Ashes of Dearen: Book 1



  Ashes of Dearen: Book 1

  by Jayden Woods

  Copyright 2011 Jayden Woods

  Edited by Malcolm Pierce

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  Recommended for Mature Readers

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  Cover design by Jenny Gibbons

  Stock photos used:

  “Spirit” by dazzle-stock

  “Clouds 8” by AmythestDreams1987

  “Bodiam Castle” by Eve Livesy

  ***

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 - The Joyful Curse

  Chapter 2 - The Wolven Way

  Chapter 3 - Metronome

  Chapter 4 - Lenses

  Chapter 5 - The List

  Chapter 6 - Suitor

  Chapter 7 - Eleanor’s Ultimatum

  Chapter 8 - The Edge of Pain

  Chapter 9 - Darius

  Chapter 10 - Desire

  Chapter 11 - Storm

  Chapter 12 - Haze

  Chapter 13 - Key

  Chapter 14 - Merchant’s Message

  Chapter 15 - Dungeons

  Chapter 16 - Prisoner

  Chapter 17 - The Logical Decision

  Chapter 18 - Engagement

  Chapter 19 - Wounds

  Chapter 20 - Punishment

  Chapter 21 – Wedding Day

  *

  1

  The Joyful Curse

  “Where do you think the Haze comes from?”

  “I don’t think about it at all.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why should I?”

  The brother and sister strolled the hillsides beyond the grand Dearen palace. As heirs to the throne of Dearen, Kyne and Fayr Violeni spent more of their time within the palace than without. Today they took the rare opportunity to stare at their home from afar. From a distance, it became more obvious that the soft glowing Haze covering the whole land of Dearen lay most thickly upon their own royal abode. What made this fog distinct from any other in the world was the magic substance that floated within it: a glittering dust known as safra.

  Safra brought intense pleasure and joy to anyone who consumed it—anyone, that is, but for the few remaining members of the royal Violenese bloodline.

  The large fortress glittered like a pile of jewels in the distance. Part of the palace’s charm was its inconsistency; some sections gleamed with deep silver stone, others with crystalline pillars, while yet more sections dazzled the eye with inset gems. The sprawled structure was a compilation of sections built by different cultures and peoples, all of whom came to Dearen for a pinch of the safra obtained from the Haze.

  But as young Prince Kyne had observed, the beauty of the palace was offset by the coils of smoke drifting from its surface. Sometimes, the smoke had a beauty of its own. Tiny pieces of debris caught the sunshine and sparkled with brilliance. Across the vast landscape, the rolling Haze diffused the light and made the entire land glow as if with an enchanted fog.

  “Do you think safra creates the Haze, or the Haze creates safra?” asked Kyne. His eyes opened wide with wonder, even though his purple hair lashed sharply against his face.

  “Neither!” Fayr turned up her sharp little nose, enjoying how highly she towered over her brother. She had just turned eighteen. He was not yet thirteen years of age. She liked to think she knew a lot more about the world than he did, although at times like this, the difference seemed slight. She had to take pride in what little knowledge she had, or else spurn it altogether. “The Haze always has safra in it. They are both created, simultaneously, by something else. At least, that seems obvious enough to me.”

  “Then what creates them?”

  “You already asked that.”

  “Not exactly. Anyway, you didn’t answer.”

  “Nor will I ever. You sound like a commoner, asking such foolish questions!”

  “Why is it foolish? Why can’t we ask where the safra comes from?”

  “Because we can’t!”

  Fayr began to feel flustered by the conversation. Once upon a time, she pondered the same questions as her younger brother. In truth, she still did sometimes. But she gave up asking them a long time ago. Better not to ask such things; better not to think of them at all.

  A wind blew and made the Haze ripple across the landscape. As she breathed the fresh air, Fayr realized something strange. For just a moment, she smelled the air as it should smell: pure, without safra. And it smelled wonderful.

  “Look over there,” said Fayr suddenly. “Did you see that?”

  “See what?”

  “Over there!” The Haze was settling again, but in one area, it remained thin enough to see through.

