Fist of the Furor Read online

  Fist of the Furor

  By R.K. Ryals

  Copyright © Regina K. Ryals 2014

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Acknowledgements

  Every once in a while, there comes a book that doesn’t just take you away, but redefines you. This book has been that defining moment for me. And yet, it would not be what it is without the amazing people who have contributed every step of the way. A book is always a group project, a puzzle that needs every piece to work. To my husband for his continued dedication and unending love. To my family, my children and my sisters. I love you with all of my heart! To Audrey Welch, my best friend and confidante. You complete me. To Christina Silcox, my personal assistant and dear friend. Not only are you my personal cheerleader, you are one of the kindest, most generous people I know. I enjoy every conversation we have, every phone call and message. No project would be the same without you! To Melissa Ringsted, editor extraordinaire, you mold my projects into the best that they can be, but you are also an amazing friend. I look forward to your messages. You are beautiful inside and out! Thank you for everything. To Melissa Wright, who is not only a beautiful author, but an awesome friend. I love you! We have traveled a long road together, and I hope that journey will continue for a long time! To Bree High, one of the most beautifully artistic and unselfish people I know! You are strong, beautiful, and funny. You are sunshine on a cloudy day. I love you! To Jodie O’Brien, because you believed in me when all I had was one book. You took a chance on it and that meant the world to me! To Pyxi Rose, because you make me smile just by being you. You are so talented and beautiful, and I adore you! To Alexis O’Shell, because you’re unending support in unfailing. You are brilliant. To my amazing group of beta readers, who not only read but discuss my books with me. You have become such, true dear friends. You have become a group of women I share with, laugh with, and hope with. To Nanette Bradford, Ashley Ubinger, Anne Nelson, Derinda Love, Amy McCool, Jessica Johnson, Lisa Markson, Julie Bromley, Jessie De Schepper, Heather Andrews, Katherine Pegg Eccleston, Julia Roop, Mary Barscz, Merisha Abbot, Allison Potter, Katy Austin, Amanda Engelkes, Tina Donnelly, and Ruthi Kight. I know I am forgetting some, and for that I apologize. All of you mean so much to me! To all of the bloggers out there who promote me and message me. You are all so amazing! And a very special thank you to Frankie Rose, who gave this book its amazing cover. It is brilliant! And finally, to the fans. Your words, your encouragement, your discussions, and your excitement thrill me. You are truly my drive. And to a very special little girl with a heart of gold. Olivia Lara Cole, never quit writing and always believe in fairy tales.

  Prologue

  The Hall of Light was magnificent during the day, reflecting sunlight through white marble, turning it golden and full of possibility. But at night it was even more brilliant, a testament to power, to the infinite possibilities of the universe. At night, it was white marble turned grey by shadows, the huge glass window in the ceiling a picture of bright stars that told the stories of the gods, the God of Unrest and the Goddess of Serenity. At night, the Hall of Light was filled with a reverent silence, the kind that called ghosts but also helped put them to rest.

  Prince Cadeyrn of Sadeemia stood in the middle of this hall, his hands clasped behind his back, his legs spread. He was naked from the waist up, the tattoo on his person a complex map of black on pale, moon-bathed skin. He was a sentinel of the gods, a man of prophecy, a man of steel. Yet it wasn’t glory he sought as he gazed up at the stars above his head, it was peace.

  “You seek too much in the gods,” a voice said.

  Cadeyrn stayed as he was; erect and solemn. He’d grown up with Mothelamew’s breath in his ears, his words burned into his brain. The head mage was an eccentric man, full of secrets no one should ever know. As a boy, Cadeyrn was unnerved by the mage. Now, he tolerated Mothelamew’s presence, respecting him but never trusting him. Cadeyrn trusted no one.

  “You never sought them out enough,” Cadeyrn replied.

  Mothelamew chuckled. “I seek them when necessary. The gods are there to guide us, but in the end, we make our own choices, good or bad.”

  Cadeyrn stared hard at the night sky, his eyes narrowed.

  Mothelamew watched the prince knowingly. “You blame them,” he stated.

