Silent Kingdom

“Silent Kingdom” Copyright © 2016 by Rachel L. Schade

First Asta Publications, LLC ebook edition.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations in reviews or articles.

Anna Lehman- Cover Artwork
Sheree Hough- Cover Design/Interior Artwork
Ashley Vaughn-Map Artwork/Design

For my parents, who never stopped giving.
Until we meet again.

PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

Characters

Halia (HAY-lee-uh)

Gillen (GILL-in)

Zarev (ZAIR-ev)

Reylon (RAY-lawn)

Velaire (Vuhl-AIR)

Narek (NAIR-ek)

Kyrin (KIE-rin)

Avrik (A-vrik)

Lyanna (LIE-ann-uh)

Shilam (SHY-lum)

Elena (ELL-in-uh)

Locations

Misroth (MIZ-roth), Misrothian (Miz-ROW-thee-un)
Vorvinia (Vor-VIN-ee-uh), Vorvinian (Vor-VIN-ee-un)
Toryn (TOR-in)
Alrenor (AL-ren-or), Alrenian (Al-REN-ee-un)
Argelon (AR-guh-lawn)

Other

Felwe (FELL-way)

Azlyn (A-zlin)

Vehgar (VAY-gar)

CHAPTER 1

I
was thirteen when the truth first revealed itself to me.

It happened on a day usually set aside for celebration in Misroth, now weighed down by the loss of our king. The air felt heavy and still under the grey afternoon sky as I walked amidst the coronation procession. All around me, councilmen strode silently, their cloaks swirling about their legs, their boots thudding a steady rhythm along the cobblestone streets of the capital. Arrayed in elaborate scarlet and blue, the King’s Guard formed a protective barrier around the procession’s outer edges, as if they could save my family from the pain that had already taken residence in our hearts. Even in the dim light, the guards’ steel armor glinted. I watched them in awe, for I had never seen them in anything other than their everyday chainmail and leather breastplates, and they looked ready for battle.

Before me, my mother and father walked with their heads held high. Mother’s long, dark hair was plaited delicately and her emerald green dress was so long it trailed along the street behind her. Father kept his grey eyes focused on the crowds around us, nodding to citizens as we passed. He had warned our family that we should not let this dark time steal our dignity, and reminded us that tears were for the weak.

To my shame, my vision blurred with tears anyway.
Perhaps I’ll always disappoint Father.
I blinked them away hastily and turned to my cousin Gillen, who trudged beside me. His golden, shoulder-length hair tousled in the wind and fell into his face when he hung his head. I knew he was trying to hide his eyes, which were usually bright, but today were swollen and red.

I reached out and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze, wishing I could lend the last shreds of my strength to him.

“Thank you, Halia,” he muttered for only me to hear. “This is not a day I feel strong.”

But he had to be. One day he would be our new king. I opened my mouth to murmur something comforting, but choked on my words.
He is healed now. We will see him again.
What nonsense. The words were all hollow and brittle, crumbling as soon as I thought them. Gillen didn’t want to hear them, and neither did I. Frowning at my feet, I clamped my mouth shut.

Drawing a deep breath, I dared to raise my gaze to study the rows of citizens lining the streets. Their faces were solemn and their eyes seemed to reflect my own fears: fear of change, fear of the pain and death we had witnessed. This was no joyous coronation procession, not when it followed a funeral. We had left grieving citizens and my weeping aunt at her husband’s graveside to wind our way through the wide streets of Misroth City, past the towering stone buildings and houses. There were no cheers or fists raised to hearts in salute; no ribbons were waved, and no songs were sung. Throughout the city, a heavy silence hung in the air.

We halted in the main square, surrounded on all sides by shops closed for business today, and stood, hushed, as my father approached the waiting priest, who stood in the center of the square before a marble statue of King Eldon. Beside the priest, a solitary Royal Guard bore Misroth’s banner, adorned with the stars of the dragon constellation, Vehgar. Father’s velvet robes, midnight blue and trimmed in silver, trailed along the cobblestone behind him. Dressed all in red, the royal priest was tall and solemn, his dark face masked by the large hood he wore. His cloak billowed about him, but he was motionless.

“Today is a day of many emotions,” the priest announced. In the stillness, his voice was startlingly loud, echoing off the buildings around us. “We grieve the passing of our beloved King Reylon. Together, we mourn the loss his family all feels. But we have hope and comfort in this dark time. We know the Giver of Life has carried our king to another, better place, and King Reylon’s brave brother, Zarev, stands before us willing to accept the throne until King Reylon’s son Gillen is of age. Misroth will not be leaderless.”

