Curse of Shadows and Thorns: A Dark Fantasy Romance (The Broken Kingdoms Book 1)
Curse of Shadows and Thorns: Chapter 2

“Three hells, Siverie! Put that bleeding knife down.” The second girl swatted the blade off my throat. She was the tallest of us, the thickest, but had a constant furrow of worry over her brow.

“Siv,” I said, eyes wide. “I agree with Mavie. I don’t particularly like knives at my throat.”

To see a smile on Siv’s face was rarer than blossoms in winter. Constantly looking over her shoulder, blades hidden in her aprons or in her boots. A serf with a history. I didn’t know what always put her on edge, but most Ettans had not lived a peaceful life. Perhaps I never asked why she wanted to slit everything that moved because I was too afraid to learn the horrors of her life.

Siv pinched her lips and tucked the knife into her apron pocket. “Where have you been?”

I let out a nervous chuckle and held out my hands. “I know you both are probably angry—”

“Angry?” Siv said. “Angry at what? That the Kvinna was missing or that you left without us?”

“Enough with the Kvinna,” I said, more because I hated when my title followed me everywhere. Somehow it left me feeling dirty and grimy.

“You’re the king’s niece. Especially tonight,” Mavie said, smoothing the front of her serf frock. “We’re going to call you Kvinna.”

She held out the silver wrist band with two facing raven heads on the ends. Then Siv handed over a rowan berry tiara I’d tuck in my braids soon enough.

I rolled my eyes and took them. Being a Kvinna, a second royal, meant my mother practically pasted the title to my skin. Not that I’d need it. Even being an insignificant member of my family line, the wrist band would give me away at first glance. Everyone knew the Lysanders. How could you not know the family of the king?

Sometimes I wished I could live like the Ettan serfs, or the townsfolk in the shanties. The desire said a great deal because there was something mightily wrong with how the Ettan people lived. New Timoran had been built from what was once the country of Etta. This land was lush, green. Full of forests and rivers. I could only guess Timorans raided for the resources, since beyond the North Cliffs the old Timoran was tundra. Cold, hard. Unforgiving.

I tugged off the cap and let my frosty braid fall over my shoulder. A color so pale it almost looked blue. Timoran to the bone by looks, but more Ettan by heart.

“You keep causing a stir around here and who’s to say what King Zyben might do to you,” Mavie insisted and snatched the cap from my hand, returning it to a peg near the door. “Take it from me, enjoy the wine and the parties. The lower side isn’t as glamorous as we make it seem.”

“Zyben has too much affection for my mother to do anything drastic,” I lied. Somewhere along the way my uncle had left his heart behind. He held no affection for me, for I had no purpose in his court. Only my sister, Runa, had necessity. But one step out of line, and I did risk him withdrawing his much-needed graces regarding my father.

When life grew tiresome and dreary, selfishly I forgot as a second family we did not have mediks, the healers of the Castle Ravenspire. Truth be told, I believed Zyben’s healers were Night Folk the way they kept father’s blood infection from spreading.

Without the king’s mercy, without our compliance, father would be left for the Otherworld.

Simply another tool the king used to exert his obsession with power.

The cellar door clanged open and Siv huffed, gesturing for us to move out of the dank room.

I tried to lighten the tension with a chuckle. “Being a little loud tonight, Siv.”

The gilded brown of her eyes flashed in something like anger—or amusement—with Siv it was hard to tell. “You left without me! Without us.”

Siv kept her glossy black hair tied in a long tail at the base of her neck. She had nicks and marks from fights in her past. I thought she had a wild beauty that had drawn more than one eye—even from Timorans.

“I’m sorry,” I said as I secured the wrist band. “I needed to get out, just for a moment. I couldn’t replace you.”

“Next time, I expect to be found before you leave,” Siv said.

Mavie nodded. “Me, too.”

Siv stood in front, while Mavie ushered me forward from the back. I had no choice but to move. Out in the corridor, Siv opened a thick door in the wall, and waved us inside. “There are too many Ravens wandering about now. We’ll take the serf passages.”

