The Princess in the Tower
(Schooled in Magic XV)
Christopher G. Nuttall
Twilight Times Books
Kingsport Tennessee
The Princess in the Tower
This is a work of fiction. All concepts, characters and events portrayed in this book are used fictitiously and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 Christopher G. Nuttall
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, without the permission of the publisher and copyright owner.
Twilight Times Books
P O Box 3340
Kingsport TN 37664
http://twilighttimesbooks.com/
First Edition, May 2018
Cover art by Brad Fraunfelter
Published in the United States of America.
Table of Contents
Prologue I
Prologue II
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Interlude One: Lillian Harkness
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
Interlude Two: Simon Harkness
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Interlude Three: Nightingale
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Epilogue
The Family Shame
Excerpt
The Family Shame - Chapter One
The Family Shame - Chapter Two
Prologue I
ALASSA CURSED AS SHE JABBED THE needle into her finger. Again.
It wasn’t particularly ladylike to swear, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t the kind of person who liked being confined to a single suite, no matter how luxurious. She wanted to take her horse out for a ride or practice her magic or share a bed with her husband, not waste her time sewing...she’d never had the talent for needlework, no matter how many governesses had tried to train her in the genteel arts.
She eyed her work for a long moment, then tossed it aside and began to pace the suite. It had everything she could reasonably want, except windows and freedom. The lights brightened and dimmed randomly, leaving her unsure just how long she’d spent in the suite. Her body didn’t appear to have changed that much, as far as she could tell, but without magic it was hard to be sure how well the pregnancy was progressing, if it was progressing at all. She was all too aware that her family found it hard to have children. The mere fact that it had taken her so long to conceive, even with a husband who wasn’t remotely related to her, was proof that the pregnancy wouldn’t be easy.
It has to be done, she thought, resting her hand on her abdomen. The child will be the next monarch of Zangaria.
A wave of despair crashed over her as she lay back in her bed. She’d gambled–she’d risked everything for her friend–and she’d lost. Her father had given her an opportunity to prove that she would defy him, that she would turn against him, and–like a silly little girl–she’d taken it. And yet, no matter how many times she second-guessed herself, she knew she’d had no choice. Imaiqah–one of her two closest friends–was condemned by the mere fact of being related to a traitor, a man who’d betrayed the king. Alassa knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the death warrant was nothing more than a formality. She’d had to move to save Imaiqah before it was too late. And she’d failed...
Jade was out there, somewhere. She clung to the thought, even though she had no way to know if he’d received her message. Mouse might have been caught, when she slipped out of the castle and into the town...or she might have betrayed her mistress and taken her message straight to the king. And if Jade hadn’t received the message...? He’d be suspicious, wouldn’t he? She’d made a point of chatting with him via parchment every day they’d spent apart. He might sneak back into the kingdom rather than ride up the High Street, sure of a hero’s welcome. She hoped he would have the sense to be careful–his father-in-law wouldn’t hesitate to have him executed if he fell into the king’s hands–and bring help. He’d need a great deal of assistance if he wanted to save his wife.
And his child from being raised by the king, Alassa thought. She didn’t think her father would have her executed, but he’d certainly send her into comfortable confinement shortly after she’d given birth. Boy or girl, her child would be the next legitimate ruler. He’ll take the child and raise him in his own image.
She stared up at the ceiling, battling despair. Imaiqah might have already been executed, now that she’d served her role. Sir William should have been safe–he’d been following her orders–but he might have been sent into exile. Not knowing was worse than anything. She’d tried asking her keeper about her friends and servants, but the wretched woman had refused to be drawn on the matter. Alassa, it seemed, was to be kept in a perpetual state of ignorance. Her letters to her mother and father had never been returned. She didn’t even know precisely how long she’d been a prisoner.
The door opened. Alassa tensed automatically, then told herself to relax as a maid walked into the suite. There was no point in trying to fight. She knew from bitter experience that the suite’s wards would immobilize her–in the most humiliating manner–if she tried to attack the maids. She thought she could break through the wards, if she had her magic, but her keeper had been very careful. She’d been forced to drink potions to keep her magic suppressed every day.
She glared at the maid as the young woman placed the tray on the bedside table, then curtseyed. She wanted the girl to flinch, even though it was unmannerly of her. But the maid showed no reaction, save for pointing a finger at a glass. Alassa grimaced as she reached for it, knowing that–again–there was no choice. If she didn’t drink the potion willingly, she’d be forced to drink anyway. She’d had that lesson hammered into her too.
“Very good, Your Highness,” the maid said, as Alassa swallowed the potion in one gulp. “I will be back for the tray when you’ve finished your meal.”
