by Brandon Barr
Her Father’s Fugitive Throne
Brandon Barr
Contents
HEARTH
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
QUICK FIRE
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
LOAM
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
HEARTH
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
QUICK FIRE
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
LOAM
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
HEARTH
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
QUICK FIRE
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
HEARTH
Chapter 22
LOAM
Chapter 23
HEARTH
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
LOAM
Chapter 29
HEARTH
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
LOAM
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
HEARTH
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
RAM
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Acknowledgments
Thank you
Reviews
Thanks
About the Author
Copyright © Brandon Barr
All rights reserved
Cover Art by
Deranged Doctor Designs
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
HEARTH
“My sword is like a brutal winter storm, my blade slashes cold as ice and swift as a gale. Its song rings, night and day, crying for blood, bone, and marrow. And for the Beast. How it hungers for that monster.
-Monaiella, Journal of a Future Luminess, Year Nineteen
Chapter One
MELUSCIA
Savarah crouched low to the ground, fingers tracing a gouge in the dirt. Her fierce eyes flashed up at Meluscia, brows curved into a scowl.
“He was waiting for me there,” Savarah pointed, “behind that tree, then stopped here beside the house.” She plucked at a broken weed. “Harcor knew I was coming.”
Meluscia stared at Savarah, dizzy with questions. Why had her sister come here in the first place? And why had Harcor, her father’s loyal servant, laid in wait for her?
“Why would Harcor try to kill you?” asked Meluscia.
Savarah stared out into the forest from her crouched position. “I’ll answer your question, but first you answer mine.” She stood and brought a hand to her chest, to the place where the arrow had pierced. “I think I know why I was healed. The man who was with the girl that healed me made it clear—the gods were sparing me so that I would kill for them. But there was something the man said that I don’t understand. He said I had some kind of creature attached to me. A spirit creature. What does that mean?”
Meluscia frowned. “I’m not sure, but it does remind me of something Katlel told me. The Northern Sea Kingdom has a manuscript that was penned before the Age of Primacy. It is the only one known to exist, and it is only five leaves of a larger work. But Katlel said it talked about the Makers giving all men helpful spirits...perhaps that was what the leader of the prophets was referring to. Wiluit. That is his name.”
“He wanted to remove the spirit,” said Savarah. “Made it sound like a dark thing. Do the Makers give dark gifts? Gifts for killing men?”
Meluscia wanted to say no, but felt ignorance was more honest. “I have not heard of such gifts,” she replied.
Savarah stepped past Meluscia as if summoned by the thick, shadowed forest that loomed at the edge of Harcor’s property. Meluscia turned as her sister continued to move away from her.
“Are you not going to answer my question?” asked Meluscia. “Why would Harcor try to kill you?”
With her back still to Meluscia, Savarah gestured for her to follow.
Meluscia sighed and traced Savarah’s footsteps. She felt anxious, afloat in a stream of questions. Savarah could help answer some questions, but others swirled around Wiluit and his band of prophets. Would they help her? Would they continue to give her guidance from the Makers?
Could she bring herself to do what the gods told her to do? Could she tell Praseme the truth? Should she?
She winced at the memory of creeping into Praseme’s room in the dark where her husband, Mica, slept alone. Slipping into their bed. Allowing Mica to believe she was Praseme, his wife, when she was only a thief, desperate for physical touch.
Was it not wrong and cruel to confess this to Praseme, even if it was a form of penitence? The thought of saying the words that had to be said sent her heart pounding. Prophetess Jauphenna’s voice repeated the command to confess over and over again in her mind, cold and heartless.
So many things pressed upon her. She still had King Feaor to win as an ally, while back at the Hold, Valcere sat on the throne as her father withered away. And even if she succeeded in her mission to King Feaor, would Valcere hand over the power of the throne to her?
The hope she’d had two days ago felt frail.
“Where are you taking me?” asked Meluscia, looking back, unable to find Harcor’s house through the dense trees and brush. Savarah had led her deep into the forest.
“Out of the reach of ears,” said Savarah.
Nervous, Meluscia folded her arms across her chest. “So tell me. What happened here?”
“I came to Harcor’s house to kill him. And I would have if Osiiun hadn’t warned him. That’s why he was ready for me.”
Meluscia stared at Savarah in complete bewilderment. “Warn him of what? Why would you kill Harcor?”
“Because he was a spy for Isolaug. So was Osiiun. And so was Aszelbor. I killed each of them.”
Meluscia’s eyes widened in horror. Her sister...killed the undercook? Killed Osiiun—one of her father’s ten riders? And she claimed they were spies of the Beast. Spies living within the boundaries of the Hold, and in such powerful positions. It seemed impossible. Osiiun and Aszelbor? Harcor?
