Lost Kingdom: Book 1 in the Lost Kingdom Series

by Maggert, Terry

  “Asked to leave. What a polite way of saying your lands are overrun, your people dying, crops in flames. Asked to leave. I rather like that,” he said. “I’ll be sure to use it in the event we ever seat another king or queen.”

  “You don’t like our chances of surviving? As a people?”

  “I don’t think my opinion matters. It’s you, and your people, and whatever it is that waits in Silence. Then, of course, there’s the matter of who did this to you. To us,” he amended.

  Corra ran an absent finger down the side of her face. There was a long scratch, shallow but angry, flaring out on her pale skin. It resembled a brand, and she let her fingertip trace the erratic path all the way to her jawline. “I don’t think I even know what happened, let alone what to do next.” Her voice was small. And hesitant with the unknown.

  “I’m not sure it matters, my queen. All I care about now is preparing you to lead. We will have no regency, no protectorate. There is only Sindelaar, and the castle, and our high peaks and glass gardens. No variance, no sweeping changes for a world that cares little of us. Of you.”

  “And you think books like”—she paused, reading—“Deepwater Fishes of the River will help me?” Her voice leaked derision, though her face was composed in an expression of polite interest.

  “Maybe not that one, but yes. The books are here for you. For Sindelaar, and all of us. You have training, but you need more. You must lead, and—”

  “I was told leaders are not made in libraries. They’re forged in the field, Master Ainault.”

  “That is true,” he said.

  “My husband is dead. My parents are dead. We have no leadership whatsoever, and no explanation as to why I’m in a glorified rookery for queens who need to brush up on the identity of fish. My patience ran out the moment my blood ran clear of the drug that kept me in a stupor, and now I need answers. I need to act, not sit. Do you understand?”

  “More than you know, my queen. It is my sole purpose, and has been since I first picked up a knife more than forty years ago. Do you know how many times I’ve had to use that blade?”

  Her lips pulled to one side in disapproval, and Ainault saw her father’s stubbornness shining through. “Is the answer something vague like none, because your skill is such that the presence of excellence means fighting is unwarranted?”

  “Six.”

  “Six?” she asked.

  “Yes. Even with my reputation, I’ve still had to draw a blade six times, five of which ended in fatalities. What does that tell you, my queen?”

  “There are five fewer stupid people?” she asked, regretting the cheeky tone at once.

  “Technically correct, but devoid of understanding my point. No matter how much a soldier wishes to avoid taking life, it will invariably happen. No amount of preparation will insulate you from violence, Corra. None. Do you understand why?” He selected a book and held it like an egg, his eyes focused on the spine.

  She held her tongue for the moment, letting his question sink in. There were so many possible answers, she felt herself tossed in a current of confusion. Then she looked at the book he held and knew the truth, a shining beacon of reality she’d never considered.

  “Cruelty is part of the human condition,” she said, confidence growing as she finished the thought.

  “And greed, and anger, and all manner of things that are the exact opposite of what it means to be a queen. You must set all of that aside and then work against each and every trait you would avoid. You must be many things to your people, but only one thing to yourself, Corra.”

  “I must be truthful,” she said.

  “Yes, and that will be the hardest thing you’ll ever attempt, because the truth is a knife that cuts both ways.” He held a different book out to her, and she took it in a gentle grip. “This was written three hundred years ago, and every word still rings true.”

  The Pain of Justice, read the lettered spine. “Who wrote it?” Corra ran a fingertip over the silver letters, feeling their ablation from years of existence.

  “A queen much like you. She was nineteen, the oldest of six, and the only person standing in the way of a civil war. The Faunhill and Mergansi were not always such gracious neighbors, you may be surprised to learn.” The two tribes tolerate each other at best now, after three centuries of unification. She couldn’t imagine what they were capable of in an outright war.

  “How did she do it? How did she make peace from war?” Corra asked.

  “Not only with her blade, that much is certain. She did it with decisions that would drive a lesser person mad, and she went on to rule for nearly three decades before a fever took her in the heart of winter. Justice is a fine thing, Corra, but it can also be raw, uncaring, and even brutal. That’s why character matters. You must reach within yourself to find the best of your parents, and Ren, and whatever it is you are when the door closes and you’ve only your own presence for counsel. That is what will drive you south, Corra, into the lands of heat and fear, and you won’t be able to do it alone. You must lead, not just punish. The two are quite different, I can assure you,” Ainault said.

  “I never thought they were the same, but if my purpose is based in spirit, why have I trained in the pits, and the range, and everywhere else for my entire life? Please don’t tell me it was for nothing.”

  “Because of all the souls you must win to the cause of peace, at least one will challenge you with a blade.” He considered that, then added, “One or more. Not everyone will follow a noble path, Corra, but you must. That means being prepared to serve, not just kill, but it would be foolish of me to let you leave here without understanding both paths. Our nation depends on it. Your throne depends on it, and so do the memories of everyone who came before you here, and in the south, and even in accursed Silence.”

  She brandished the book at him. “If you’ve given away the ending, then why should I read it?”