Lifting his arms, the priest began to sing an ancient blessing over my father. The words were in Alrenian, a language no longer understood in our kingdom, but the meanings of the old songs were still remembered, passed down from generation to generation. This was a traditional coronation blessing, asking the Giver of Strength to equip my father for the task before him.

“O bren valt hali,

O bren valt mis.

Mari, O emba l’val.

Thero, yagen sem forith.

Thero, yagen sem mis.

Thero, val re rynnet…”

All around me, heads bowed in reverence. It seemed as if others felt comforted by the priest’s words, but I felt numb. I didn’t want to be the daughter of a king, even a king regent. I didn’t want to return to a home bereft of my uncle’s kindly smile or his exciting stories shared with Gillen and me by the fireside.

My red armband of mourning, fastened over my forearm, was constricting, and I wanted to rip it off. Why would the Life-Giver bring us death?

I was startled out of my reverie by my father’s voice, repeating a pledge before the Misrothian people and the Giver as he accepted kingship. The priest’s and my father’s voices trailed on, alternating as the priest spoke and my father recited the words.

“I vow to protect my kingdom with my own blood, to dedicate my service to the Giver of Life and to Misroth…”

“My father was supposed to live a long life,” Gillen whispered, his countenance still a picture of shock. “Not leave me to rule as soon as I am eighteen. That’s four years from now,” he choked out.

Grasping Gillen’s cold hand in mine, I bowed my head, knowing nothing I said would help my cousin.

“…and, if circumstances demand it, to give my own life for Misroth.”

My father rose, the king’s silver crown contrasting with his long dark hair as he faced the crowd. His voice was steady and confident. “…and, if circumstances demand it, to give my own life for Misroth.”

As the priest called my mother forth to declare her own pledge as queen, I wished for something to say, anything to ease Gillen’s pain.

If only I’d known how dangerous words can be.

~ ~ ~

The dining hall felt too empty with my uncle gone and my aunt and cousin absent, having retired early for the evening. Shadows curled about the ornately carved wooden pillars lining the sides of the space. I glanced up toward the vaulted ceiling, too high at this time of day for me to even see it. The room was too vast, too empty—a great cavernous expanse being swallowed in darkness.

I shuddered and remained silent while my parents, seated together at the far end of the table, discussed the day’s events. Their eyes flashed from the glow of the fire set in the grand marble hearth behind them.

“Reylon was ill a long time, but his death was still a shock,” Mother murmured. “The people…they will take some time to adjust to having you as king regent.”

At that moment two servants entered the dining room, bearing trays of food, and my parents’ conversation paused. When one of the servants set a plate before me, the scent made me scrunch my nose as nausea danced along my tongue. Normally the aroma of boiled lobster, steamed carrots, and sugared apples would have made my empty stomach growl in anticipation. Instead I sighed, poking at the meat and sliding the vegetables around on my plate. I stared listlessly at my glass, but the sweet, bubbly agma juice, harvested from berries native to our kingdom, held no interest for me tonight. No matter how hungry I was, I knew as soon as any food touched my mouth it would threaten to come back out again. My sorrow chewed on my insides as relentlessly as my hunger did.

Father cast a curious glance from the servants to his wife. “Two servants tonight?” he asked.

Mother lowered her fork to speak. “I ordered the staff to take the evening off so they can mourn and honor Reylon properly, and celebrate your coronation in their own ways.”

Father nodded silently, satisfied with her answer.

I stared as wax dripped from the candles and hardened on the table cloth; I gazed out the windows on my left, flung open to welcome the breeze from the Alrenian Sea. I did anything but focus on the food laid before me.

Fortunately, my parents took no notice of my disinterest in the meal. Father rarely took notice of me, anyway, unless it was to reprimand me for conduct unbefitting a member of the royal family; even Mother was too preoccupied these days to spare me much time.

“And Velaire? How is she?” Father inquired.

Mother’s hand trembled as she lifted her fork to her mouth. She let the mouthful linger on her tongue before she swallowed and answered. “Velaire is…in shock. He was a strong man and the illness wore him down so…completely.” Her soft green eyes, shadowed by dark circles, lifted to meet Father’s gaze. Looking at my mother was almost like looking into a mirror, a reflection of what I would look like when I was older. We shared the same green eyes, the same ivory skin, and the same deep brown hair, only mine tumbled past my shoulders in waves while hers was straight and glossy. I wondered if my own face looked as pale, if my own eyes were as dim with grief.

