Curse of Shadows and Thorns: A Dark Fantasy Romance (The Broken Kingdoms Book 1)

My plans to assert my status and command on Legion Grey faded by noonday.

All morning I’d sought him out. An attempt to test him, see if he admitted he’d cornered Siv. If he confessed, well then, I’d certainly have something to say about it.

What, I didn’t know, but I would say something important, surely.

Grand imaginings of intimidation played in my head, the things I’d say, the tone I’d take. And by the time I arrived at the arched doorway of the wood and wattle cottage he’d occupied, I’d convinced myself Legion Grey would soon tremble beneath my ferociousness.

With learned influence, I gave a heavy-handed knock at the door.

The cottage was not large. Enough to house a washroom, a bed for two, and a pantry of sorts with a table to eat small meals. The knock would be heard at all corners of the cottage, and it would take even less time to reach the door.

Stillness returned my summons.

I knocked again with more frustration behind it. There were qualities of being raised in a royal household that reared up on occasion. Being kept waiting too long was one of them. I didn’t like it, and grew rather ill-tempered when I was ignored.

“Herr Grey,” I demanded.

Nothing.

“Kvinna, the negotiator is not in.” At my back, the old man removed his woven cap off his stark white hair. His thread-bare tunic had once been white. Now, with yellowed sweat soaked into the fabric, a musty wake typically announced Viggo before his voice. Skin like leather after turns in the sun, he leaned on the handle of a rusted garden spade and lit an herb roll. The folds of his rough skin stretched as he puffed out a plume of smoke.

“Where has he gone, Viggo?”

“Parts of his agreement, last I heard. Gets every last moon off.”

The last moon came every twenty-two nights, but I’d never heard of the agreement. Quite the opposite, I’d always been told negotiators rarely left the side of their charge.

“Why?” I asked, though why would a servant know?

It was foolish to underestimate a gossip like Viggo. The old man jabbed the spade into the small flower berm around Legion’s cottage, teasing the soil. He puffed dark smoke as he worked and talked. “Hal’s the one who mentioned it. Went with him, and all. Don’t know where to.”

“Halvar is with him? How long will they be gone?”

Another shrug, another dig with the spade. “Packed for a’least a night. Him, Hal, and the stern fellow. I saws them leave right after the sun rose. If I can say, your negotiator looked like he’d stumbled outta one of the hells. Red-eyed, staggering. Didn’t look well’s all I’m saying.”

Legion was ill? When I was meant to be angry at him, a pang of worry pierced my heart instead.

Viggo started to hum as he turned the soil. I thanked him and strode up the path to the manor. My confrontation would be turned to Siv, I supposed. She’d tell me what happened, and then when Legion recovered, I’d make him wish he was ill again.

But how does one plan an illness?

Viggo said he planned to take every last moon off. Was it coincidence he’d simply woken on his assigned day ill? Or was this ailment recurring, so Legion knew to expect it?

My reluctant worry deepened.

At the stoop of the house, my father claimed the steps, leaning over a wooden cane, a deep, unforgiving frown curling his lips. A prince consort through marriage, but in this moment, my father looked every bit as formidable as any king.

“Mon Kvin. You look well today.” I bowed my head. Proper greetings seemed prudent in this moment. He was angry or agitated at something. My first thoughts ran to the idea that he might know about our sparring nights. I prayed to every deity I could name that he didn’t.

“Daughter,” my father said airily. “Glad to see you up and about. I thought you might sleep until the moon.”

I’d hardly slept past dawn, but my father expected a punctual, early-to-rise household, as if without our presence the day would be utterly wasted. “Forgive me, I overslept.”

“There are some who seem to think you abandoned your chambers last night.” My father leaned his ruddy face close to mine. “Red eyes, pallid skin—’

“Daj, I—”

“Do not speak, Elise,” he hissed through his teeth, but it only caused a long cough. He cleared his throat when it passed, voice hoarse. “A woman in the throes of betrothal.” He sniffed me. My face heated in fierce embarrassment when he pulled back, disgusted. “Did you bed someone?”

