Table of Contents
Dedication
BOOK ONE: Prince of Bryanae
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
BOOK TWO: Warlord of Ignis Fatuus
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
BOOK THREE: Princess of Ignis Fatuus
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
BOOK FOUR: Queen of Bryanae
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Acknowledgements
About The Author
The Bryane Series
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without express written permission from the author, except where permitted by law. For information or to obtain permission, contact Jeffrey Getzin, Boonton, New Jersey.
The characters, locations, and events depicted in this work are fictitious. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintended.
Originally published in 2010.
Copyright © 2014 by Jeffrey Getzin (www.JeffreyGetzin.com)
Cover design and artwork by Carol Phillips © (www.CarolPhillipsArt.com)
Author photo by Wai Ng Photography © (www.WeddingFlair.com)
For Kate and our menagerie
Prince of Bryanae
BOOK ONE
Prince of Bryanae
Chapter 1
Discipline. It was the most important word in Willow’s vocabulary, the pivot upon which her world spun. It dominated her every waking thought. It permeated her soul.
(… 117 … 118 … 119 …)
You could accomplish anything if you had the will to achieve. You could make a weak body strong, overcome insurmountable obstacles, attain seemingly impossible goals.
Take now, for instance. Some might have thought it impossible for any woman, let alone an elven one, to do a hundred and fifty pushups. But Willow did so every day, dominating her fatigued muscles and exacting great things from them.
(… 139 … 140 … 141 …)
The sweat dripped from her face onto the darkwood floorboards of her office, but she would not relent. The cloying cheerfulness of the sun shone through the window to bake her in a pool of brightness and heat, yet she paid it no mind. Her entire being was focused on the maintenance of the hardened weapon that was her body.
Her rapier lay sheathed within arm’s reach. Like her rapier, her body was hard and agile. Like her rapier, her body was lethal and beautiful—not beautiful in the vapid conventional sense of other women, but beautiful in the manner of a perfectly designed and tuned instrument.
And like her rapier, she was nearly ageless. Someday, she might break against a deadlier weapon; someday, she might be discarded by a fickle liege. But until that day she would retain her keen edge.
Her arms screamed at her as she did these pushups, begged her to quit, but she would hear nothing of it. She would yield neither to the pain nor the exhaustion. Hell, it had been pretty much more than century since she had yielded to anything at all. If her arms were too stupid to realize the inevitably of the task, well, that was their problem.
(… 144 … 145 …)
Yesterday’s inexplicable failure of her willpower would not happen again. The mere thought of the Incident caused her bile to rise. Cowardice and inaction had hitherto been unknown to her and she would die before she would look upon those failings again. She had put them behind her now, and she would never look upon them again.
(… 146 …)
She was in control of her body.
(… 147 …)
And she was in control of her mind.
(… 148 …)
She would never fail again. Failure was for the weak.
And …
(… 149 …)
… she was not …
(… 150!)
… weak.
Willow collapsed to the floor, her cheek pressed against the wood. The sweat began to pool around her face, so she rolled onto her back, her chest heaving. She dragged in gasp after burning gasp of delicious air. Her arms felt like wet rags. The tang of her sweat mixed with the scent of oil to form a pungent musk.
Images from yesterday’s disgraceful battle flashed before her eyes: the feral blood-stained snarl on the fur-clad barbarian’s face as he lifted Private Drin from the ground with a single hand. Private Ritchell’s head split by an axe. And she, paralyzed with fear, helpless as a babe while her men were massacred.
Her willpower clamped down on these images, banished them from thought. Yesterday was the past. You could not change the past, only the future. She would not think on these images again. They served no purpose. She would think only purposeful thoughts.
Purposeful thoughts. Purposeful
thoughts.
She rose to her feet in a single fluid motion and then dragged the towel through the pools of sweat with her foot. Her mind thumbed through the list of her tasks for today. What had to be done today? Purposeful thoughts.
Tamlevar. It was about time she did something about Private Tamlevar. In fact, it was long past due.
His commander was weak and stupid. He should have disciplined Tamlevar months ago. The private was becoming increasingly rebellious. He seemed to regard being in the Guard as some sort of game, reacting to orders from his superiors with something bordering on amusement and paternal indulgence. That was something Willow would not tolerate in her company. If Lieutenant Marcus were unable to discipline Tamlevar, then as Captain of the Guard, she would have to do it.
Discipline was her specialty, after all.
Elidon’s son or not, Tamlevar would learn to march in time with the others or he would march right out of the King’s Guards and back into civilian life.
Discipline had to be maintained.
Chapter 2
Willow walked along the noisy streets of Bryanae noting, but uninterested in, the changes that had seemed to explode around her. If she wished, she could recall the days when the King’s Guard wore heavy plate armor, the occasion of King Edmund’s coronation, the arrival of the sorcerer Fyrelord, and most recently, the adoption of the Szun Steam Engine.
