A Sharpened Axe

by Jill M Beene

  A

  SHARPENED

  AXE

  Jill M. beene

  Copyright © 2018 by Jill M. Beene.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Jill M. Beene

  1259 Paseo Redondo Dr.

  Merced, CA 95348

  www.jillmbeene.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout ©2015 BookDesignTemplates.com

  :

  A Sharpened Axe/ Jill M. Beene. -- 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-0692152959

  To my mom, Babs,

  who makes things better wherever she goes.

  Contents

  PROLOGUE-1

  CHAPTER ONE5

  CHAPTER TWO13

  CHAPTER THREE21

  CHAPTER FOUR 31

  CHAPTER FIVE37

  CHAPTER SIX41

  CHAPTER SEVEN47

  CHAPTER EIGHT57

  CHAPTER NINE69

  CHAPTER TEN75

  CHAPTER ELEVEN83

  CHAPTER TWELVE89

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN95

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN101

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN109

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN117

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN133

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN145

  CHAPTER NINETEEN161

  CHAPTER TWENTY169

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE181

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO193

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE201

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR211

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE219

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX229

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN239

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT247

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE255

  CHAPTER THIRTY263

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE269

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO279

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE295

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR303

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE311

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX315

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN 323

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT337

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE347

  CHAPTER FORTY355

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE361

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO371

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE385

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR391

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE401

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX415

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN431

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT439

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE449

  CHAPTER FIFTY459

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE 467

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO471

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE479

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR483

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE489

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX491

  EPILOGUE495

  Acknowledgements-497

  Author Bio-498

  Prologue-

  Beatrice took a deep breath and smiled. They had worn bright colors for her. Traditionally, the Questioning was a somber affair, fashionable blacks and greys only, a sign of respect for a dead girl still breathing. But below her was a dazzling kaleidoscope of colors. The throne room glittered, each woman a shining scarab beetle, each man a plumed peacock. She knew it was their own hope that they wore in the form of fuschia silks, emerald chiffons, sapphire satins, and sunset velvets.

  Beatrice’s eyes lingered on the white limestone of the great throne room shimmering in the candlelight, the glass dome showing the benevolent stars twinkling above, the trays of fizzing champagne glasses passed by servants... for celebration, she realized. For after.

  Beatrice wanted to remember every detail of this night for as long as she lived.

  Guided by a slight pull in her stomach, she stepped carefully down the stairs, her jewel-encrusted slippers firm on each step. She did not want to trip; every eye was on her. Beatrice was heavier than was the present fashion, but today even the most strident of the fashionable ladies would forgive the pastry-induced dimples in her elbows.

  She wore yellow. It was the color of all her favorite things--softened butter in a bowl, gentle sunrises, spring daffodils poking their heads through the soil. It was the color of new beginnings, of hope. Her dress had swirling ruffles of silk chiffon over the bust, the cinched waist, the wide, exaggerated hips. It weighed too much, this dress, but excitement made her steps light.

  Beatrice was nervous, but only in the way a happy bride is nervous. She was frightened, but not in the way of one approaching the gallows. She just hoped her normally shy voice would be clear when she answered the questions. She did not want this moment spoiled for anyone because they could not hear the words, words that would break the curse forever. This night was for her, yes, but it was just as much for all of them.

  From the carpeted dais at the front of the room, the Crown Prince beamed at her. Soon they would be wed, soon they would emerge from the nightmare that had so long gripped the country. With her eyes focused on her beloved, the last slip of nervousness dissipated like fog in the sunlight. Beatrice reached a spot on the limestone floor, and the tension in her stomach faded away.

  A beam of golden light enveloped her and the faces of those watching were draped in shadow. Beatrice clasped her fingers together and waited. A mystical sound, the ringing of a thousand shimmering chimes, echoed in the room.

  “Beatrice Simone Osorio, do you love?”

  The voice was female. It was at once terrible and beautiful, endless and comforting, ethereal and familiar. It sounded like birds singing up the sunrise and of hail hitting a metal roof.

  This question was one of two that had been heard nine times before. Beatrice was prepared for it.

  “Yes,” Beatrice answered, happy that her voice sounded as clear and confident as the bells that signaled noon in the market square.

  The light beam increased in brightness, but they had warned her, told her this would happen. It was nothing to worry about. Beatrice thought she could still see Fitzhumphrey smiling at her from where he stood near his throne on the raised platform. She lifted her dimpled chin.

  The lovely voice sounded again, and Beatrice grinned, knowing that she had passed the first test.

  “Beatrice Simone Osorio, who do you love?”

  “I love the Crown Prince, His Royal Excellency, Fitzhumphrey Augustus Monterosso.” Beatrice’s voice was clear, her smile was wide.