My eyes widened. “No! No, of course not.”

“You are a wretched, selfish girl. I’d be surprised if any more offers are made. We ask little of you. If you wish me dead, then continue being the selfish child you are.”

“Daj—”

“Get inside.” He clicked his tongue, snarling. “Herr Grey is absent for the day and tonight. You are not to be unaccompanied now that your hand is for bid, so you will remain with your sister until otherwise told.”

My heart sank. How would I get the truth out of Siv with Runa around? I knew enough not to argue, though. Head down, I hurried past my father and into the manor.

He called me selfish. It broke my heart and angered my soul all at once. How could he say such a thing when I made no protest simply for the sake of his healing? This vow was in honor of him, for his life. And it was all he cared about.

The main hall bustled with servants behind netted veils. Spices and roasting meat wafted through the corridors for the midmeal. An ever-present hint of mulled, spiced red and sweat heated beneath the high sun. Smells of the home I’d soon leave behind. With the knowledge my negotiator may not be as kindly as thought; that my friend and servant might have secrets; that I was to meet with suitors without the looming presence of Legion (even if I held some resentment toward him, I could not deny his intimidating figure put me at ease around pompous nobles)—all of it struck me in the chest. Hard and unrelenting. This would end sooner than later. I’d leave this behind and be forced to learn a new kind of life.

Hot tears sprang to my eyes—a collision of anger and hopelessness as I climbed the steps, desperate to hide away in my chamber until I was forced to emerge.

A giggle stopped me halfway up the wide-set staircase.

“Eli.” I leaned over the polished banister and looked at Runa. My sister winked. “What were you thinking?”

Being vowed to Calder, Runa had her own maids, but they were of a different station. They were of Ravenspire servitude now and were not masked. In fact, their frocks were hemmed in silver and gold and emerald thread. Their dark hair braided in satin ribbons. They were the maids of the future queen, after all, and lifted their noses in the air as well as any royal.

I suspected Runa didn’t laugh well into the night with her maids, though. I doubt they spoke much at all.

With a stiff wave, I urged my sister to join me on the stairs, out of earshot of anyone listening. She glanced over her shoulder and obeyed, stifling a laugh as she did.

“Eli, did you truly sneak out? Why the risk?”

Her remarks answered two lingering questions: no one knew I’d gone to spar last night, and someone had spied my escape and had a rather big mouth. Runa linked her elbow with mine and walked with me up the remaining steps.

“Well?” she pressed when I didn’t answer.

“I needed air,” I lied. “It’s suffocating in here.”

“What a bleeding weakling you are, sister. So like our father.” Runa snorted, a bit like the hogs kept in the pens outside. But then, Runa’s voice often came through her nose rather than her throat. In truth, I think she did it on purpose, as though the higher pitch made her sound more important, smoother around the edges, unlike folk in the townships. I thought it made her more like someone always trying to draw in breath, but never succeeding. The nasally, whistled pitch heightened as my sister went on. “You feel suffocated because men are seeking your hand, because you are the bright star for the moment. Cursed gods, what more can be done for you?”

“I expect nothing to be done for me, but to be allowed to live as I wish.” We turned down the upper corridor, in the direction of Runa’s chambers. I didn’t argue, even when her maids whispered about my unkempt braid. Her chambers were larger and more secluded. “Did you truly have every desire to vow with Calder? Or was there ever a thought that perhaps someone else might make you happy? Might love you?”

Runa lifted a brow like I’d suggested pure insanity. She didn’t answer right away, and opened the door to her personal study, or tearoom mostly. My sister had a taste for exotic teas, and would surely cost Calder a small fortune importing the dark herbs and sweet flowers from the distant kingdoms.

Dismissing her maids to sit in the corner, she lifted a silver bowl to her nose and inhaled. Adding a few leaves to a cup, she sat on an upholstered chair with a sigh. “Eli, I have no idea what you expect me to say. Calder is the finest match in the kingdom. The future king. What could possibly be better?”

“But you don’t love him.”

