The Daughter Of Lava (#3 Reclaimed Souls Series)

by Della Roth

  …Summary…

  A Reluctant Queen… Stunned when Prince Roland abdicates, Rahda’s family secrets surface she confronts the fact that she is the Sevradan heir. Forced to tackle her own demons, her feelings for Roland, threats from multiple factions, and the fact that she may actually be the Sacred Soul, Rahda takes matters into her own hands, leads her army, and pushes the boundaries of her heart, her soul, and her future.

  A Royal Lover… Everything Roland does-and has done for the last decade-is for Rahda and his belief that she is the true heir and the Sacred Soul. There is no doubt in his mind-or his soul-that she will save the continent. Sacrificing himself is the easy part. Losing Rahda will forever torment him if he is wrong.

  The Daughter of Lava… Deep within the continent, a great ocean of lava churns. Spitting. Burning itself over and over. It is ever so angry. It detests being held captive. It will never be happy without complete freedom. The Sacred Soul is like that ocean of lava: angry without knowing why. She is meant to do great things, but at a great cost.

  [1. Fiction. 2. Fantasy—Fiction. 3. Science Fiction—Fiction. 4. Romance—Fiction. 5. Deities—Fiction. 6. Alternate Earth—Fiction.]

  All Romance Ebooks Edition | License Notes

  This ebook 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. If you are reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to my Author Page and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. The characters and events portrayed in this ebook are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2014 K.A. Shire

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Design by K.A. Shire

  Cover Image “Fire Sunset” Copyright © Vizerskaya

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  About the Author

  Bonus Material

  Preface

  “The trees whisper, the rocks shake, fear thunders, yet hope ever-so-slightly springs up within my heart. My soul knew the truth long before her form grew inside me: a new Sacred Soul emerges. Now war begins.”

  Fernley Sevradan

  One

  THROUGH THE DEAFENING ROAR below, the hooded Roland Rexus, the dark prince, the man I am in love with, the man I have been ordered to kill, abdicates the throne.

  And declares me, the last female Sevradan, Queen of Scarred Hearts and Priestess of Reclaimed Souls, as the continent’s rightful heir. I’m stunned – actually I’m more than stunned – but the last part shocks me to the core.

  The Priestess of Reclaimed Souls…

  Once, as a young girl, I remember asking my father why the water was turning black, and he said the Goddess was punishing the continent for some great sin. Then, in a secretive-like whisper he added, “She waits for the one who will save her, Rahda. She waits for the Priestess of Reclaimed Souls.”

  I cannot breathe. I cannot think.

  A kaleidoscope of emotions rushes through me. It feels wrong. It feels political. It feels very confusing, but more than anything, it feels right. Something inside of me rejoices.

  If I hadn’t seen, with my own eyes, that my family line traces all the way back to Amaris Sevradan, the Feeble Princess, I would think all of this was one huge, cruel joke.

  But the way Roland looks at me tells me differently. Still kneeling as he pledges his loyalty to me, his bright green eyes admire me, love me, respect me, and something… more. Darkness flashes behind his eyes.

  He stands, unsmiling, and clasps my hands.

  This is not something he just planned. Roland is a strategic thinker, a planner, and a cunning opponent. There is something dark, deep, and unforgiving in his countenance right now, like an internal battle brews heavily inside him, and, like any good army general, he’s putting the pieces into place.

  I wish I could read his thoughts. All I can think about is how Roland’s uncle, Lord Jaucey, if he actually goes through with his threat, will burn Skyscraper City to the ground for this.

  “Why are you doing this?” I whisper. He closes the distance between us as if he means to kiss me. At the last second, his head shifts and his lips are at my ear.

  “We each have a role, Rahda. I do, you do. I’m not doing this because I love you; I’m doing it because it rights a wrong. I’ll explain everything to you tonight.”

  With this, he does kiss me briefly on the cheek and Roland, with his hooded, secretive eyes, steps back into the Palace and stands next to Cat, his chief of staff.

  I’m alone on the balcony. With a deep breath, I look down.

  And I see them, hundreds of the continent’s citizens. Dirty, poor faces. Clean, gleaming wealthy faces. Half-humans. And everything in between. Clapping. Cheering. Yelling. Crying.

  Crying?

  These are the citizens who lived in fear under Roland’s father’s rule and, after the barbarian king’s death, had turned cold and cynical during Roland’s mostly absent regency.

  I scan the faces, but it’s no use. I wouldn’t know anyone save a few souls—Dorni, a resourceful shoppe-keeper and a dear woman I’ve known for years; and Gilly and her grandmother, Wren Iddon, whom I only met a few hours ago.

  Shadows at the tops of the buildings in front of me draws my attention.

  Dark figures, like stealth assassins, stand erect atop each building, and, upon closer inspection below, I find them interspersed with the population. A vibrating tingle crawls down my spine, and goosebumps ripple my flesh.