  “What is it?”

  “I think those are the cliffs of Vikand!”

  “Are you sure?” He strained, as she did, to stare through the silver grip of the Haze. But there, on the edge of the foggy horizon, lay a large shadow, slicing the smoke with sharp black crags. “How could it be? I thought Vikand was further away!”

  “Dearen is a small place, physically,” said Fayr. “Haven’t you paid any attention to Jayn’s lectures?”

  “Yes, but ...”

  “The entire kingdom of Dearen can be crossed in a day on horseback.”

  “Are we really so small?” Prince Kyne’s little face drooped at the thought.

  She put a hand on his velvety shoulder. “Only in size, brother. And yet we are the most powerful kingdom in the world. Don’t let it bother you.”

  He seemed comforted by this, although he could not rip his eyes from the looming shadow of Vikand. Neither could she.

  “Let’s get closer to it,” said Fayr. The mere thought set her heart pounding.

  “How much closer?”

  She didn’t answer, but turned and made her way to the dense grove of lemon trees where they’d tethered their horses. She looked down at herself, watched the undulating colors of her skirt ripple beneath her, and pondered the strange sensations roiling through her body. She relished the quickening of her heart and the warm excitement in her belly. And that wind … why had it smelled so good? She’d lived in the palace all her life. She was accustomed to the strange Haze that made most people happy. Most people said it smelled like roses. But now that she was further away from it, she wondered if it stank.

  A strand of purple hair fell into her vision and she reached to brush it back. It reminded her that she was not like most people in more ways than one. The violet hair shared by herself, her brother, and her father made them different from anyone else in the world. It indicated their ancient heritage, and thus their distinct inability to enjoy safra.

  In the silky soft shade of the grove, she found their horses. There were three steeds in all: two white palfreys for herself and the prince, and a gray destrier for Sir Gornum of the royal guard. The guardian himself lay spread under a berry bush, his bearded mouth hanging open, his large eyes closed in sleep. He wore no armor, only studded cloth, for who needed armor in Dearen? She hoped the studs jabbed him as she kicked his drooping belly.

  “Gornum. Gornum, wake up!” She sent a scowl to her brother, who trailed doggedly behind her. “You gave him too much safra.”

  “Father told me to!”

  “He told you to reward him with safra, small pinches at a time, and only after he has completed each service. Don’t you understand? That is how it works. Why can’t you ever get it right?”

  “Oh ...” Kyne’s nose crinkled a little. He blinked rapidly.

  “What are you doing now?” She grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her. “Are you about to cry?”

  “Of course not!” But the moisture in his eyes betrayed him.

  “I can’t believe you, Kyne. If Father saw you right now, or if he hear
d the sort of questions you were asking ...”

  “Please don’t tell him. Please, Fayr!” His blinks became more rapid and violent.

  She shook her head and clicked her tongue reproachfully. “Not this time, I won’t.” She moved to her horse, grabbed the saddle, and climbed upon its back.

  “Are we going back home now?” asked Kyne.

  “No.” She huffed as she settled her skirts about her. The heavy jewelry upon her neck and wrists only made her movements awkward. She resisted an impulse to rip them all off. “I want to go further.”

  “Father won’t like that at all!”

  Fayr flung her head back and breathed deeply of the air. “Can you smell it, little brother? I didn’t realize it until now. The Haze. It stinks!”

  “Mother says it smells like jasmine.”

  Their mother was not like the two of them. She was their mother, of course. But she did not have the Violenese blood of their father. She did not share the bright purple hair of her husband and children. “Does it smell that way to you?”

  “Well …” He bowed his head, letting his short purple locks fall over his brow. “I suppose not ...”

  “Come on then.” Her horse could feel her impatience. She pulled on the reins as the beast writhed beneath her. “Let’s go just a little further. Let’s get away from the safra.”

  “But Father says the Haze covers all of Dearen!”

  “Then we’ll get closer to the cliffs of Vikand!”

  “What about Gornum?”

  “Never mind him. If the Haze covers all of Dearen, then it will protect us as always.”