She balked and added a touch of honey to her cup. “What good is love in a monarchy? We fuel each other’s ambition. The drive to rule Timoran better than the generations before us is alive in our match.”

I sat on the twin chair across from my sister, choosing to nibble at one of the saffron cakes on the tray rather than take the pungent tea. “Zyben will rule for turns to come. I see more benefit in an affectionate match than one fed by ambition to take the throne, when the day won’t come to pass until your face is drooping.”

I knew how to get under my sister’s skin, and I took a bit of pride in the glare she cut at me. Mention of her youth and beauty dying someday always gave Runa a puckered look. “How little you know. Your lack of interest in the growth of our kingdom is disappointing. You’d rather spend your days in books of fairy tales, or laughing with maids who are friendly to you out of fear you’ll slit their gullet if they are not.”

She might as well have slapped me. I looked at the half-eaten roll in my hand, worried she might be partly right. Would Mavie and Siv ever be their true selves with me? Or was it partly because of my status and they felt obligated to be courteous?

Runa groaned. She returned her teacup to the tray. “I’m sorry, Eli, but you and I were not meant to have friends or romantic love. We’re made to lead Timoran into glory, into power. Like the gods battled before us.”

There was no sense in arguing with her. I lifted my gaze to the table near her hearth. Scrolls of vellum and parchment were pinned back by books and ceramic carvings of the goddesses of fate. “What are you studying over here?”

Runa brightened. “Oh, you might find this interesting. Since I am to move into the palace after my wedding, I thought it would be wise to fully understand the history of Ravenspire. However, the palace goes far beyond our family. I’m learning of the cursed royals, the last Ettan bloodline our great-grandfather destroyed.”

“Really.” She wasn’t wrong. I was intrigued to learn more of the Ettan royalty. I knew a little of the rulers before us, but after nearly a hundred turns, some stories had become more like lore than fact.

“Have a look.”

A grin played at my lips. I set the roll back on the tray, gathered my skirts in hand, and leaned over the fading histories. One parchment was painted in names of Zyben’s line, each marked with a rune of their attributes. The line ended at Zyben, with a few marks acknowledging he had children and a sister. My name had been whittled down to a tick mark that someone—be it a son or daughter—existed in the king’s sister’s household. My mark on history was less than impressive.

My fingers danced across the names of my grandfather, a man I never met, and my grandmother, his second consort. Then onto King Eli, my namesake. The king who led the raids on Etta and destroyed one country to claim it as his own.

Before him, when Timorans still lived in the tundra and icy cliffs, the family units were tighter. One king, one queen in a match. One or two children. Not until Eli did Timorans think so highly of themselves that they claimed everyone they desired in the slightest. The first king of New Timoran having no less than eighty consorts and five wives.

How would my great-grandfather even remember the names of such a harem?

My attention focused on the scroll beside the Timoran lines. Former Etta. The runes were similar, but the edges of the yellowed parchment were filigreed in thorny vines, some with the sketch of roses or wild rowan. The royal crest was a crescent moon, a crossed dagger and axe, wrapped by Jörmungandr, the sea serpent encircling the whole of the earth. I smiled sadly, tracing the sharp lines of the snake’s jaw. Once, Ettans had believed much like Timorans. Why had King Eli not united the people? Why crush their heads at all? Wouldn’t this kingdom be stronger if Ettan folk stood with Timorans?

The family lines of the Ettan royal bloodline went back generations. Most marked with a moon and the rune for fury—magi. Night Folk blood raged through the royal lines of Etta. It was strange how a healthy dose of fear for the fae hovered around modern Ettans. Mattis teased Mavie for her reservation to the fae, and for good reason. According to this history, I’d be surprised if Mavie was without a touch of fae blood. Nearly all but a few of the royals across twelve generations had the mark of fury.

“The way I understand it,” Runa said, interrupting my thoughts and pointing to the last three generations of royal Ettans, “royalty began uniting with common folk—possibly Timoran lines. See here, the queen two generations before the last Ferus bloodline; her prince consort had no fury. And then you see it only passed to two of their nine children. Calder believes the dying fury gave our folk the opportunity to seize the land.”

