Betrayal of Magic, Book One
Jenetta Penner & David R. Bernstein
Crown of Lore Copyright © 2019 by Torment Publishing. All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Crown of Lore: Book One in the Betrayal of Magic Series
Jenetta Penner & David R. Bernstein
www.tormentpublishing.com
www.jenettapenner.com
www.davidbernstein.com
Printed in the United States of America
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 One
TOMORROW MIGHT BE the final day my mind is my own.
I’m not sure why everyone plays the loss of one’s individuality off as an honor. For those in the Relic class—like me—the Transfer of Life Ceremony is the end of any freedom we pretended to have ever had. Might as well fuse a ball and chain to your ankle, if selected. My life will be set, and not in a good way. Plus, I’ll have to live with the creepy memories of some random elder.
Yup, super great honor.
But today, there’s still work to be done. So, get to it Bel.
A sigh of exhaustion exits my lips as I slam my hands against the steel cart and give it a shove. The damn thing is heavy enough without the four inches of mud from last night’s rain pushing back at its thin wheels. I’m strong, but this is becoming ridiculous. It’s nearly the end of the work day, and I still don’t have much to show for it. Just a few yards of copper wire and a couple boxes of busted up circuit boards. Hopefully we can strip some gold from this archaic tech. If not, the Tenant class merchants will stop frequenting our shop, and we need their tokens of Lore or we don’t eat. The Royals don’t do handouts. No Tenants, no tokens—no hope.
My feet are soaked. Silt and gravel ooze through the holes in my boots with every squishy step. A gentle breeze wisps by and I shiver. Strands of hair flutter annoyingly in front of my face. That I can at least fix this moment. I reach back and grab my too-long waist-length hair, grimacing when I notice how the drab, brown color matches the mud caking my shoes—I didn’t need that visual right now—and wrestle the wind-tangled mess through a spare hairband dangling from my wrist. A sting slaps the skin of my hand first, and then I hear it. Snap. Holding back the urge to roll my eyes, I throw the broken tie to the ground. Ugh, this day really can’t get any worse.
And, as usual, I’ve spoken too soon.
Taro and Salis make their way over to me from across the road. The orange-haired brothers think they’re so much better than everyone else for having the ears of the top Tenant class buyers. Their bulky frames fight to not rip through their tops. These boys spend a good portion of their week staying in shape even without having to drudge heavy carts around all day. Probably just to make sure they can push around anyone who tries to compete for the same political leverage.
Since I rarely see the two pulling hours of hard labor at any of the ruins, like the rest of us, I’ve decided they have other ways to make a living. But I don’t really care to find out what that might be today.
In one well-choreographed swoop, I grab the hem of my mud-soaked skirt and tuck the fabric into my belt. Then, with a determined grunt, I give the cart a hard shove.
Nothing happens. The cart refuses to give. Not even a charitable inch. My eyes dart first to the right wheel—nothing unusual. Then the left—the treacherous wheel that betrayed my plans of escape, sinking into the mud instead.
I let out a long, slow breath and steel myself. “Hey boys.” I add an extra dose of artificial sugar into my tone.
Taro takes the lead and makes a beeline right for my cart. He’s the taller of the two, and sports a crooked nose courtesy of his brother, who clocked him in the schoolyard. The whole thing happened maybe six years ago, when I was about ten or eleven.
The brute slows before me and snatches up my wiring. Holding the stolen goods in the air, as if the near-trash were a trophy, he says to his approaching brother, “This will bring a few tokens, yeah?”
I yank the coiled wire from his grasp. “For me. Not you.”
Salis maneuvers in a flash to within inches of where I stand and growls, “Not anymore, little girl.”
His putrid breath accosts my senses and I recoil. For a split second, my mind goes blank. Then, as if on instinct, my fist forms a ball. A feeling surfaces. A familiar injustice. My brother used to steal food directly from my plate, in front of everyone, as if he were entitled to my share. Anger simmers to a boil until it overwhelms me, and my fist collides with Salis’s nose in a satisfying yet sickening crunch! Vibrant red blood seeps through Silas’s fingers as he cradles his injury.
“There, I fixed your face,” I sneer.
Pride from my victory wells up in my chest at the sight, but it’s short lived.
Taro lunges at me over the cart, but I’m quick, and he’s not. I side-step around him and hightail it down the street. Who cares about some stupid wiring and ancient junk? No clue why it was so important to me a few minutes ago either. I twist back after several successful running-stomps through the mud, but Taro, undoubtedly fueled with adrenaline, is nearly on top of me. Gripping my arm, he uses my momentum to throw me to the ground, topping off this disastrous day as mud covers and drips down my entire body.
“You pigs!” I scream.
Taro raises his foot to kick me in the side, and I brace for the crushing pain, when a body plows into Taro and slams him to the ground. I can’t help but gape. Six feet away from me lies Taro, face down in the mud.