  She did not wait for him, but kicked her horse and bounded forward. She did not even care if he followed.

  Now that she had caught a whiff of fresh air, she wanted more. She wanted it like a horse wants water after running for miles. All her life, she had lived in the safra-infused Haze and endured it. While it intoxicated everyone else with joy, it blinded her with its constant glow. The stench, which she’d breathed so long that she stopped noticing it, had been suffocating her since birth. Now she needed to escape, if only for a moment. She needed to breathe pure air. She did not know if she would find such purity any closer to the cliffs of Vikand. But it seemed worth a try.

  The palfrey’s white hooves thudded down the slope and into a thickening stretch of trees. The cliffs of Vikand always seemed to cast a long shadow over the Dearen valleys underneath, even if the sun shone upon them. For this reason, the forest growing beneath them was called the Shadowed Woods. The tree limbs cast shapes like intertwined hands across the soft auburn soil. Dandelion tufts from the meadows floated through the air and brushed her skin as she passed. The darkness wrapped around her and sent a chill down her back. For some reason, she liked it.

  “Fayr? Fayr!”

  She glanced over her shoulder and saw her brother galloping after her. Very well. He would catch up to her, or he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter. The only creatures in the woods were birds and tigers, and the latter never attacked Dearen natives: only strangers. Whether the siblings got separated or not, neither of them faced any danger.

  A dark shape flitted past her vision.

  For a moment, she felt fear. But almost as quickly as it came, the fear dissipated. She had thought she saw a man in strange leather clothes. For a moment he had seemed to glitter, but of course this was probably a consequence of the safra in the air. Even here, deep in the Shadowed Woods, safra hovered about, drifting and sparkling. In one sense, its presence continued to irritate her. But on the other, she was relieved, because wherever there was safra, there was safety. It was a tremendous blessing, even if sometimes it felt like a curse.

  Her horse neighed and flung Fayr from its back.

  As she flew through the air, she watched the soil rise up to meet her, and in that moment before she struck, she pondered what had happened. A breath ago, she and her horse had thundered through the forest with a perfect rhythm. The shadows danced, the safra blurred by, and her hair trailed behind her in soft purple streams, unable to keep up with her momentum. Now everything stopped, and her hair spilled ahead of her.

  Her cry became lost in the soil as she smacked against the dirt.

  Pain. Pain. Pain. She forgot that anything else existed. Then she heard the moans of her horse. She also heard the snapping of twigs as something crept towards her. The second sound came from the opposite direction.

  With a groan, she tried to rise up. The world spun. She wondered how long she had been lying there, and how badly she was hurt. But more importantly, what had happened? Horses were rarely so clumsy as to fall like that. She saw the beautiful white beast sprawled in the dirt some distance from her. Crimson blood rolled down its leg.

  A leather hand wrapped around her mouth and nostrils. A knee struck her between the shoulder-blades and pushed her back down. The pain was excruciating, but she couldn’t scream. She couldn’t even breathe.

  “Fayr? Fayr!”

  Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision. Even through the watery ripples, she saw the white shape of her brother riding closer.

  “Call to him.” The voice of her captor was as deep and grating as metal against stone. It also sounded muffled, as if he spoke through a mask.

  She wriggled and thrashed, but this only tightened his grip on her. He flung her around, pressing her back against the earth. He straddled her chest, and if she could have, she would have screamed with terror as she looked up at him. He was the same man she glimpsed running through the trees. He wore a tight suit of leather, and indeed it did glitter, but not because of any safra. It glittered because it was covered with metal spikes, small but sharp. A mask covered his face, shaped and painted to resemble a wolf’s. Through two small holes she saw his real eyes, glinting with a cruel shade of red.

  Cold metal pressed to her neck. This surprised her because he did not seem to be holding something as large as a knife. “Call him here, or you die now.”

  He let go of her, but for a moment, the weight of her fear kept her paralyzed. She was too dizzy and frightened to breathe, let alone make a decision. As soon as she was capable, she screamed.

