Nevermore, the Complete Series (81 page)

Thank you for reading the Nevermore Series! ‘Destiny’ was by far the hardest thing I have ever had to write, and the ending pained me deeply. Over the years these fictional characters have been such a huge part of my life that it hurts when they hurt.

I wanted to end this book with some information and a word of hope, however. Although this fourth title is the final book in the Nevermore series, it is not the end of everyone’s story. There will eventually be a sequel series which focuses around Madison/Lenore being the main character. This series will finish up a few loose ends, make new ones, and unravel some that seemed final in the Nevermore series.

Does Alexis ever get ‘better’? What happens to the boy with the red eyes? Will Lenore ever learn of her heritage? Did Salem truly die?

All these and more will be addressed in the next series! Please make sure you sign up to my mailing list to be notified as soon as book one is released, simply click the below link.

http://www.kaylapoe.com/p/newsletter.html

And thank you again for reading Nevermore!

K.A. Poe lives in Arizona with her husband and daughter. Someday she hopes to travel the world and live life to the fullest she possibly can. Writing has always been her passion. When she isn't writing she spends a lot of time reading, playing computer games, browsing the web, and spending time with her family. She has a vivid imagination, an eccentric personality and collects colorful socks.

To learn more about the author please visit her website at:

http://www.kaylapoe.com

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Twin Souls (Nevermore, Book 1)

Hybrid (Nevermore, Book 2)

Sacrifice (Nevermore, Book 3)

Destiny (Nevermore, Book 4)

Darius - Episode One (Through the Rift)

The King's Hourglass (Avarial Trilogy, 1)

Please enjoy this sample of the first book in my epic fantasy trilogy—The King’s Hourglass (Book One of the Avarial Trilogy). It is available to purchase at all major digital retailers.

King Aramond sat tapping his fingers in boredom against the arm of his throne as the jesters played a show for him, as dull as ever. They were no longer as skilled as they once were, perhaps because they were gaining in age, as was the King. One man suddenly lost grip of one of his juggling knives, which hit one of the other jesters in the foot. As he flipped an hourglass over and over repeatedly in his hand, the King barely noticed the high-pitched scream coming from the injured fool. Leaving a trail of small droplets of blood the jester hobbled out of the throne room, bound for the healing quarters.

The remaining two jesters attempted to impress the King, oblivious to the fact that he was not paying any attention whatsoever. King Aramond was preoccupied with watching the beads of sand trickling one by one toward the bottom of the hourglass. No matter how often he flipped the device none of the beads returned to the upper portion. A heavy sigh slipped out from between the King's pale lips as he contemplated the unique timepiece he held.

Nearly seventeen years prior to this day he had sought out the help of a wizard. It was on that day that the King received the news from his wife that they would be expecting a child, and he had an idea. Aramond often dwelt on the notion of death in those days, to the point that it even crept into his sleep and haunted his dreams. His father had been killed at the age he was now, putting Aramond in the throne at barely sixteen and unprepared for what was to come. He did not want to put his future offspring in a similar position. It was a time of peace in Dulcor, but one never knew what was to be on the morrow. He met with the wizard in pursuit of a magical item that would predict his time of death, and that is when he obtained the hourglass. The King knew he could not put off the inevitability of death, but he was to make sure it did not catch him and his family unprepared.

King Aramond was disrupted from his thoughts when his son and only heir entered the room. The prince muttered something about the Forest and ran back out the door before Aramond could even respond or ask for an explanation. He thought little of it, Divian was sixteen now, a man grown after all, and he often grew restless in the castle grounds. His son was more likely than not headed off on a hunt. Yes, that must be it.
The King resumed his repetitive flipping of the hourglass, his mind’s eye set clearly on the beautiful wife he had lost, now so many years past. He often thought of her. It was true that royal marriages were planned by fathers and mothers and were more often than not done for political or financial reasons, but Aramond loved Valora fiercely. The Gods had been good to let their lives lead to such a matching, but cruel to take her from him so young, and with only one heir.

