - The Great Library

  The truth hurt.

  The book hit the floor with a thud and Kemplan leapt out of his large leather chair at the sound. His pipe slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor as he turned in the direction of the sound, exploring the corridor. Another book hit the floor and the old librarian jumped. Only he and the Scryes were allowed to tamper with the books. Even in that capacity the Scryes were only allowed to touch books they had been told to touch. He straightened his back, pulling his vest taut over his round chest. He was going to yell at whoever it was when another stack of books hit the floor. He inhaled sharply and narrowed his eyes as he headed to the nearest row of shelves and peered down its length. It was empty, but his ears perked up when he heard a faint snarl. He quickly rounded the shelves and stopped dead in his tracks, heels digging into the wooden planks.

  Tor stood surrounded by a pile of books. His back turned, a cloak concealing the shiny gray scales trailing up and down his humanoid form. He muttered an incantation and held his hands out over the books.

  Kemplan gasped as a spark hit the paper, bursting the pile into flames. “No!”

  Tor turned, his gray, scaly face contorted in malice. His hood fell around his shoulders, showing off shallow horns, spiked ears, and scaly head. Claws for hands clenched at his sides, and in a swift move he drew Kemplan from the pile of burning books to the wall above the fireplace, catching his throat in the vice grip of his hand.

  “What did you do with it?” Tor seethed.

  Kemplan struggled to catch his breath as cold reptilian fingers with talon-like hooks dug into his thin flesh. A drop of blood oozed from a wound on his neck; he coughed. “The books …”

  “Forget them. What did you do with the parchment?”

  Kemplan’s eyes widened at the mention of it. He had forgotten all about the loose page that had fallen from the highest shelves, the one he had thrown so carelessly into the fire. He was bound by the laws of the Great Hall and the law stated he wasn’t allowed to destroy anything unless it was by Tor’s command. He hadn’t even thought of it when he saw the images of the Ferryman and the Flame. He thought it was something that had long been destroyed. He stopped kicking and stared into Tor’s gold, lightning-filled eyes. They were like their own self-contained storms, irises spiking with jagged black lines every few seconds.

  A growl rumbled in Tor’s throat, low and ominous.

  “I burned … it,” Kemplan said, barely.

  “They found it,” Tor said.

  Kemplan tore his gaze away from the livid eyes and fought for air. A second later he hit the floor. He coughed and curled into a ball. He didn’t want Tor to say their names. He thought the memories of them were long forgotten. It had taken forever to erase them from the Great Library.

  “The Valtanyana know,” Tor said as he stepped away from Kemplan. He tore into the leather chair with his left hand; thick, clean claw marks marring the soft leather.

  Kemplan winced at the destruction. “I never meant to,” he began, but his voice was nothing more than a faint whisper.

  Tor turned, clenching and unclenching his fist. Kemplan was afraid of what he would do next. When Tor was angry it was hard to stop him from destroying things. “No one can know about the Flames. Erase them from the Great Library and they will fade from existence.” He sounded calmer until he opened his fist and a wind storm blew through the library, pulling books off the shelves.

  Kemplan pushed himself to his feet, hair blowing back from the gale force of the hurricane wind. Pages flapped around him as he fought to comprehend what was happening. The Great Library contained every book ever written in any land, secret and shared, finished and unfinished, plus the literature of the Scryes, the Great Hall’s personal writers. Kemplan watched the maelstrom of books as it swirled into the skies of the library in a tornado of parchment and leather. He held his breath until it was over, wind dying down. Piles of books were strewn across the crowded corridors, tables turned over, chairs knocked down.

  Tor snapped his fingers and a controlled blue blaze lit the books, turning each one to ash as the flames ate away the pages.

  Kemplan’s heart dropped. “What will you do about the Valtanyana?”

  Tor glared at him and bowed his head in defeat. It was Kemplan’s fault the Valtanyana had the original copy of the prophecy, the very thing that explained without confusion what the Ferryman and the Flame were meant for. He thought about the distant past, the way Tor had defeated the Valtanyana and locked them away. It scared him to know so much and to be able to do so little about it. He could never measure up to Tor’s greatness, the choices he had to make, the things he had to sacrifice. He glanced up to find Tor looking reserved and pensive.

  “Their fate lies with the Ferryman,” Tor said.