  The beam of light surrounding her intensified, and she waited for the third question, the one that no one had ever heard, the one that would set the nation free from the curse.

  After a moment, Beatrice saw Fitzhumphrey’s smile falter, saw his eyes grow wide. She followed his gaze upwards, until she was looking straight up into the light. It had grown so bright it was nearly blinding now. Her forehead wrinkled in confusion a split second before the white-hot fire poured down upon her.

  And she was screaming, screaming
as she burned to death in her yellow dress.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Five Years Later...

  In the country of Leiria, in the province of Cattule, down an overgrown, nearly forgotten lane, was a scrolled iron gate. Beyond the gate was a sprawling stone manor, beyond that, a well-tended kitchen garden, and beyond that, a steep cliff and the roaring sea.

  Samiris Orellana trudged up the worn stone walk to the kitchen door and kicked it open. Her arms were full of wood, logs hewn at an even length by a confident swing. The cool morning air chased her into the cavernous kitchen like a stray dog, and she kicked the door shut against it.

  “Morning, Magpie,” Samiris called to her sister, Tamrah.

  “How many did you cut this morning?” Tamrah replied over her porridge, by way of greeting.

  “Four. Pull on your gloves and come help me unload the cart?”

  “You don’t have to wear gloves,” Tamrah accused, shoving back from the table and pulling on worn leather gauntlets that came up to her elbows.

  “There isn’t any hope left for my hands.” Samiris chuckled, stacking the logs next to the overflowing wood rack. “You might still fool someone into thinking you’re a lady.”

  “Not likely,” Tamrah retorted. “They all know you’re my sister.”

  Samiris playfully kicked her sister’s backside as the girl ducked out the door.

  Tamrah was six years younger than Samiris, who was only a fortnight into her eighteenth year. Samiris was tall and olive-skinned like their father. She had the coloring of a strongly-brewed cup of tea, with long, full dark hair which she impatiently wound and pinned out of her face every morning. She had inherited her father’s high, stern cheekbones, and her eyes were chestnut with flecks of green and gold, tree leaves toward the end of autumn.

  Twelve years ago, her sister came into the world on the very night that their mother left it. It was not coincidence then, the way Tamrah had their mother’s eyes, their mother’s laugh. Tamrah was a cup of tea with a large splash of cream. Her eyes were a dark, crisp green, muted sunlight on a patch of forest moss. Her hair was brown, but when she stood in the sunlight, glints of fire caught the light, their mother’s claim from beyond the grave.

  It had been a scandal when their mother, Lady Alrive Vanover of Taloome, brightest jewel of the Northern courts, wed their father, Odan Orellana, a lord from the Southern territories. Alrive was fair, with skin the color of freshly-skimmed milk, hair the color of burning embers. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and a smile was never far from her lips. Odan was tall and dark, which might have been forgiven by the Vanover family had he been immensely wealthy or at least somewhat dashing. But Odan was steady and solemn, and the Vanover family could not understand what Alrive did: that the best place for a flame to burn is not next to another, but with a piece of wood that might sustain it.

  They were married in a small forest rectory by an official with no allegiance to his family or hers, as was required in a non-contracted union. It did not matter that Odan was nobility. As far as the Vanovers were concerned, his title was more than canceled out by the considerable distance of his lands from the capital, and the way he made his living, which was farming.

  Odan himself was not a farmer, of course, but his lands contained vast swaths of agriculture. It did not matter to the Northerners that he was a generous and capable lord, nor that his holdings, far superior to the Vanover lands in size, were more than enough to provide for Alrive and any children that came forth from their union. No, as far as the Vanovers were concerned, Alrive might as well have run off with a gypsy.

  Her family would not receive them into their manor once the marriage was completed. Instead, the couple stood by the gold-leafed gate as trunk after trunk of her belongings were brought out to them. It was meant as a shaming, that. For Odan’s carriage, though handsome and capable, could not carry all of his new wife’s possessions. So she chose what to take and they left while servants still piled laden trunks on the curb.

  Samiris rubbed the strange twinge in her belly and watched Tamrah unload two logs to every four that she herself carried. She smiled as Tamrah smoothed down the front of her oft-mended apron and took time to pat their old mule, Mora, on the head before taking up another load. If there was one pride in Samiris’ life, it was that she had been able to shield Tamrah from the painful labor and deeper grief of their situation. Perhaps there was hope for her sister yet, hope of a good marriage to a wealthy lord in the North, someone who would not only keep Tamrah’s stomach full and buy her the beautiful gowns she coveted, but who would fill her heart with joy as well.