“How do you know they were spies?” she demanded.
For a brief moment Savarah’s teeth shone in a distorted smile. “Because I am one of them.”
Meluscia shook her head feebly in confusion, but as she did, Savarah’s unwavering eyes silenced any response she might have had. She suddenly felt very alone. It couldn’t be. Her mercy sister, as wild and strange as she was, couldn’t possibly be what she claimed. And yet, something deep in Meluscia believed it—knew it to be true now that the words were out in the open. Her heart throbbed in her neck, and every hair on her body prickled at the revelation.
Savarah’s arm swung up to her own face. A dagger flashed in her hand, the point balanced between two glinting orbs—the eyes of a woman that Meluscia no longer knew.
“I was supposed to kill you, sister. To bury a knife with the markings of the Verdlands deep in your chest. But something happened to me.
“Do you remember when I found you in the Scriptorium over a month ago, kissing your hand? That was the day I chose to forsak
e my master, Isolaug. Because of people like you. Kissing your hand. All the soft-brained intimacy and foolish longing your people have for one another. So easy to manipulate, so vulnerable, and yet, beautiful. Beautiful in your foolish love for one another.
“Living at the Hold, I saw how much care your people have for those who impair the kingdom. Those that hindered the powerful were treated with such attention and gentleness. The deformed, the feeble, the weak-minded—they are embraced, and the whole of your people are made weaker because of it. You are wasteful and unstrategic. You feel emotions so powerfully that you cry, have empathy, and you need each other so desperately.
“All I had to do was show up at the gates of the Hold with a sad story, and your father, the most powerful man in the kingdom, took me as his daughter. And you, my pretty sister. You treated me so kindly, as if I was your blood sibling.”
Meluscia was lost for words, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
Savarah squinted, the muscles on her face rigid. “Little more than a month ago, I was still going to kill you. If I’d been given the task even a year ago, I would not have felt a sliver of emotion if I had looked you in the eyes and driven a dagger through your chest. I want you to know that about us. About the spies that are still alive. We have no hearts. We feel nothing.”
Meluscia stood, eyes fixed on the knife held in her sister’s hand, soaking in her sister’s words like the ground trying to drink up a flood. “Can you please put your knife away?” said Meluscia.
Savarah slid her knife back into its sheath.
“How is it possible?” asked Meluscia, trying to grasp the reality of Savarah’s words. “You were only eleven when you came to the Hold. How could a child be born without a heart and emotions?”
“The Hold and the other kingdoms have no concept of what Isolaug is capable of.” The savage look in Savarah’s eyes pierced Meluscia’s soul. “Do you know what it does to a child of one and two years if you show them death again and again and again—and then before they turn three, when they can barely talk and formulate thought, you teach them to kill for survival, for food, for approval? You bleed the heart from the child.”
Meluscia shook her head. The thought of children being raised in such a way brought a sharp stab of shame and disgust in her chest. Children were innocent. Receptive. Susceptible to the wicked ideas of grown men and women who’d left innocence behind. Her hand slid down to her stomach, her mind drifting to her own child. A girl. A blameless little girl. Born out of her mother’s craven longings. She didn’t deserve this fate. To be birthed by so selfish a mother, fatherless, with her entire future an open question, no certainty of a home or safety.
Meluscia pressed her hand more firmly against her stomach. “Where does he get these children from?” she asked.
“From the Praelothians,” said Savarah. “Isolaug has them feeding from his trough like swine. They worship him as their god and king.”
The Praelothians...the fate of the Star Garden people—these things had remained a mystery, and Savarah had just confirmed that they still lived. How had Isolaug managed to turn their allegiance to the point of worshipping him? It seemed impossible. Questions ran through Meluscia’s mind, but more pressing was her concern for her sister. Meluscia felt deeply for her, despite all she had revealed. Murder. Deceit.
“You said that before your change of heart, you wouldn’t have felt a sliver of emotion over killing me…those words imply that you feel differently now. That you care.”
Savarah’s face did not soften, but her gaze drifted upward into the trees. “A sliver. I feel a sliver of what you feel. And that is enough for me to know that betraying my master is what I want. As I said. You and your people are weak. But...it is a more beautiful life. Strength without compassion and without tenderness is not beautiful at all. It is only dominating.” Savarah’s right hand gripped tightly at the air before her, as if seizing something. “I have a sliver of what you call love. A distorted, wretched variation of what you experience, but what I have is mine, and I will kill all the world to protect what you and your people have.”