  It was there in the set of Cadeyrn’s jaw, in the way his eyes searched the constellations, his gaze directed at the formation known simply as “the lovers” by the Sadeemians. What he felt for the gods, hatred or shame, was hard to tell with Cadeyrn.

  “I blame myself,” Cadeyrn corrected.

  Mothelamew stepped around the prince, his flailing blue cloak grey in the darkness. He pushed back his hood, revealing his lined face and long, trailing white beard.

  “You blame them. You blame them for many things.”

  Cadeyrn unclasped his hands, his biceps flexing as he brought them forward, his fingers fisted. “You speak of things you do not know, mage.”

  Mothelamew looked at his old pupil, at the prince’s blue eyes turned black in the shadows, at the power Cadeyrn kept leashed just beneath his skin.

  “In the end,” the mage said, “the gods cannot control death.”

  Cadeyrn turned. He would have left if Mothelamew’s hand hadn’t stopped him. The contrast between the mage’s long, wrinkled fingers and the prince’s strong, smooth shoulder was even more startling in moonlight. Old on new. Wizened versus jaded.

  “You are like our god in many ways, Prince,” Mothelamew said.

  Cadeyrn shook his hand loose. “Do not compare me to the gods.”

  The prince stalked off then, but not before Mothelamew’s words echoed down the Hall of Light, following him.

  “You,” Mothelamew called out, “are Sadeemia’s own personal God of Unrest.”

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  War was coming. The trees whispered of its onset, the leaves crying as they floated to the ground with the colder weather. It seemed fall did come to Sadeemia; later than it did to Medeisia, but it came.

  “War,” birds screamed as they flew overhead.

  My eyes trailed them in the early morning light from where I stood on a walkway between two towers on top of the palace. It was Lochlen who’d led me to the stone balustrade overlooking the kingdom and the ocean. The sky spoke to him.

  My hand rose, my fingers catching the wind, the chilly air sweeping my short hair against my cheeks. It had been a little over three months since the wyver attack on the Sadeemian palace, but the city’s defenses were still high. Guards stalked the palace grounds, while others marched along the castle walls, their eyes alert. Some of them lifted a hand in greeting when they saw me, but mostly I was ignored.

  In the distance, the ocean hummed, the sound of whispering trees rising to mingle in an eerie cadence that swept along my skin and down into my soul. My arms lifted.

  “You remind me of a she-dragon, ready to take flight.”

  My lips quirked at the sound of Lochlen’s voice next to me. Even as large as I knew his draconic form was, and as awkward as he could be in his human body, he was silent when he moved.

  “There is something cleansing about flying,” I murmured.

  My thoughts drifted to our flight during the wyver attack on the palace, the way we’d dove, our bodies one as I felled the desert creature. We’d flown once more since that night, a midnight tryst with the air allowed by Prince Cadeyrn. Lochlen had needed to feed, and I’d needed
the night. Lochlen’s meal I was ready to forget, but the air …

  Lochlen chuckled. “Our forest child has truly become a little bird.”

  I glanced at him, at his reclining figure as he leaned against the balustrade, his reddish hair copper in the rising sun. “You mock me,” I teased.

  His reptilian eyes found my face. “There are hard times coming, Stone.” His tone was suddenly serious, his gaze shifting to the ocean. “I feel things in my bones, old magick that warns me of a dark age.”

  “War,” the birds screamed. Even the seagulls’ bickering jokes were silent, replaced by the echoing call.

  “It can’t get any darker in Medeisia,” I whispered.

  Lochlen straightened, his hand finding mine briefly as he pushed past me. “Oh, it can. It can.”

  He left me then, his lanky frame striding along the stone path before ducking into the tower. He lifted his face to the sun, his auburn hair flying in the breeze before he vanished.

  A kek,kek filtered down to me from the brightening sky. The dark shape of a falcon’s rustling wings beat against the currents, sweeping my already chilled skin. “Dragons can be a portentous lot,” Ari called out.

  Oran snorted from where he sat near my feet. “And falcons aren’t?” he asked.

  My fingers found the wolf’s fur where he reclined against my skirts, my gaze on the landing bird.