The Szun engine was a technological marvel whose potential had barely been touched. It flooded the palace with light even during the darkest nights, pumped water from deep underground, and powered tools that enabled the carpenters for the royals to saw wood at an amazing pace.
So much change in Bryanae and only Willow was constant. As she headed towards the barracks, it occurred to her that she had walked these exact same steps many, many times. Figure twice a day for a hundred and seventy-seven years, that would be, what … over a hundred and twenty-nine thousand times.
A hundred and twenty-nine thousand times. What had it all been for? When was the last time she had enjoyed something she did? For that matter, was she even capable of enjoying anything had she the inclination?
Her thoughts were straying to useless matters again. She needed to remain vigilant. There was no telling when there might be trouble.
“Look, there goes the mighty Willow!”
Like now, for instance.
Willow glanced over her shoulder without breaking stride. Captain Eric Snyde lolled against the outside wall of Company A’s barracks, surrounded by a flock of his fawning admirers in the Guard. His handsome devil-may-care face held no allure for her. She felt only contempt for Company A and its captain.
Rich snobs, all of them. An embarrassing relic of the days when the wealth of one’s family determined one’s military rank. Soldiers in Company C died just as easily and stayed just as dead as those in Company A.
“Don’t worry, boys,” Snyde called out to snickers. “She’s normally much braver than what we saw yesterday. I’m sure she’ll never fail like that again.”
She slowed her pace a moment, stunned by the public affront. Snyde had never liked her, but he usually restricted his attacks to political backstabbing. Willow’s hands balled into fists, knuckles cracking. But then discipline prevailed and she resumed her march.
Later. She would deal with Snyde later.
“I never thought I’d see the day when the legendary elf Captain Willow would stand cowering while her men were slaughtered. For all her posturing, she’s just a spineless coward. It just goes to show that she’s only human, after all.”
That stopped her. Heat rose to her cheeks, and her rapier had half-cleared its sheath before she could stop herself. She heard the alarmed whispers of her antagonists. Snyde waved their concerns away with a single gloved hand and then swept his long, dark locks from his face. His white teeth shone as his eyes dared her to respond.
Dammit, she thought, don’t make a spectacle of yourself. Show some self-control.
She squared her shoulders and then marched into the Company C barracks. The laughter of Snyde and his cronies followed her in.
* * *
“A-ten-tion!” Corporal Eddings shouted, and the men of Squad One leapt to their feet. The rows of bunks were expertly made and all gear had been stowed. At each man’s side was his rapier.
“At ease,” Willow said. Squad One wasn’t the problem. She gestured towards the door on the other side of the room. “Corporal, is Lieutenant Marcus with his squad?”
“Yes, Captain.” Eddings’s eyes remained forward, but she sensed his urge to glance at her. She had failed Eddings yesterday, just as she had failed all the members of the Guard. And they knew it.
“As you were,” she said.
She passed through the room and into the next. Squad Two came to attention exactly as Squad One had. Squad Two was not a problem, either.
She heard Marcus’s voice in the next room. That was where the problem was. Squad Three.
“I say,” she heard Marcus squeal, “this is absolutely wizard! Now be careful.”
She walked to the adjoining doorway. What she saw shouldn’t have surprised her, but it did.
Lieutenant Marcus was sitting in a wooden chair, grinning like an idiot. Private Tamlevar was holding that chair high above his head, gripping a single leg of the chair in both hands. He was attempting to set the chair leg onto the top of his head. Sweat dripped down his black face from which a dazzling smile beamed.
The rest of Squad Three watched the spectacle enrapt. Various nervous titters and muted shouts of encouragement filled the air.
“Quit squirming,” Tamlevar said, his muscles bulging. “This next bit’s quite tricky.”
“I say, you will be careful, won’t you?”
“Of course. Now quit squirming.”
Willow overcame her shock and a cold fury set in.
“Lieutenant Marcus!” she shouted.
The chair came crashing to the ground, and Marcus came crashing down with it. The members of Squad Three scrambled over each other to fall in before their bunks. All of them, that is, except Tamlevar. He knelt beside Marcus, who lay sprawled among the splintered wreckage of the chair.
“Are you all right?” Tamlevar said, his voice raised half an octave by anxiety.
“Yes, yes,” Marcus said, crawling to his feet. He dusted himself off, smiling broadly. “I’m fine. But I say, that was absolutely wizard, why I—”
“Lieutenant Marcus!”
Marcus blinked twice and then leapt to his feet.
“A-ten-tion!” he said.
At last, the squad came to full attention. Willow fought back her rage. The air puffed in and out her nostrils.
“Ah, Captain Willow,” Marcus said. He began to twirl his mustache nervously. “I’m … ah! … glad you’re here. Private Temvelar and I—”
“Tamlevar,” Tamlevar corrected.