  “Because it’s the details that you will learn from, not the conclusion. Also, I told you to, and until you leave here, I’m nominally in control.” He grinned, and it was the first light of hope she had seen in his face since arriving.

  “Why the sword?” she asked. Her blade rested against a bookcase, in scabbard but close to hand. His sword and knife were on a small table, their points hanging in space like an unfinished threat.

  “Ahh, that. If you’ll humor me?” He moved to her, offering his hand. “Take my hand and crush it.”

  She didn’t hesitate. Her own hands were calloused from training, if a bit soft due to her long immersion in the river and then sleeping away her trip to the north. She grabbed his hand in hers and squeezed savagely. Her skin went bone white, strain sending tendons into a rictus along the muscular length of her forearm.

  Ainault smiled. “You’re strong, very strong. That’s good. You may let go, my queen.”

  She did so, shaking her hand out to rid it of a sensation of buzzing insects, the blood rushing back to render her skin a rosy flush. “I couldn’t hurt you.”

  “Not that way,” he said in agreement. His tone was instructive but not arrogant.

  She looked down at her treasonous hand, lips pulled to one side in disgust. “I assume you’ll show me how to —” She lashed out with her other hand, striking him a glancing blow to the ribs as he whirled away, breath hissing outward. When he came to rest, his hands were up, and he balanced perfectly on both feet. The entire motion had taken less than a second. She was fast. He was marginally faster, despite her element of surprise.

  A smile played at Ainault’s lips. “You understand, my queen. The most fundamental issue for smaller combatants is to remove every advantage their opponent has. There are no fair fights, Corra.”

  “Only fights, and winners, and losers,” she said.

  He nodded, going loose in his stance, but not entirely unprepared in case she attacked again. “You must use your strengths against whatever is coming, my queen, and that means that when a blow is about to land on you—”


  “Don’t be there,” she finished.

  “Precisely. Speed and accuracy are your tools, and you must be a ghost on the battlefield in the event your inspirational presence is not enough to sway the tribes of Silence against their more base instincts. Remember, there is a part of each person that truly does not want to see blood. You must draw upon that at every opportunity, but in the event there will be violence, your elusiveness will grant you opportunities for the best kind of victory.”

  “Which is?” she asked. He was in territory she did not understand. To Corra, there was winning and losing. She would aspire to do only one.

  “A quick, decisive win that allows your enemy to live,” he replied.

  “Live? Surely not all of them will become adherents to the concept of peace, especially after a force from the north brings war to their doorstep.”

  “Dead soldiers serve no master but the earth itself, Corra, and until you can reverse the act of death, you would do well to remember that. Reason and justice will triumph where brutality cannot, and the hardest thing I’ll ask you to do is let your enemies live.” He lifted his knife, the edge gleaming in the varicolored light from the mosaic ceiling. “Controlling a blade is much more difficult than using it. The same is true of one’s own desire to kill, if you even have it. Do you?”

  She thought of Ren, laughing beside her, but now little more than a chill corpse in the river’s depth. Her mother’s face. Her father’s smile, all of the people on the barge, and the dreams that were about to be answered under the light of two full moons. Her blood began to heat as hairs stood on the back of her neck, a conflicted chill that told her in no uncertain terms, yes, she could kill, and with pleasure.

  When she smiled, Ainault drew back in alarm. The girl was gone. This woman was something else, and he had to help her find out how to walk the line between rage and revenge.

  “I can kill,” she whispered, every sound the purest of truth.

  “I know, my queen, but your life will not end when you fight to bring justice to Silence. Despite your sorrow, it will go on, and you’ll have to find a way to live with someone you’ve never met before, and it will be hard.”

  “Who? What person will dare to be near me then?”

  He looked at her with sad eyes and took her hands, trying to quiet the rage building in her heart. “Yourself.”

  Rocketry

  West

  “I don’t understand why you’re complaining so,” Cherry said.

  “Because . . . my . . . guts . . . hate . . . gravity,” Nolan hissed through his teeth.

  Avina said nothing, having blacked out a moment earlier. Beneath them, the chemical rocket roared with vicious efficiency, kicking them back into crash chairs made well before reactive gel was even so much as an idea. The jumpship was small, loud, and punishing to ride in, but Nani hadn’t been lying.

  It was fast.

  “How . . . long?” Nolan asked. There was no chrono, and the display had gone stone dead seconds into the flight. The engine, however, kept burning hot and bright, pushing them higher until—

  Null G. Bliss. Relief.

  Nolan choked back bile, and Avina lifted her head, eyes streaming with tears.

  “Please tell me we’re dead,” Avina croaked.

  “Not quite. About to be, unless I regain some kind of telemetry,” Nolan said. He tried the finest engineering trick in the book, lashing out at the display with a gloved fist.

  “No joy,” Avina said, leaning back in her chair again.

  “No need.” Cherry reached out, popped one of the ancient avionics panels, and stuck her hand to it. The black screen flared to life, showing a single green line—their path—overlaid on a continent that looked a hell of a lot bigger when viewed from the thermosphere.

  “I’m going to mention, before we hit the atmosphere as a screaming wreck, that we are way the fuck off course,” Nolan said.