Aramond rose from his throne, a chair made of hard stone, softened and made comfortable with layers of plush red satin and golden silk. He sat his glass companion down on a small table he had had made for this sole purpose,
then began to walk across the room. The jesters danced and sung around him, trying to get his attention and summon a smile but he simply strode past them and climbed the great stone stairs. The throne room of Avarial sat at the base of a large ebony tower, rising high and contrast to the rest of the white castle below. The queen’s tower, as it was called now, was a beautiful but formidable keep. The walk up the ever winding steps was beyond familiar to Aramond and he scarcely even noted the worn stone below his feet, ground smooth from a thousand years of King’s boots.

At the top he met two of his King’s Guard, who he had notion were sitting before they heard him approaching, but he paid them no mind. They stepped aside and bowed deeply as Aramond walked passed and pushed open the large red door to his chamber, then shut it behind him. Immediately to the King’s right stood the windows which gave the tower its name.
One large, with a smaller one to each of its sides. The two small windows were not much more than two feet tall and held no glass or cover and a cool breeze pushed through them now. Aramond noted the dead hearth and cursed softly under his breath. The guards had grown lazy in the long stretch of peaceful years, and the servants took advantage of the King’s lack of punishment. Maybe he need change that, but the thought left as he stared at the Queen’s window, his thoughts once again returning to his lost love.

The center window stood tall, at least eight feet. In the time that Queen Valora shared the
chamber, the window seat was her favorite place. She would sit there for hours, gazing across their kingdom, or with her nose between the pages of a random volume from the library. To the southeast, just passed the inner walls of the keep was the castle grounds, always alive with the sound of music and chatter. In times of peace the area was open to all, and in such a long stretch of peace the area had been heartily filled with merchants, entertainers, and travelers. Every once and again when the breeze blew just right she could smell the waft of meats roasting on their spits, glazed in sweet honey and herbs.

To the west laid the stables, training grounds and smiths, though they had rarely been used as such in recent times. It was more common for the area to lay host to a tournament or festival now than anything. Beyond the outer walls lay the houses of the more common folk and peasants. When the wind blew the smell of pasture and farm in through the window in place of roasting pork and fowl the queen had enjoyed it all the
same; it brought nostalgia of her childhood homeland. The smell wafted through on the cold breeze now and the King shriveled his nose.

After the Queen’s sudden death, King Aramond had bashed the window out with his own hands in grief and anger. A two foot hole in one’s chamber is one thing, an eight foot one is quite another, however. Within a fortnight he had ordered craftsman and artist alike to build the glass which now filled the hole. It was a wondrous sight, near as beautiful as the Queen herself, though sometimes Aramond wondered if the image brought him more grief than solace.

The workers had done a tremendous job. Where once there had been nothing but thick glass and steel reinforcement, now stood the queen. Her stained glass depiction filled the window and when the sun rose in the morning and cast its light from the east it was as if she lived once again, forever watching over her beloved kingdom from her most familiar spot. The King wished his wife truly stood there now, but she did not, and the sand in his hourglass downstairs trickled on. Soon he would be gone too.

One could tell by the obvious age and wear across the green slate tiles that led from the throne room to the kitchen that this was a path often tread. The prince attended breakfast at the same time each day for all sixteen years of his life. Directly after sunrise he would wander down the corridor that connected his room to the base of the Queen’s tower, make a quick right and enter the lord’s dining hall and discover a fresh loaf of bread, some hard cheese, and a small bit of meat and nuts—usually salted pork. He would devour it swiftly and rarely be seen in the castle again until late in the evening.

After leaving the Throne Room, the prince exited through the castle doors, where he was met by two men clad in armor, each wielding a spear clutched within their ornamental steel gauntlets. The two guards bowed their helmed heads in allegiance. The prince had not acknowledged this gesture in a long time, not since he was old enough to realize they were bowing to his lineage and not to him as a person. He did not want only to be respected for what his ancestors had accomplished; he wanted to earn his own respect.

As if the young prince were the sun itself, he passed over this same path every day at nearly the same time—out the castle door, through the ever-opened portcullis, across the thin wooden bridge overlooking the dry moat, then down the short stairs past the inner wall and another portcullis. Today he was determined to finally take the path into the Forbidden Forest, a journey which had to be more exciting than the now boring routine of hunting, fishing, or practicing with swords.

The sounds of the merchants grew louder as he neared the square until soon it drowned out everything else. One could hardly even hear themselves think at this hour, in this place. Everywhere Divian looked brought a different stand and group of people. Some were familiar to him now, others not at all. As he walked through the crowds most people paid him no mind, though occasionally people still recognized him as the prince,
despite his attempt to dress in his most modest attire. When he was recognized people would bow and make way. Some would ask for his blessing on this matter or another, but largely he ignored him.