Scrabbling to my feet, I whip my gaze the other direction just in time to see a village boy with a mop of wavy wheat-gold hair. Asher flicks his famous rascally grin my way before twisting around to meet Salis. I want to roll my eyes again. I don’t need his help. But, without hesitation, Asher’s powerful right hook meets Salis’s jaw with a dull crack. Salis staggers back and catches himself. For a second, it looks like he might continue the fight. Instead, he straightens his tunic and spits a mixture of blood and saliva into the mud.
Salis curls his lip and growls at my savior, and then grabs Taro by the arm and pulls him up. “Let’s go.”
The brothers stumble off and out of sight.
“I didn’t need your help,” I eventually say. Mud drips down my forehead and I wipe it away. Great. I probably just smeared the mess across my face.
“Arabella of the House of Garin.” My pleased-with-himself savior bows low, as if he were addressing me as Royalty—a ridiculous notion. Something Asher kno
ws will irritate me. “I am quite aware of your fighting prowess, but it appeared as if you needed a wee bit of assistance back there.”
I scoff, but it’s truthfully more of a laugh.
He offers a hand, and I take it and allow him to pull me to my feet, even though I don’t need his help with that either. Asher is only eighteen, but his hands are already rough with calluses. However, pretty much everyone who lives in Arlos, and all the other Relic class towns dotted across the Queendom, have calloused hands. Living out here is brutal. There’s no getting around that fact.
To return his gallant bow, I lower into a playful, deep curtsy. “Asher, of the House of Caine, I thank you for your loyal service.”
Asher smiles widely and, without releasing my hand, tugs me into his arms. “I’m forever loyal to you, Bel.”
I try to squirm from his embrace. “I’ll get you all muddy.”
“So?” The tenor of his voice rumbles through me. “I can’t resist a girl who can break a guy’s nose without a second thought.”
Now I smile wide, remembering the shock on Salis’s face when I did just that. “You saw?” It was more of statement and less of a question. Still, he answers.
“Yeah, I did. And I didn’t want to let you have all the fun.”
Focusing on Asher’s gorgeous emerald eyes and square jaw, I almost forget about my awful day. He’s the ray of sun I can’t imagine living without. I lean in and press my lips to his, soft and warm. Kissing him always feels like coming home again.
And, as promised, he doesn’t care about the muck and returns the kiss with enthusiasm.
Much too soon, I step out of his arms to note the sun’s position in the sky. “It will be dark in a few hours.”
Asher bobs his head slightly. “I am ever at your service, ma’am.” He fetches the copper coil still lying on the ground and tosses the metal into my cart.
Together, we wiggle the cart free and start down the drier dirt path toward home. I spend a few minutes finger combing clumps of mud from my hair and clothes. The stains on my skirt and bodice are bad. Mama is going to be upset, but I’m not as mud-caked as I had originally thought.
Even as the light dims, I can’t help but admire the strong contours of Asher’s jawline as he easily pushes the cart for me. Walking side-by-side, I drive my shoulder into his arm.
He peers down and smiles. “What was that for?”
“I don’t know, maybe because I can . . .” I pause and raise an eyebrow. “… or maybe because I love you.”
He rolls his eyes before facing forward again. “I love you, too.”
He won’t admit it, but I can feel how he’s carrying far more than his share of the cart’s weight now. I don’t bother saying anything this time. He did valiantly save me back there. Not that I’ll boast about that to anyone.
A few minutes pass and we reach my family’s reclamation shop. It’s not much, but with all the overtime hours Asher has put into remodeling the place, it can almost pass as more than a Relic class merchant shack. Before he started working on it, the brittle wood walls and cracked cement foundation barely held up. He’s made the shop respectable with his retrofits. We can’t afford to pay him extra, but I get the feeling he doesn’t mind. He does get extra attention from his supervisor, though—not that he needs my real supervision.
Mama won’t say it, but she would be lost without us. Father passed away a few years ago and my brother went off to the Lore Training Institute. Asher treats her well, even if he’s underpaid. And since he didn’t get a marking last year at the Ceremony, he’s here to stay.
I walk up the few steps to the front entry. Like usual during this time of year, I have to yank the handle. The foundation settles every Fall, warping the frame. After a few tugs I manage to pull the door fully open for Asher as he grabs today’s haul from the cart.
“I’ll take your bounty to the back.” Asher’s full lips twist into a sly grin.
I poke his side as he passes me. “Yeah, you do that, servant boy.”
Mama sits at the service counter studying the shop’s accounting books. She doesn’t even acknowledge us. Her gray-streaked brown hair hangs over the side of her face. The strands almost block the tiny worry lines around her eyes and mouth, ones that have seemingly formed overnight.
We’ve been short on Lore tokens this month. Without them, we’re forced to use the wood stove to heat the living quarters above the shop at night. Every building, old or new, has been integrated with Lore components. I’m not sure what the tokens we all slave for actually are, but I know better than to think they’re magic coins to summon electricity. The Royal Lores will never reveal their secrets. Hiding this knowledge from the working classes is just one more way of control.