  “We are farther north than intended but still within inhabited zones. I believe we will land in an area known as the Faunhills, near one of the major cities. It’s cold but livable, Nolan, and don’t forget you’re wearing insulated layers. Our main issue is the chutes,” Cherry said.

  “Please don’t tell me they’re gone?” Avina asked. She was pale but seemed more alert.

  “I’m getting a signal that there are three, and they are functional. One is even an airbrake, and while some deterioration might be an issue, we’re okay. We’ll land high, soft, and walk into the city.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?” Nolan asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “It’s just that—well, I—”

  “Cherry. You’ve never hesitated to level with me, even when we were neck deep in shit. What could—”

  “Look at the screen. I picked this up on the scanner. It’s a glorified telescope but not bad for its age.”

  An image resolved on the antique screen, clarified, faded, then popped solidly into view. There was snow, and rocks, and then—things. Large things.

  “Are you kidding me?” Nolan asked.

  Avina looked on in alarm. “What’s the problem?”

  Nolan waved at the screen in disgust. “Space cows.”

  “Yep,” Cherry said brightly. “And they’re everywhere up in them thar hills.”

  Radwill

  North

  Tilden was a sneak, but Radwill was better.

  He knew this because Tilden never saw him as he watched from the stony heights, covered in horndall fur so nondescript as to blend perfectly with the rocks around him. In person, Radwill was unforgettable, but when he lay in wait, the archer was as close to invisible as a person could be.

  His brown eyes narrowed in the stinging snow, watching, as he always did. Tilden was the agent for Marlivay, of that he was certain, but there had to be other people involved. Being a hunter, Radwill was blessed with natural suspicion, so he crouched in the swirling snow and was rewarded when Tilden slipped out of Vondaar’s room to climb down one level and enter the kitchens. The spy was just another one of the masses going in and out of Sindelaar’s beating heart.

  “Clever lad,” Radwill muttered, his words torn away by the keening wind. He usually spoke for his own benefit, spending most of his time in the mountains, bow across his lap and nose turned up for hints of danger.

  He didn’t need his nose to sense what Tilden was about. The man’s body language roared with deceit, a fact that Radwill tucked away as he continued to watch, and wait, and decide when he would inform Balant and the others of his little side project. So many things to see, and all spiraling back to the fact that someone had killed his king and queen, leaving their daughter twisting in the vicious winds of a nation on the brink of invasion.

  Radwill touched his bow for reassurance and placed one foot on a ledge that was invisible to most humans. He was bred for the mountains, and shooting, and the hunt. Watching Tilden build a network of lies was the best use of his time now that Corra would take the throne. He couldn’t imagine anyone voting against her, and there was no one left, unless you considered that worm Vondaar to be a legitimate possibility.

  Radwill did not.

  He knew frauds. He’d seen bold people collapse into tears after a night in the mountains, their boasts dissolving into tears as the wind and snow ripped at their façade of bravery, razorbeaks crowing in the dawn and other unseen things moving through the rocks toward the safety of a lonely, sputtering fire.

  He’d been around many fires with Corra, and she never complained. He thought she rather liked the desolation, being a child of winter and stone. There was little unseen about Corra. She lived as she thought, open and honest, if a bit hot-blooded in his opinion, but that was hardly a trait to curse given the need for useful anger during times like these.

  He knew lies, and there was nothing better than the North itself to reveal truth. Vondaar would collapse at the first hard storm, if he ever left his rooms at all, and that was something Radwill would turn into reality, no matter the cost.
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  He slid down the rock face, a shower of snow announcing his descent, but there was no one to see it, and no one to see him. Not here, and not ever. He was invisible by design, and there would be fresh bread in the kitchens, and stew. Even at this height, he could smell the delicate spices wafting through ventilation shafts, pumping warm air into the frigid dusk.

  Radwill’s feet hit the ground, and he slung his bow, smiling. Tilden would be in there, and it wouldn’t do to seem overly aggressive, so he adopted a casual pose, then began walking to the tall doors. Everything in Sindelaar was connected by tunnels and halls, in order to keep the winter at bay. Since Tilden came here specifically, that meant any help he would have could access the kitchens, too.

  Radwill began thinking of tunnels, a map unfurling in his mind as he figured access, exits, and possibilities.

  “Only two. Good.” He pulled on the door, smiling. Sometimes, when hunting vermin, it was best to let them see you first.

  Landing

  North

  Unlike their first landing on Janusia, Nolan was nearly relaxed as they drifted through the air at a sedate pace, swaying under the massive chutes.

  “This is better. Much better,” he said.

  “Than your first landing? Same for me. This is like—like a holiday. Or something else I’ll never do again,” Avina said.

  All three of them rode with weapons ready, prepared to pop the door and fire if needed. The space cows were one thing, but they were drifting close enough to Sindelaar that anyone with a keen eye would see the capsule, still glowing, as it descended.

  “There,” Cherry said, pinging a location on the screen. “We land there.”

  “Good as any for me,” Nolan agreed.

  It was a high meadow, open in the middle, covered in a brilliant snowfield and lit by the moons. Stone outcroppings ringed the landing zone, covered with small trees that huddled against the unceasing winds.