  Assassins in plain sight? They remind me of the monk-assassins that Pareu used to tell me about. Shaking my head, I turn to say something to Roland, but his shadow is gone and, when I look back at the dark figures, they also are gone.

  The sky begins to darken again just as a boom! thunders above us.

  Mr. Underwood, Roland’s weapons expert, has fired off another one of his brilliant hover-flares.

  It soars into the darkening clouds, hovers, and then explodes into a moon-like ball. Unlike the first flare, where the color was a bright, sunny yellow hue, it now casts a lush ivory-white tint over a several-mile radius around the city.

  It feels like a brand new day: fresh, warm, and inviting.

  Everything glows, even the harsh rust stains on the buildings in front of me. The anti-royal graffiti painted on a far wall now sort of resembles a soft mural, and the people below, decked out in their best, even if nothing but rags sewn together to make a robe, seem like one living organism to me.

  Precious.

  Alive.<
br />
  Worthy of attention.

  I doubt I’ll ever understand why Roland did this. He risks his uncle’s wrath and promise of war. Does Roland think I can actually rule a kingdom? Not only that, that I want to rule a kingdom?

  All I’ve ever wanted was freedom. To live my life how I wanted to live it. No barriers. No obstacles. No rules. No forced loyalty, love, or devotion.

  Shouldn’t everyone live that way? Without fear? Without uncertainty?

  An instant hush settles below, and that’s when I remember the microphone.

  ***

  Should I say something? Can I say something? Will my voice work?

  “Thank you for being here and for welcoming me like a beloved member of your family,” I say rather softly. My voice shakes, or I presume that it does. My entire body vibrates from sheer nerves and anticipation. In truth, I haven’t a clue of what I should say to them. But I’ll try for the right words.

  “I am not special,” I continue, and the faces below scan mine silently. Even children are mute. “I’m not better than you. I want the same things that you do.”

  “All you want is power!” someone screams below, a male voice. No one disagrees with him.

  “I have no power,” I reply more confidently to the voice. “I have no power because I have yet to earn your trust. I believe in a few firm principles. Freedom for all. I believe that babies shouldn’t starve to death. I believe that your sons and daughters do not deserve to sell their bodies to put food on the table. Inside each of us is a warrior that operates just to survive day to day. It’s wearying and exhausting to the soul and—” I halt, knowing that my words are ineffective, even to me. It’s all prose and no depth. I look at the crowd below, those across the street in balconies, windows, and even roofs.

  I spot a familiar face: the Grandfather sits in one of the more regal balconies to my left, his white hair and soft tulle and muslin robe a beacon of familiarity. He is not alone. I see a beefy shadow behind him. I suspect it is the Grandfather’s guard, Gryan, a hairy bear-like man who tried to detain me earlier today. This, coupled with the fact I blatantly disobeyed the Grandfather by not killing Roland, the message couldn’t be clearer: the Grandfather is my enemy.

  It’s a crushing feeling, as if I have learned that my own father wants to kill me.

  Heat creeps into my face and I take a few calming breaths. Okay, I think, I can deal with this.

  “When I was a young girl,” I say, louder and with more animation, “I had an older brother. I loved him more than anyone else in the world. I always knew I could count on him, trust him. We used to sneak away from our parents and steal apples from our neighbor’s orchard.” I hear a few chuckles below. “Naturally it was wrong, but we were young and felt invincible, and this was before a single apple could fetch an entire bedallion coin. We would always end up in some sort of scrape or another, trucking through dense forests and marshes. My earliest memory was watching the very first starship landing that brought our newest citizens, hoping for a better way of life.

  “But my brother, Pareu, was taken away from me. It destroyed me and I questioned everything I thought I knew. I threw my past away, created a new life for myself, but fate has a way of always being one step ahead. I’ve done a lot of wrong things in my life. Maybe you have, too. I know you’ve lost loved ones. I know the wars and battles you’ve faced. They are also my battles and wars. But you are stronger than you know. Things will be tough for a while, maybe even far worse than what you anticipated, so keep your head up, your heart full, and your soul close. Enjoy the rest of the celebration. Someone told me there would be dancing ducks here tonight, and I can’t wait to see them.”

  I stop talking, not knowing what else to say, not without exposing more of myself in the process, and I really don’t want to do that. I want to fill the silence. It bothers me right now, like I’ve left something hanging out there that needs to be resolved. I care, and I don’t know why I care. I shouldn’t care. All I should be concerned about is leaving this balcony, grabbing my gear, and leaving the Palace Skyscraper.

  I look again to the Grandfather, to see his reaction, but his balcony is empty. The dark figures on the roofs have also vanished.

  I take a step back before I hear it.

  It starts slowly, like a hum of a song that you can’t remember the words to just yet, and then builds up into a full-on chant. It takes several seconds before I realize that they are saying my name over and over.

  “Rah-da! Rah-da! Rah-da!”