I head over to Mama, but a scream sounds off in the distance and I freeze.
The woman screams again, louder this time. I rush to the front window.
“What’s going on Arabella?” Mama calls out.
“I’m not sure.”
Asher storms out of the supply room. The floor cracks beneath his heavy footfalls. He meets me at the window and then we peer through the foggy glass. Up the road, near the ruins, is a gathering.
“I’ll check it out,” he murmurs. “Stay here.”
“Nice try. I’m coming, too.”
Knowing full well who I am, he doesn’t even try to convince me to stay.
“Please, be careful you two!” Mama hollers after us as we dart outside.
The crisp air hits my face. Running only makes my skin colder. Near the old-world ruins, several people are gathered around a Tenant class collection carriage. The crumbling cement and steel building towers above the landscape, casting a long, dark shadow onto the road. Asher flings an arm across my chest, forcing me to a skidded stop. His gaze is locked forward. brows tightening further as he studies the scene. Even on my toes, I still can’t see what’s going on. Asher has about seven inches on me, which he sometimes forgets. Like now.
“What’s going on up there?” I ask, stretching up on my toes again.
“Not sure. I need to get closer.”
I grab his hand and drag him forward. His lips thin into resigned annoyance. I have as much respect for caution as I do anything—
The crowd’s fidgeting bodies have gone rigid and unmoving, as if afraid, cutting off my thoughts. Then people tear away from the gathering. My heart thuds hard in my chest at the sudden, panicked dispersal. Asher no longer lets me pull him forward. His grip tightens and anchors us in place.
Asher mutters, “It’s Favian.”
I narrow my eyes and find the older man as the crowd thins. Favian, the town drunk, is barking slurs at the Tenant coachmen in front of a supply carriage, holding a device in his hands I recognize.
A bomb.
Favian is somewhat of a pyrotechnic. If he’s not drinking, he spends most of his day nearly burning down his little workshop just outside of town. He’s not a bad guy, not really. It’s just his life has been more difficult than the average villager’s.
About five years ago, his wife and two young sons were murdered. No suspects were found, though not that much time was put into finding them. Peasant lives aren’t worth much.
The spooked carriage horses bounce up and down, snorting loudly. The Tenant coachman has his palms up, pleading with Favian to calm down. Not a chance that’s going to happen. For whatever reason, Favian hates the Tenant class almost more than he hates the Royals.
“I have nothing more to give, you pathetic swine,” Favian snarls at the coachmen. “I’m no longer a slave for this oppressive Queendom.”
“We need to go, Bel,” Asher pleads.
“I can talk him down.”
I break free from Asher and start forward when a bright blue burst of light floods the road, launching Favian ten feet into the air. The device flies from his hand and lands several yards back from where he hit the ground himself. I shield my eyes and crouch down, expecting another blast, but nothing happens. Asher races up
to me and wraps his arms around me.
Favian rolls on the ground, struggling to breathe. From around the corner of the ruins, a thundering echo precedes the entrance of a massive horse. Atop the beast sits a regally armored man, carrying a staff aimed at Favian. His uniform appears nothing like our simple peasant clothing. The bright blue sash draped over his black leather- and metal-studded armored breastplate is made of silk, not a fabric we see much around here in this mud hole of a town. A silver dagger is sheathed at his side. I have no doubt he could have the weapon aimed at any one of us in a hot second if he wanted to.
He’s a Royal Guard of Lore.
The Guard dismounts and struts over to Favian, who’s now sliding through the mud to retrieve his bomb. The Guard raises his staff and a blue glow brightens the tip. Favian seizes—in apparent pain—and then his body lifts from the ground until he hovers in mid-air, frozen.
The Guard turns to survey the scattered gathering. “The House of Lore does not tolerate defiance,” his deep voice booms over the crowd. “Without order, chaos emerges. Chaos brings punishment. By the power of the House of Lore, I sentence this man to death for crimes against the Royal family.”
My body tenses, but Asher’s strong hold prevents me from moving. This isn’t right. I look at Asher, tears welling up in my eyes. “Please . . .”
“He’ll kill you, too, Arabella.”
Feeling helpless, I turn to watch the horror. The Guard steps closer to Favian, the staff’s power still holding him a few feet above the ground. With a flick of the Guard’s wrist, Favian’s body twists, bones cracking and limbs distorting. He’s not even able to scream. The Guard pulls the staff upright, disengaging the power, and Favian’s body drops to the ground in a deformed heap.
Chapter Two
I OPEN A cabinet in the kitchen and remove an ornate, carved box made of antique oak. I can almost feel my father scraping his chisel over the raw materials as I run my fingers over the intricate patterns. Most people thought his hobby was a waste of time. Creating beauty is never a waste, he would say. Sometimes for me. Sometimes for himself. And sometimes to dismiss the pessimists.
Crown of Lore (Betrayal of Magic Book 1) Page 1