  “Omens,” I muttered. “There have been too many of them lately. That and death.” I stared at Ari. “Have you discovered anything new in Medeisia?”

  Ari preened her feathers, her talons grasping the stone wall. “The king has allies. I’m still working on who, but I’ve seen important documents trade many hands. There are foreign dignitaries in court, but the king is careful. Everyone wears neutral colors, no flashing surcoats with identifying crests.”

  “The castle mice?” I asked.

  “Clueless,” Ari replied. “There’s a cat there who may know something, but cats are finicky creatures who often have divided loyalties. This one belongs to your sister.”

  I snorted. “To Mareth?”

  Mareth wasn’t really my sister; not now that I knew Garod wasn’t my father. Nonetheless, after so many years under the same roof, it was hard picturing Mareth as my cousin rather than my sibling.

  Ari’s dark eyes found mine. “It seems the king has grown quite fond of Mareth.”

  I stiffened. There were things Ari left unsaid, but I heard the implications in her tone. Mareth favored by a mad king? Lady Taran must be beside herself with giddiness.

  The villages around the palace were coming alive, the rising sun burning off fog as its rays found bobbing ships on the waves in the distance. Near the ocean, a bell hanging over a pristine white stone building with a red roof began to swing back and forth, its eerie clanging loud in the still morning. The building was a temple to the Sadeemian goddess. The bell rang several times a day, to honor her and bring luck to the city. Billowing sheets and colorful fabrics fanned along Market Street as shops opened their doors. Carriage wheels clattered over cobblestone.

  The clinging sound of metal against metal in the courtyard below caught my attention, and I glanced down, my gaze finding the circular training fields housed there. Soldiers fought, their chests bare despite the chill in the air, their skin glistening with sweat. Among them stood Prince Cadeyrn, his tattoo stark against his skin.

  My hand went instinctively to my back, to the bow I always carried now, my fingers playing down the shaft of an arrow. It was too risky to go out into the open without a weapon.

  “You’re wanted below,” a male voice spoke suddenly. I glanced behind me to find Ryon at the tower’s entrance, and his eyes found mine. “In the Hall of Light.”

  I nodded.

  Behind him, in the shadows, Madden stiffened. I was rarely without a royal guard in the palace, and Madden was often assigned to me when Ryon was with the prince.

  There was a shout below, the grinding sound of the castle gates rising.

  My gaze flew to the courtyard, to the prince’s stoic figure. His posture was straight, defensive. An unmarked carriage rode down the cobbled path, past manicured lawns, before pausing at the palace’s entrance. A footman met it, his face stern as he pulled the door open.

  A slippered foot descended, a flash of scarlet silk stark in the morning light as skirts fell over a pale, delicate ankle. All noise ceased as a fiery-haired woman stepped clear of the carriage, her young skin like porcelain. I forgot to breathe.

  “Who is she?” I asked.

  Madden approached me, Ryon having exited once he’d delivered his message. “Princess Catriona,” he answered. “Prince Cadeyrn’s sister-in-law.”

  I stared. Cadeyrn’s deceased wife’s sister?

  My brow furrowed. “The Henderonians in Sadeemian court?”

  Madden’s jaw tensed, his face lined. “Come, rebel. Nothing good can come of this.”

  I started to follow him, my gaze going one last time to the courtyard below. The woman was gone now, her swishing skirts having vanished into the palace, but Cadeyrn remained standing on the training grounds, his blue eyes on the balustrade.

  My gaze met his. There was something about Cadeyrn that affected me deeply. It wasn’t a romantic sort of feeling. It was something different, on a personal level that had more to do with who we were. Two people plagued by prophecy.

  Chapter 2

  My slippers were silent on the marble as I descended the flight of steps, the sound of raised voices circling me. Madden followed, his face set in disapproving lines. Maeve met us at the bottom of the stairs, Daegan at her back.

  “Complicated stuff, court matters,” the bowman muttered. “I think I much prefer fighting to words.”

  “There is less chance of misunderstanding in swords and bows,” Lochlen agreed, his reptilian eyes flashing as he slunk from the hall’s shadows.