Alassa scowled at her retreating back, taking a drink of mead to wash away the taste of the potion. It tasted fundamentally wrong. She’d tried a few tricks, when she’d started, to make it look as though she’d drunk the potion, but nothing had worked. It was clear proof, as if she’d needed any, that she was under constant observation. The wards would allow their mistress to spy on her captive at any moment if she wished. They might even be clever enough to alert her if Alassa did something da
ngerous.
Damn it, Alassa thought.
The food was good, but she could only pick at it–listlessly–as she sat back on her bed. She was trapped, her body and brain already turning to mush. The servants were practically treating her like a baby, someone who couldn’t even get dressed on her own. Whitehall had taught her that she didn’t need servants to dress herself, but now...it was hard to muster the energy to do anything. She couldn’t help wondering if there was more to the potion she’d been fed than she thought. She’d always been an energetic girl.
But not for long, if I don’t get out of here soon, she thought. She could practically feel herself wasting away as her world shrank to the suite’s four walls. Jade...where are you?
Prologue II
THERE WAS A SMALL ARMY OF guards on the streets.
Sir Roger of the Greenwood kept his face under tight control as his horse cantered up the High Street, his guardsmen following at a distance. He hadn’t expected cheering crowds–it wasn’t as if he’d won a great victory in the last six months–but the sullen atmosphere pervading the city was worrying. There was hardly anyone on the city’s streets, save for the guards. The shops were open, but deserted; the temples were open, yet few people seemed to be going to pray. Alexis seemed to be holding its collective breath, waiting for something to happen.
Perhaps something has already happened, he thought, grimly. He’d heard hundreds of rumors, but each one had been crazier than the last. It feels as if we’re about to go to war.
A twinge of unease ran down his spine as he cantered over the drawbridge and into the courtyard, the amulet around his neck growing warm as it sensed the wards surrounding the castle. He had no magic himself–and he didn’t entirely trust those who did–but he took it for granted. King Randor appeared to have strengthened his defenses, physical and magical, more than ever before. There were hundreds of guards within eyeshot, some of them watching him as though they thought him a potential threat. Roger’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t fool enough to think the guards would respect his rank if the king had ordered them to be suspicious of everyone who entered the castle.
He jumped off his horse as he saw a familiar–and unwelcome–face making its way towards him. Viscount Nightingale, Master of the King’s Bedchamber... somehow, slimier than ever before. The only thing that kept him alive, Roger knew, was the king’s favor, a favor that would inevitably be lost one day. The bastard had so many enemies that the only real question was which one of them would get to him first.
“Sir Roger,” Nightingale said. “The king commands your immediate presence.”
Roger looked down at his sweaty clothes, then shrugged. There was no hurry, as far as he knew, but the king’s orders were not to be disobeyed. If he wanted Roger’s urgent presence–even a Roger smelling of sweat, mud and horse–he’d get it. It was possible, he supposed, that Nightingale had set out to embarrass him, but it wasn’t likely. Abusing the king’s authority would be a good way to get his head on the chopping block. Nightingale knew better than to risk alienating his protector for nothing more than snide amusement.
He passed the horse’s reins to a young man from the stables, then followed Nightingale into the castle and through a dizzying series of security checks. The guards frisked him thoroughly, removing his sword and both of his daggers before letting him into the king’s antechamber. Roger felt a flicker of humiliation at the search, knowing that only his relatively low birth allowed the king to risk treating him so poorly. He wouldn’t have risked searching a baron so thoroughly. But then, it would be a rare baron who was allowed a private audience with the king.
Nightingale indicated the door, his posture indicating that Roger should walk through alone. Roger bit down several cutting remarks–there was nothing to be gained by making an enemy of a man who had the king’s ear–then walked through into the king’s audience chamber. It felt cold, despite a roaring fire in the grate. The king himself sat on his throne, his face so impassive that it could have been carved from stone. There was no sign of the Crown Princess or her husband.
“Your Majesty,” Roger said, taking off his hat as he went down on one knee. “It is a great honor to be...”
“You may stand and face Us,” King Randor said, cutting off the flattery. “We have questions for you.”
Roger stood, carefully. “I am at your service, Your Majesty.”
He studied the king for a long moment. Randor had always been a powerful man–the tales of his martial exploits hadn’t been exaggerated–but now he looked...old. There were streaks of grey in his bushy brown beard. And yet, he wore a sword–it looked to be a charmed blade–at his belt, as well as a suit of golden armor. The runes carved into the gold would make it almost invulnerable to brute force. Randor was clearly expecting attack.