Savarah’s violent words and deeds took on a deeper meaning for Meluscia. She couldn’t imagine being raised by the Beast, Isolaug.
“I overheard some of Jauphenna and the boy prophet’s words spoken over you,” said Meluscia. “Is that why you have told me your secrets?”
“Yes, in part. I had planned to travel with you to the Verdlands, to kill the spies that live in that land as I killed those at the Hold, but Harcor has spoiled that now. He will tell the others about me. I have no other choice but to return to Praelothia and attempt to do what it is I have purposed in my mind.”
“And what is that?” asked Meluscia.
Savarah’s face was wooden. “Kill the Beast. My master, Isolaug.”
“That’s throwing your life away!” cried Meluscia, surprising herself with the forcefulness of her response. “What chance do you have?”
A trace of pride shone in Savarah’s eyes. “I was one of his favorite pupils. I have sat in his presence countless times before. And whether I die or not, you have no chance of dissuading me from my mission.”
“When has anyone dissuaded you from anything?” asked Meluscia. “Father couldn’t even keep you from running off into the woods when you were young. We thought you were just unruly and wild.”
“Now at least you know what I was doing when I left you all to fret about where I’d gone. I was telling your secrets.”
A chill ran up Meluscia’s neck. So that was what Savarah had been doing when she disappeared into the forest…
“I must know, what has Isolaug done to Praelothia?” demanded Meluscia. “You know how desperate we are to find out what the Beast is planning. How strong are his forces? And what of the Nightmares he sends to our lands—what is their purpose?”
“There is much I could tell you. But only a little will matter. You should know that Harcor is responsible for the entire conflict between the Hold and the Verdlands. He murdered the very first woodcutters and then left evidence to make it appear that a band of Verdlands farmers had been responsible. And he led a troop of Nightmares to massacre a group of woodcutters here at Tilmar. From that beginning, he was able to form raiding parties among the woodcutters to attack the farmlands, and the farmlands responded in kind. Ever since, your father and King Feaor have blamed each other for the bloodshed. And if you have any hope of defeating my former master, you will need every sword-bearing man and woman of every kingdom to unite and march together against Isolaug. His strength would still be two or three times that of all your armies banded together. The Nightmares you see are only a distraction—the Nightmares you would encounter at Praelothia’s gates are far more vile and stronger than the weakling outcasts that show up on your borders.”
Meluscia recoiled at the news of Isolaug’s strength. If the Beast was as powerful as Savarah claimed, he could take all of Hearth. The thought of such an uneven battle sickened her. The slaughter. The massive loss of life. The possibility of what Isolaug would do to her people if he were victorious over them.
“There is hope, though,” continued Savarah. “One I cannot fully explain to you. There are people from other worlds that live within the Star Garden. They are called Guardians. They came through the portal, and Isolaug has disguised his identity and power from them. If your combined forces came against the gates of Praelothia, he would be forced to reveal many of his secrets to fight against you. The blinders would fall from the Guardians’ eyes. I believe the Guardians would bring their forces to bear on Isolaug.”
“You believe?” said Meluscia. “How can the Hold risk the lives of so many on such an unknown? Are these Guardians powerful enough to even the battle?”
“From the little I know, they are far more powerful than Isolaug.”
“And why would they help us?”
“Because that is why they came to Hearth. That is why they are protecting Praelothia. From Beasts on other worl
ds. They don’t realize they are sitting on the lap of a Beast whose claws are waiting at their throat. And that poses a problem...for if we are to have the Guardians’ aid, they can’t have their head decapitated before they’ve had a chance to help us. Isolaug may sever their ability to communicate. And if he does that then no help will come, and he’ll turn around and utterly destroy you. But, if I know my master, he won’t throw away several hundred years of worming his way into the Guardians’ trust. What he might do to try and hold onto Praelothia and also keep the Guardians’ trust—I do not know. But you should force his hand. Doing nothing will only play into his plans.”
Meluscia pondered that last point. Of everything Savarah said, doing exactly what Isolaug wanted seemed the worst possible plan of action. “He would destroy us, sooner or later, wouldn’t he?”
Savarah looked east toward Praelothia, then back to Meluscia, her face grim. “Your twenty-third birthday is in two weeks. Meluscia, I swear, if you sit on the throne and do nothing, your kingdom will burn before you reach thirty years of age. Isolaug is so close to achieving his ultimate goals. You know how an Aeraphim inhabits an animal body and becomes a Beast. But did you know he can change the animals? That is part of an Aeraphim’s power. He’s so close to achieving what he wants. He’s preparing a body for himself. The frail thing he inhabits now has always been a temporary vessel. In his new form, his hide will be impenetrable to every weapon on your world.”