  Madden tensed. There was something disconcerting about the way Lochlen moved, his steps fluid and lithe. Each of us wore a robe over our clothes. Maeve and Daegan chose to wear the color of the mage, the blue cloak falling over leather trousers and skirts. I donned the color of the scribe, the simple brown cape resting over a thin green dress with no petticoats. I couldn’t afford the weight; the risk too much fabric would pose in an unexpected fight. It was enough I wore the skirt.

  Pulling my hood up, I glanced at Lochlen, who also wore a brown cloak. The only difference in our garments was the thread. Lochlen’s mantle was lined in gold. It suited him.

  “You fear power if you fear words,” I remarked.

  Daegan threw me a look, his fingers pulling his blue hood down over his face. Maeve mimicked him. I lifted the corner of my robe, allowing Oran to duck within its shadows before shuffling down the Hall of Light, keeping to the walls. Guards lined the polished marble entrance, their faces stern and unmoving. Only their gazes betrayed them, their eyes tracking our group as we moved past, our feet silent. Any noise we made was overridden by angry exclamations.

  “You dare question me?” King Freemont roared.

  Before him in the immense hall knelt the scarlet clad woman from the courtyard. Her dress was long, the back a trailing train of red lace embroidered with complex circular patterns. Rays of sunlight filtered through the hall’s vast glass ceiling, highlighting golden dust bunnies before catching on sparkling rubies embedded in the woman’s upswept fiery hair. Her head stayed lowered, her knees on the marble.

  “My father is adamant, Your Majesty,” she stated firmly.

  Her voice was lyrical, the sound sweet but forceful. King Freemont watched her, his fingers playing absently with his beard. He lounged on his throne, the dais lined with royals. The queen stood on his left side, her hand on the back of the throne, her slanted eyes full of curiosity. To the king’s right stood Arien, his son and heir, and below him stood Gabriella, Cadeyrn’s betrothed. The Greemallian princess’ cheeks were flushed, angry pink spots stark against pale skin, her sharp, narrowed gaze on the kneeling redhead.


  “And you can back this claim?” King Freemont asked.

  The woman stood slowly, respectfully, her bejeweled fingers beckoning. A page rushed forward, his fingers gripping a rolled parchment sealed with two figures, a half dragon and a series of circles. The dragon belonged to Freemont, the circles to the King of Henderonia. King Gregor was the only monarch in the nine kingdoms who used shapes for his seal.

  The woman’s long, elegant fingers took the scroll, unrolling it, her sharp eyes on the words scrawled within. “It is written, in return for an alliance with the kingdom of Henderonia, King Freemont Horan Bernhart VIII of Sadeemia hereby promises in marriage, his second son, Cadeyrn Forsen Bernhart, to the daughter of King Gregor Dreen II of Henderonia.”

  Silence filled the hall, the woman’s words trailing off, her lilting speech echoing off the marble.

  A seething Gabriella took a step down the dais. “This is mockery! Foolishness. You have no right to make claims with a treaty that has already been fulfilled.”

  The scarlet woman smiled, the gesture filled with sadness. I knew that look, and I knew it well. “If it were up to me, I’d make no claim.”

  “And yet you make it,” a new voice intoned.

  This voice was low, its rich tones filling the entire chamber, the sound drawing every eye down the hall. There, his sword unsheathed, the point resting against his reflection on the floor, stood Prince Cadeyrn. A hastily thrown on white tunic billowed over his chest, his tattoo on display where the ties had been left undone.

  “Hello, Cat,” he added, his blue eyes searching the woman’s piercing hazel gaze.

  She blinked. “I stand on formality here, Your Majesty. I prefer Catriona.”

  Cadeyrn’s head dipped. “So be it.”

  King Freemont stood, a frown marring his features. “That marriage agreement is null. We’ve met its terms.”

  Princess Catriona’s head rose, her chin out. “The agreement promises the hand of Gregor’s daughter in marriage to Prince Cadeyrn. I realize my sister is dead, Your Highness, but there are still three daughters remaining. My sister was never named in the contract. It leaves a lot open to interpretation.”