  * * *

  1 - Orlondir

  Another loud sob pierced the sky. Istar had no words in him. Paladin padded through the snow until he towered over Lady Atara. She used to be a benevolent caretaker of the lands and now she was a shriveling heap of bones huddled on the ground, trembling. Istar tried to keep his head about himself as he slipped off the horse. Krishani was slung over Paladin. For all he knew the boy was dead, too. His footsteps left marks in the snow as he rounded the horse, closing the distance between himself and Atara. He dropped to his knees and pulled her into his embrace, her tear-covered cheeks melding into his shoulder. She clung to him, another sob rising from her chest.

  “Snow,” she scarcely whispered.

  Istar nodded as he held her. Snow covered them like a blanket, the first snowstorm to ever hit Avristar. It was a bad omen.

  “Shh,” he said as she buried her head in his velvet cloak. His thoughts were on the mountain—Avred was awake. Atara calmed and he relaxed his grip, looking behind him at Paladin.

  Atara’s mouth hung open. She pushed Istar away and rose to her feet. Stumbling backwards, she put a hand to her lips. “Is that—?”

  Istar stood and hung his head. “Aye.”

  He took the reins and led the horse—and Krishani—through the remainder of fields.

  “He’s not gone,” Atara said, her voice loud in the din. She found her feet and worked to catch up. Istar went to lift Krishani off the horse but Atara pulled his hand away.

  “Don’t,” she began, her voice cracking. Istar watched as she assessed the heap of armor and garments. She placed her hand on the boy’s shoulder and gasped. Dizziness overtook her. She fell backwards and knocked her head against one of the stalls. Istar helped her up.

  She rubbed her temples, putting distance between herself and the boy. “Agony …”

  Istar gave her a cold and reserved look. He tried to avert his gaze but she put a hand to his cheek and forced him to look at her. Atara’s dull hazel eyes searched his for a moment, trying to understand. Istar’s fingers covered her hand and pulled it away, placing it at her side. He took her other hand in both of his and glared at her. Her eyes were exhausted, sunken into rosy red cheeks, streaked with layers of tears and dirt. Her auburn hair was stringy and damp, frizzing at the edges and freezing in clumps.

  “Don’t force me to explain,” he said, storming into the servants’ quarters.

  • • •

  People milled back and forth in the servants’ hall. Everything in disarray, the scents of strong herbs lingered as pastes and tinctures were prepared in haste. Pux sat on the ground, his back against the damp stone hallway wall. He rubbed the scar on his side. He was stunned, cold, unsure. He curled his wolf-like legs towards him, resting his elbows on his hairy knees.

  Memories attacked him, a flash of Kaliel’s dress as it burst through the trees, the battlefield when Pux reappeared in the midst of the fray, swords coming at him. He scanned the field for Krishani and found him fighting the black skinned creatures of
f with everything in him. Pux turned back to the enemy, his foot crushing bone below him. He winced and glanced down. It was one of the black skinned creatures. He grabbed the nearest weapon and swiped the air. More than anything he wanted to disappear again, but there was no way he could focus in the mess, his heart breaking at the seams. He silently begged for it to end, for the foe to give up and retreat.

  He stumbled and the creatures wrestled him to the ground. He fought, kicked, punched, and the most deafening sound drowned out the battle. The creatures froze, and his heart sank. He was the last one to see Kaliel alive. His body went limp as he waited for their swords to slice him open. Cold wind swept over the battlefield and the pressure lifted off him. It was replaced with the taste of cold rain, a new experience. He thought of warmth, the kitchen where he tasted the most delicious food during the Fire Festivals. He wanted to be there.

  The next thing he knew, something hard pressed against his back, and the heat of the fire warmed the hallway. His eyes fluttered open and he noticed weapons thrown down, wounded kinfolk strewn across the floor. Atara’s ladies tended to the worse off. He watched as more of them came through the archway on his right. Blood landed on stones, cries rang out.

  Pux looked at the ceiling, shadows dancing on the stone. He glanced at the archway again, but no one emerged. He lifted his hand off the wound on his side and inspected the damage. There was nothing but a fresh scar. He closed his eyes, tears escaping his eyes.

  Why did I tell you to go? He never meant for Kaliel to become the foe’s prey. What happened on the mountain? His stomach shook in fits of anguish. Nobody seemed to notice him; once again he was the invisible invalid sitting in the corner minding himself.

  He knew something was wrong when Melianna appeared in the meadow and called the Elders in Evennses. Only the oldest were allowed to go. That included Luenelle, Rueann and a few others. Pux wasn’t asked but he wanted to know what was going on. He transported to Kaliel’s room but she wasn’t there, and the room was nearly bare.