Today he made his way to the back gate. This part of the city was much less crowded, and the back gate was the quickest route to the Forest. He would go there today. He told himself this near
every day and never followed through, but he continued. Soon he passed the last of the merchants—some dark skinned men from across the sea, pedaling expensive carved ivory and tiger’s skin. He looked up at the large outer wall and its great gate, open as always aside from night or war, and headed through. Another set of guards paid him respect, and this time he gave them a slight nod.

When he exited through the massive portcullis the smell of the peasant folk and their meager settlements came fiercely. He would have thought after all these walks through the place he would be used to it by now, but he was not and his nose shriveled at the odor. It was somewhat depressing here. The peasants clamored around trying to sell anything that they had to spare—struggling to raise funds to feed their families. It was near impossible to tell any of them apart due to the common attire. The men wore straw hats to block out the blazing sunlight; tattered shirts and pants loosely clung to their slim, gaunt bodies, and occasionally one could be found wearing a shoe, even rarer still, a pair. The women were scarcely different, clad in patchwork dresses. It did not appease the prince to see these penurious people, but he knew that he could do nothing to change their situation, for now. In such a long peace one would think all would be prosperous. Seeing the poor and hungry made that notion soon disappear.

There were occasional waves and soft-spoken greetings as he walked, even here. He returned several of the gestures, but it was rare that anyone received a spoken response from him. It wasn't because he felt more important than these people; he merely feared one would beg and he would give in to their plea. If he gave in to one he would soon find himself swamped in people wanting this or that, and he did not have much to give this day.

Suddenly someone jumped in front of the prince and grabbed his shoulder.

“Prince Divian,” said a hoarse voice, “Would you be as kind as to sample a slice of my daughter's blackberry pie?”

Divian looked at the speaker and was appalled by the appearance of the disheveled and toothless, muddied man. He pushed the light grip of the man’s hand from his shoulder and was about to scold him until he saw the pie. It looked surprisingly delicious, like something one would see in the King’s kitchen during dinner, contrast and surprising out here. “I actually just finished breakfast,” he replied, eying the man suspiciously. “Take it to the guardsmen at the
gates, I am sure they are famished.”

The peasant frowned at the rejection but nodded. “As you wish,
Your Highness.” Divian could not be sure but he thought he heard contempt in the slobbery words.

“What is your name?” Divian asked.

The man crouched low as if fearing a slap or worse. “J-John, as it pleases you, Your Highness.”

Divian looked around to make sure there were no onlookers, then tossed the man two silver coins.

“S-Sir?”

“It is for the pie.
One for you and one for your daughter. Give her my regards; I’ve seen no finer pie in the castle.”

“Th-thank you my lord,” said the toothless man, then he turned and ran quickly towards whence Divian had
come.

At the end of the long, winding path through the northern commons the prince saw a small stable where a couple of bovine and pigs nibbled inattentively at the grass. Just beyond this familiar site was where the path split. To the prince's right was the same old familiar road to the meadows and rivers. This road was well-traveled by merchants and politicians coming to and from Avarial from the East. Deep ruts from carriage and wagon wheel alike led for many miles, all the way to the long stone bridge connecting the land to its distant neighbors.

Ordinarily, Divian would have paused here as he always did, contemplating taking the path to the left, but inevitably turning right towards the river and the tamer woods. His uneasiness about entering the Forbidden Forest had caused him to ignore his intentions for the last several years. As he was about to turn once again toward the river, a light warm breeze, uncommon for this late in Autumn, meandered through his short, dark hair. Taking a moment to savor this pleasant surprise, the prince closed his eyes and faced up towards the sun. Almost instantly the breeze turned into a sudden gust of wind, nearly pushing the unsuspecting prince over and sending small pebbles and leaves, too weak to hold onto their branches, towards the uninviting path on the left. This interlude to Divian's normal routine gave him just enough time to begin pondering what the “forbidden path to the woods” held. Almost obliging the feeling ingrained into his gut after years of being told never to take this path, the prince turned and stepped towards the right. Once more the strong gust came, beckoning him to see what lay to the west.