“You opened correspondence with Lady Imaiqah,” Randor said. “Did you come to any...agreement with her?”
Roger blinked. The king had urged him to open communications with Lady Imaiqah, with a view to getting married at some point in the future...clearly, the king was shifting away from that version of events. No doubt the politically-correct version wouldn’t mention the king at all. He’d been unsure how best to proceed when it came to courting a common-born noblewoman who was also a sorceress and close friends with two of the most powerful and dangerous people in the kingdom. No sorceress would accept the role of a traditional noble-born wife.
“No, Your Majesty,” he said, carefully. “We have yet to formally meet.”
The king studied him for a long moment. “The Lady Imaiqah is currently in the Tower,” he said. He didn’t have to say which tower. “Her father was responsible for the attack on Our daughter, on her wedding day.”
“Your Majesty,” Roger said. He was torn between defending Imaiqah’s honor and backing away from her as quickly as possible. There was no way they could get married now. A traitor’s kin were automatically sentenced to death, just for existing. Traitors had to know their families would pay the price if they gambled and lost. “I had no idea.”
“Nor did We,” the king said. “Lady Emily, it seems, was the only one who knew until recently.”
Roger swallowed, hard. “Lady Emily?”
“Yes,” the king said. “She knew and she said nothing.”
He changed the subject with dizzying speed. “How stand the regiments?”
“The first four regiments of musketmen are ready to deploy, Your Majesty.” Roger was finding it hard to think clearly. “I believe the remaining six regiments require more seasoning.”
“We are surrounded by enemies, Sir Roger,” King Randor said. It was hard to tell if he was speaking of the entire kingdom or using the Royal We. “Your regiments may be all that stands between Us and civil war.”
Roger bowed his head. He was a very junior nobleman–and he came from common-born stock–but he’d heard the rumors. The remaining barons were readying themselves for one final joust with the king, while the merchants and peasants were intent on claiming a share of power for themselves. There were stories of taxmen disappearing in the night, of entire communities that slaughtered the king’s inspectors and then fled into the wilderness...the entire kingdom was on a knife edge. And other stories, stories that were completely unbelievable. The war could not be long delayed.
He looked up, meeting the king’s eyes. King Randor was his patron; he’d been his patron since the day he joined the army. He would no more betray his monarch than he’d cut off his manhood. And the king knew it too. He would not have entrusted the musketmen to Roger if he’d had the slightest doubt of Roger’s loyalty. An unscrupulous man could do a great deal of damage with ten regiments loyal to him.
“It is my pleasure to serve, Your Majesty,” he said. “What do you wish of me?”
“Bring your regiments to Alexis,” King Randor said. “And make preparations to move against the barons.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Roger said.
“We will consider the matter of your
marriage more fully at a later date,” King Randor added, coolly. “There will be many available heiresses after the campaign is concluded.”
Roger nodded. The king would distribute the heiresses–and their lands–as spoils of war, sharing them with his supporters. No one, least of all the monarch, would care what the women thought about it. He allowed himself a moment of hope–a good match would render his position effectively impregnable–and then dismissed it. He’d have to wait and see what the king was prepared to offer him.
And hope the king survives long enough to reward me, he reminded himself.
“I thank you, Your Majesty,” he said.
“You may go,” King Randor said.
Roger bowed. “I am at your service, Your Majesty.” He glanced around the empty room. Where was the Crown Princess? And her husband? “I live to serve.”
“Exactly,” King Randor said. “And do not forget it.”
Chapter One
“EMILY?”
Emily jerked awake, her eyes snapping open as she brought one hand up in a casting pose. Someone was close to her, far too close to her...she lowered her hand as she remembered, with a flicker of irritation, just where she was. Cat knelt in front of her, his face grim. Behind him, at the front of the covered wagon, Jade was pulling the horses to a stop. Her body ached as she forced herself to sit up. The stories of settlers driving into the Wild West had somehow managed to miss just how uncomfortable it was to ride in the back of a cart.
“Cat,” she managed. She’d slept for...how long? It didn’t look any dimmer outside, so it probably hadn’t been more than an hour or two. “What’s happening?”
Cat stood and held out a hand. “I think you’d better come look at this. It’s not good news.”
Emily took his hand and allowed him to pull her up. He’d shaved his hair, save for a single blonde forelock, and dressed in leathers. A sword, a knife and a small wand hung at his belt. It marked him as a mercenary, a sellsword of no fixed abode, but it still felt odd to look at him. She didn’t think the mercenary look suited him–or Jade, for that matter. Both boys–men, really–looked unsettlingly violent.
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