  It’s inspiring. It’s humbling. It’s hypnotic. It churns my stomach.

  I do not deserve their admiration.

  Finally, I wave and exit the balcony. My mind whirls and spins and I have a feeling I’ll be sick before I can reach the clothing and boots I stashed on the sixth floor. I stalk past Cat Evinas. She opens her mouth to say something, but she sees my face and immediately shuts up.

  She doesn’t follow me and for that, I’m grateful. I have no idea of where Roland is hiding.

  My chanting name follows me like an echo as I walk deeper into the Palace Skyscraper. It sounds like a salvation to them. Sadly, I’m confident that I’ll be the reason that they will all end up dead.

  Two

  BILE BITES THE BACK of my throat. I can’t swallow it away. In fact, doing so makes it feel worse. Sweat pops on my forehead as I step off the lift at the sixth floor mark, round the corner just as the warm wood paneling comes to view, crouch over, and vomit up the contents of my stomach.

  I’m not sure what I ate last. I think it was some chicken and then that red anti-inflammatory, antibiotic juice Cat made me drink just before she removed the blueblood spikes from my leg.

  I lean against the wood walls, the panels cool against my back. Even though the hallway is dark, my head pounds, my eyes hurt, my cheek throbs where White Rose hit me with one of her climbing gears, and my shoulder pulsates where her dagger dug a chunk of flesh out of me. I feel the wound, remembering how Roland and his medical droid patched me up.

  I’m going to feel worse before I feel better. Much worse.

  I wipe the sweat from my brow, stand up, move to the armoire that holds my getaway clothing, and quickly change into them. I take the stupid pearls out of my hair; they pop out and against the wall like tiny, harmless bullets. Sighing, I give up when I can only find half of them on the floor—I really don’t want to leave evidence, but I don’t have the luxury of time—and pull my rebellious mane into a tight knot at the back of my head.

  I pocket the loose pearls. I’ll be able to use them as currency if I need to. Hopefully, though, I’ll be able to take care of Lord Jaucey and return in a few hours. Once back, I will ask Roland to discuss his plans.

  Before I close the armoire’s door, I retrieve the coral lipstick and my communicator tablet from my purse and toss the golden fabriskin robe inside the wooden cubbyhole. It will buy me a little bit more time since Roland or Cat won’t find it right away—unless they are watching me, which would not surprise me—allowing me to leave the Palace Skyscraper before they notice.

  I have to stop Lord Jaucey before he can wage a war against Roland or his people… er, my people.

  Dear Goddess, it’s a mess. No one is my people. No more than the Palace Skyscraper is actually my home. It’s all temporary.

  It’s all insane.

  Suddenly, to my left, a shadow moves and then, before I can react, a nautical stench hits me: blackwater and dead fish. The figure is too short to be Roland or Cat, and there’s only one person who would smell that way.

  Alben Underwood.

  “Figure ya might be needin’ dis wherever ya be headin’ to,” he says in a hushed tone, almost conspiratorial like, thrusting a small object in my direction.

  I almost reject it, thinking it to be a cuttlefish—why else would he smell like he did?—but instead, the small object lands lightly in my hands, its weight satisfying against my palms.

  A dagger.

  The leather sheath is still warm
and slightly damp. Mr. Underwood must have just finished making it. It feels like a lifetime ago that I asked him to craft me a weapon. In reality, it was only just this morning.

  Even in the darkened hallway, I know the weapon is perfect.

  I clasp the leather and pull the dagger out. The contoured, braided handle is faultless in my grip. Slim and grooved where it needs to be, smooth at the base, and then pebbled and slightly flared where the handle joined the blade. It’s an unassuming blade. Dull, matted and pewter in color, its lack of shine and sheen might make it seem like an inferior blade, but, in fact, I prefer my weapons more practical than ornamental.

  A sightless, silent weapon is a deadly weapon.

  “Thank you, Mr. Underwood,” I say just as quietly, re-sheathing the dagger, sliding it under the band of my trousers at my hip. “You honor me. I won’t forget that. I’m not going to ask you to not say anything about meeting me right now. But perhaps it’s best if you don’t say anything at all unless you’re specifically asked.”

  He huffs at me. “Like I give a rat’s ass. Yer business be yer own, mizzy.”

  His statement brings a smile to my lips.

  So much for my new royal status. Alben Underwood couldn’t have cared less, and for that, I think I like him more.

  He retreats back in the same direction he came from, to the dark corner at the end of the hallway, and slips into a doorway that leads down into the subbasement floors. I take notice that, as he walked away from me, he did so with a limp that wasn’t there earlier today.

  Just like me, Mr. Underwood has his own secrets. I’d follow him if I thought that the spiral staircase led me outside. Instead, I retrace the path that will lead me into the back courtyard. The Palace Skyscraper is just too big, too busy, and too confusing to explore a different route. I know I’m on the right path, though, when I find the regal staircase that leads to the room full of couches.