Where I ought to feel pride for the cunning and strategy of my ancient family, I felt a twinge of guilt. To me, this looked as if Etta had reached a hand of peace to the tundra warriors across the peaks. Took vows with them, loved them.

The stark difference between the Ettan families and Timorans—one actual vow. The spells in my passionate book spoke of numerous causes for dalliances, but when I thought on it, most writings of fae royalty spoke of loyalty to consorts. Only taking new lovers after the last passed to the Otherworld. Though some mortal consorts did complete förӓndra—the Change. Since Night Folk outlived mortals by hundreds of turns, there were tales of fae granting their mortal loves the gift of life fury, so they’d live long, many lifetimes. I didn’t know if förӓndra was even real or possible. But it made for good stories.

“The last royals, King Arvad and his queen, Lilianna, were the final Ferus bloodline,” Runa said with a hunger in her voice. “Lilianna was Timoran, did you know? There are writings of her—the paleness of her hair, her eyes.”

“So then, King Eli must’ve known her when he raided.”

“I believe Lilianna was a friend of King Eli. But she chose to marry a fae.” Runa pointed at the markings by Arvad’s name. I knew a few bloody tales of the last fae king of Etta. Ones that made me shudder. I wondered if Lilianna even had a choice.

“Did King Eli invade because of her?”

Runa shrugged. “That is one theory. Out of anger.”

“Or maybe he loved her.”

“Love is not a motivation for war.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. In all the books I’d read, love turned even the sanest people mad. Love gave plenty of motivation for war, but what was the point of trying to convince Runa otherwise? If a loveless match satisfied her, fine. At times I wished I could be the same.

Names had been scorched away from Arvad Ferus’s line. His children. As if King Eli had wished to burn away any proof a Timoran woman had mated with Night Folk.

“They couldn’t scrape the symbols,” Runa said. She gestured at the blackened marks, but true enough, next to the missing names were the symbols of their titles. A rune for the sun, of beauty, and of darkness.

Though the names were burned from history, there were enough writings on the Ettan royal family most Timorans had guessed the three names of Arvad’s heirs. The heir apparent, the sun prince—Sol. Second born, a daughter. A book on warriors had mentioned Queen Lilianna had named her first daughter Herja, a name for a beautiful warrior maiden of the All Father.

“The Night Prince,” Runa muttered bitterly. “You know the idea of him being alive is what spurs the bleeding Agitators.”

My eyes fell to the last smudge. Histories wrote of the third heir, Valen Ferus, most. Probably because he was believed to be the only fae child of the last king. The Agitators worshipped the idea of their night prince, insisting he’d not been killed because of fury. They believed the land would never thrive and would die like Old Timoran if the rightful heir did not take the throne. If that were true, where was he? Why wait? Besides, if the Night Prince survived due to his power, how had Arvad been killed? The last king had strong fury, undeniable by his gruesome acts during the raids.

A knock came to the door. Siv stepped inside and my breath caught. I’d been so lost in the parchment I’d nearly forgotten my friend had been threatened—or so it looked—last night. I needed to speak with her.

“Kvinna Elise,” she said properly. “Herr Gurst has arrived and wishes to speak with you.”

Runa chuckled. “So it begins, sister. The parades of menfolk looking to woo you. Come, I’ve been looking forward to this since father placed you as my charge.”

I groaned and followed behind Runa and her maids. At Siv’s side I whispered, “How are you?”

“Fine,” she whispered back, her familiar scowl in place.

“Siv, I need to speak to you about last night.”

Her eyes snapped to mine, but only for a moment. “I’m sure we can speak later. Right now, you have one thing to worry about.”

“What’s that?”

Siv paused at the door to one of the front parlors. “You ought to know, Gurst has made clear his unyielding desire to take vows with you. But be warned—the man has no teeth, and smells like he was swallowed by a whale, then vomited back out. Shall we?”

A little paler, a little more nauseous, I followed her into the parlor.