  When Samiris was thirteen, her father became bedridden. The Wasting, the servants had whispered amongst each other before slipping out under the cover of night and not returning. It was a disease caused by exposure to the magic that was slowly bleeding the lifeblood from their land. There were no country remedies for this disease, only a tonic from the North that cost a king’s ransom. Had Samiris sold the house, the lands, and herself into indentured servitude, she would have still been unable to afford it.

  She knew. She had asked.

  Even the tonic was nothing but a dream, now. Their country, Leiria, had been deprived of the key, magical ingredient when the fae kingdom cut itself off from mortal lands. The only thing that slowed the Wasting was warmth. Warmth meant a fire, a large one, burning both day and night, through every season, in her father’s chambers. Very quickly, Samiris found that you couldn’t cut wood in a dress. So she had commandeered some rough trousers and a tunic from what the servants had left behind, and pawned her mother’s wedding ring to buy proper boots.

  The first tree had been the hardest. The groaning of the failing trunk had terrified Samiris, and she had nearly run into the path of its fall. She came home that day with a paltry armful of wood, her arms bleeding from scratches that made it look like she had tried to drown a cat. Now, she could have three trees down and stacked in a good hour of work, if her axe was sharp enough. Samiris found that it was essential to have a sharp axe.

  There was no shortage of wood. They had trees, vast acres of them in front of the house. When the blight had appeared, her father had hewn down half their forest, tilled it, and tried to plant crops. But magic is not something that can be cheated, and the crops all died. Better to let the trees grow wild, her father had said, when she suggested, years later, that they try again. Perhaps some deer would make their home there, and then they would have meat.

  But few deer ever came, and without servants or coin, they lived off of the couple of fertile acres of ground that surrounded the house. They had a cow, a mule, a pregnant sow, and six chickens, far more than most. In the freezing morning hours of winter, when Samiris felled yet another tree with numb fingers, she reminded herself to feel grateful.

  Samiris, Tamrah and their father now resided in part of the servants’ quarters. Samiris and her sister had rooms that once belonged to their cook and scullery maids. Their father’s room had been the nursery. It was located above the kitchen, so it was warmed twice-- once by the huge hearth in the kitchen below, and again by the large, pot bellied iron stove in the nursery itself.

  The carved fireplace in the kitchen was large enough to roast an entire cow over a spit, had someone wanted. When Samiris was young, she had been frightened of the kitchens, of the large bed of coals glowing in what looked like the gaping mouth of a huge carnivorous sea serpent. Now Samiris looked at the same hearth with new eyes. It was no longer a mouth of a hungry beast; it was the smile of a beneficent creature. As long as she fed it; it would frighten away the cold that threatened to kill her father and in the same dying gasp, Samiris’ freedom. Samiris would need to marry, and soon.

  She grimaced at the thought.

  In the dim fog of her childhood memories, life had once been easy, pleasant. Her father had been upright and strong, his laughter booming through the polished halls. Her mother
was beautiful, loving, and prone to singing. The Orellana manor had bustled with cooks who kept Samiris’ favorite cookies in a special crock, maids who tickled her with their feather dusters, and grooms in the stables who held her up to peek at newborn foals.

  Life now was so vastly different that Samiris sometimes wished that the good memories would fade, bleached away with time like color from a piece of driftwood on the shore. Instead, the memories hung about her, gnats that darted in to tease her when she was most vulnerable.

  When the cart was unloaded and stored beside the garden shed, when Mora had been brushed down, fed and watered, Samiris helped Tamrah feed the animals. The sun was high overhead when Samiris packed hard biscuits and some jerky in the satchel at her belt and filled her canteen at the well.

  “I won’t be back for dinner,” she told Tamrah, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “There were some tracks in the forest that I want to follow, and I want to hear the news from the capital.”

  “Ask if Widow Morga’s dog has whelped yet,” Tamrah replied.

  Samiris rolled her eyes. “I think we have quite enough to do without taking care of a puppy, but I’ll ask.”

  Samiris smoothed a hand over her sister’s hair. She was careful to close the scrolled wrought iron gate behind her when she passed the stacked stone wall that separated the manor from the surrounding lands.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Samiris ducked into the forest. She paused to let her eyes adjust to the dim. Here in the forest was where Samiris felt most at home. Moss draped over fallen logs, velvet mantles over caskets. The pine trees rose above her, pillars of a great open-air cathedral. Their verdant branches rubbed and whispered against each other in the breeze. The damp smell of moist earth and rotting undergrowth enveloped Samiris like a unique incense. Here, she was in control, she was mistress.

  Samiris pressed a hand to her aching stomach. Something had been off for weeks. She couldn’t afford to be ill; healers cost money, and so did herbs. Samiris had ignored the sensation at first, when it was only a slight pulling sensation here or there, much how the wives described a new child within. Thank goodness there was no chance of that. Now it was a constant pain within her. And it was getting sharper every day.