“Gillen is especially at a loss,” Mother said, sorrow edging her voice despite her efforts to keep her pain at bay.

“Do you think the Royal Council was wise to name me king regent?” Father’s voice was steady, but his expression was uncertain. I couldn’t recall him ever looking uncertain in his life. Did he always depend on my mother so, when he had spent my entire life reprimanding me for moments of indecisiveness or displays of weakness?

Mother raised a hand to the gold chain resting on her neck and fingered the single large emerald set in her necklace. It shimmered in the ever-changing light of the candles and the fire in the hearth behind her. A single lock had escaped from her plaited hair and settled gently beside her cheek. She seemed so fragile to me, so worn.

“Gillen is too young to rule; we all know this. There was no one else related by blood to King Reylon and of age,” she said. Then her voice grew firmer, more certain. “Your Majesty…the people need you.” Her eyes met his and he nodded slowly.

“Perhaps you are right, my dear. Perhaps they do need me.”

Far below the castle walls, waves tumbled against the rocky shore. I glimpsed their crests when they rose to their full height, flashing like moonlit soldiers in silver armor.

“…and if Gillen should wish it, once he takes his father’s place,” Mother was saying, “you can remain near him, to train and advise him…”

“Indeed,” Father said. He paused to set down his knife and fork and run a hand through his thick brown beard.

That was when visions overwhelmed my mind, unasked for and uncontrollable, as fierce as the waves outside. I hadn’t even been thinking of the days before my uncle had died; I’d been trying to block out the memories all day. But now my eyes drifted shut as I saw scraps of my own memories tangled up in events I had never seen before…

I saw Father kneeling at my uncle’s bedside, patting his hand, reassuring him. “It will be all right…I can manage in your absence. Focus on recovering. You’ll be well before you know it…”

Then I was reliving a moment in the past, standing near my uncle’s bed and studying his worn, pale face. A sweat-soaked nightshirt clung to his chest, where his breaths rose and fell in feeble puffs of air. His shaking hand reached for the goblet by his bedside, full of the medicine the latest healer had prescribed. He couldn’t reach it; my aunt grasped it for him and sat upon the bed, pressing the goblet to his mouth. My lips moved in a voiceless plea:
Giver of Life, can you hear me? Don’t let him die…don’t take him now…

The images snapped to a memory of my older cousin Gillen, standing several inches taller than me, but looking so vulnerable. His eyes were puffy from sleepless nights, his face pale with exhaustion and worry. “What’s wrong with him, Halia? Why doesn’t he get well? The doctors have tried everything… What if he doesn’t survive this?”

Then I saw another vision of Father, whispering in the corridor to Mother: “I can do this. I can lead the people in my elder brother’s absence, as the council has voted I should do. Do you doubt me? Do you doubt my abilities?”

“Zarev…I don’t know what you mean. He will be well in a few days. It’s only a mild fever.”

“Right. I suppose I’m overreacting. And nervous. I’m nervous, Ryn.”

“There’s nothing to be nervous about…” Mother began, her voice quavering, her lips a thin, pale line. She stopped when she heard the door down the hallway opening.

Father turned as another servant exited the king’s bedchambers. He glanced back at my mother, her brow crinkled with confusion and worry, and shook his head. “Yes. Nothing to be nervous about.”

They walked through the doorway and gazed down at my uncle where he slept fitfully in his bed. Sweat dotted his pale forehead. Father set the glass of water he carried on the nightstand and touched Uncle’s shoulder. “Get well, brother,” he said.

The scene faded away into one last view of my father, huddled over a desk in his private study. His jaw was tight, his eyes focused as he clutched a sprig of pale golden leaves in his hand, turning it over again and again, studying it silently. He rubbed one of the leaves between his thumb and finger, crumbling it slowly.

My mouth went dry, my hands shook, and suddenly, somehow, I
knew
.

With a gasp, I opened my eyes and stared across the table at my parents. Realization crystallized in my mind. I couldn’t escape the truth that surged into my brain.

He killed him. He killed him. He killed him
. The truth taunted me, laughed at me, all the while swirling around my brain like a vicious storm.

Sometimes truth cannot be silenced. Even when you wish it could be.

“You killed him.”

The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them, before I even knew they were dropping off my tongue. I clamped a hand over my lips—too late, too late. My stomach plummeted and a taste as bitter as vinegar filled my mouth.

Where had those visions come from, and why hadn’t I been in control of my own words? Nothing like this had ever happened to me before. It seemed like truth had stolen my tongue.