  He struck her in the face. Her head rattled as she thrashed again. But his strength pressed her down, and she glimpsed the flash of his weapon—a curved metal shard—as he returned it to her neck. This time she knew he would kill her.

  A pale shape arose behind her captor. For a ridiculous moment, Fayr thought her horse was coming to her rescue. Then she realized that it was a man wearing blue, except for his hat, which was full of colorful feathers. He did not seem like a typical hero in the least: he was slender of build, dark of skin, and his clothes seemed almost clownish. But she did not have a chance now to consider his strange appearance, nor his choice of attire; all that mattered was that he had managed to sneak up on the man in the wolf-mask, then whack him over the head with a large stick.

  Her rescuer struck in such a way that the wolf-mask cracked and fell off. The man growled and reached for it, but too late to catch it. Much of his face remained hidden, nonetheless, for he wore a handkerchief over his nose and mouth.

  Fayr’s hero grabbed the handkerchief, using it to yank the assassin backwards. “Safra!” cried the fellow in the feather-hat. “Get safra!”

  Fayr scrambled to obey as her captor and protector fought against each other. The man in the wolf-mask had been caught by surprise, but he was regaining control of himself quickly. As the feathery fellow pulled at the kerchief, working to undo it, the wolf-man twirled the naked metal across his gloves. His red eyes flicked to his opponent’s feet, which he aimed for with his strange weapon.

  While all of this happened, Fayr pulled a pouch of safra from her belt.

  “Now!” cried the rescuer, tearing off the kerchief.

  It was almost as if it had all been pre-planned. Just as the kerchief fell away, baring the assassin’s mouth, Fayr opened the pouch and flung safra towards him. A fountain of glittering dust
sprayed into the villain’s face. He gagged as he first breathed it in. Then his entire body went slightly limp. The blade fell from his fingers. His lids grew heavy over his red irises. He sagged forward, nearly falling upon Fayr with his leather suit of spikes. Only chance, or perhaps luck, kept himself from doing so. He caught himself with one hand. Fayr had a brief moment to stare into his face, a face wrinkled with age and scars, gleaming with red eyes that burned with fury even as the safra overcame him. Then she wriggled out from under him.

  The assassin fell against the soil, suspended slightly by the studs along his clothing. Then he shook suddenly with laughter. “Ha. Haha. Hahahahah!”

  Fayr’s hero crouched down beside her and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right, Princess?”

  Fayr just gaped back at her strange savior. Her whole body trembled against his touch. She thought she might break into tears if she wasn’t more careful. She mustn’t do that. Her father was going to kill her already. Best not to break his most adamant rule of all, which was to never cry in public, and thus reveal to everyone that safra had no effect on the few of royal blood. “I … I … I’m fine,” she gasped at last.

  “Good.” The man in the feather-hat smiled. His black eyes softened and his muscles sagged with relief. The safra in the air must have affected him, too. “Strange thing, isn’t it? I don’t often take a stroll in the Shadowed Woods like this. The one day I do, I find you, the princess herself, and then I save your life! How very lovely.”

  “Yes. Lovely.” She forced a smile onto her face. She had become very skilled at faking smiles, over the years. “What is your name?”

  “Oh please, I am only a humble merchant.”

  “Well then … Merchant. You will be rewarded with much safra.”

  “Fayr? FAYR!”

  At long last, Kyne came galloping through the trees. Next to him rode their sleepy guard, Gornum. The prince—rather than Gornum, who seemed dazed enough to ride into oblivion—pulled his horse to a lurching stop as he took in the scene before him. First he caught sight of Fayr’s fallen steed, then the Merchant in the feathered hat, and at last the would-be assassin, face-down in the dirt and shaking with giggles.

  Kyne’s face turned bleached white. “What happened?”

  Fayr stood up and brushed off her satin dress, but it was her composure she straightened more than anything. Somehow, she found it easiest to feign calmness around her little brother. Perhaps because she did it for his own sake, too. “No matter. All is well.”

  “Maybe it is now.” Kyne gulped, preparing himself to make his wisest statement yet. “But it won’t be when Father hears of this.”