Raven was the nickname for Ravenspire patrols, and if anyone else but Mavie and me heard Siv use the slang she’d be lashed on the post at the edge of the thicket.

“Why are there so many?”

“Because the Blood Wraith and his Guild of Shade attacked the slaver caravans in the southern foothills,” Mavie grumbled.

A sharp heat struck me in the chest until I coughed to simply catch a breath. “W-what?” I leaned against the mossy river stone walls. “The Blood Wraith?”

At the mention of his name, from habit, I rubbed my two missing fingertips. Mavie made a noise of disgust. “Bleeding killers. Can’t be human if you ask me. Not the way he slaughters.”

The Blood Wraith had hunted the lands of New Timoran for as long as I could remember. Said to be the kind of Night Folk with dark fury and a fondness for blood and bone.

Timoran was made of guilds, and the Wraith was no different. The guild who followed him killed as well as him. I’d had the misfortune of facing the Blood Wraith—but not even Siv and Mavie knew. Intending to sneak a skiff ride to the north shore, instead I fell under the Wraith’s blade. A ghost who seemed to step from one shadow the next. I agreed with Mavie. The heat in the Wraith’s eyes, so red they burned like flames; the way the Wraith was wrangled away from slitting my throat by his masked guild like a beast—he couldn’t be human.

But this was the first I’d heard of any sightings in nearly half a turn.

“All right?” Siv asked, her expression softer.

“Fine.”

“I wouldn’t fret over the Guild of Shade. Folk blame them for any killings. Could be someone else. But what I wish you’d consider, Kvinna, are Agitators,” Mavie said. “They’re becoming bolder.”

“Cursed gods, does the trouble never end?” Agitators were a thorn in my side, in the entire royal line’s side. Zealots that took pleasure attacking any Timoran with a drop of noble blood, insisting they were imposters. I supposed in a way we were, being that Timoran overtook former Etta, removed their royals, and took the crown for ourselves. But Agitators wanted to take back the throne, and when Zyben abdicated to my cousin, his heir apparent, the passing of the crown would create a temporary weakness Agitators could exploit by destroying an inexperienced ruler.

“Things to think about, is all. You put your neck on the line tonight and we’re here to remind you of it,” Mavie went on.

“My neck was not on any line,” I insisted. “I went to a game hall. Besides, I know how to use a blade.”

“Yes, but I’m better with one,” Siv said.”

“True.”

Siv tilted her head. “Plus, I always enjoy a good night of rebellion.”

“A game hall,” I said. “How rebellious.”

“Yes,” Mavie said and began fiddling with my braid, smoothing the plaits until I batted her away. “Since women are not welcome at the game tables it is a bit rebellious.”

“Honestly, for you, everything beyond dreaming of a husband is rebellious,” Siv said.

By the gods, she grinned. Kind of.

I snorted a laugh because it was true, sad as it was. As a niece—the second niece—of the king, my sole purpose would be to carry on the royal line and be silent about it. I’d have gone mad this last turn with all the chatter about my future match if not for Mavie and Siv. They were my only real friends and lamented over the unfairness of our lives with me.

“I have maybe one turn left before the king barters me away like a prized hog. Let me live a little without reprimands.”

Siv lifted a brow. “Live a little? Is that what you call it? Funny since we all know why you sneak to that particular game hall.”

My cheeks heated. “Your pardon?”

“Oh, don’t be so prickly, Kvinna,” Mavie said, simply to irritate me, no doubt. “We know Herr Legion frequents the place. Did you finally speak to him?”

I quickened my steps. “It’s illegal for me to even be there. Why would I draw attention of anyone of position?”

“So, you did see him.”

I rolled my eyes. Curses to me for admitting I found the face of Legion Grey handsome. Ever since, Siv and Mavie have been determined to weasel a way for us to speak. “If you must know, yes, we spoke tonight. In passing.”

I never imagined Siv’s face could show such expression, but her eyes widened like dark orbs and Mavie forgot herself, squealing loud enough, someone in the main house must have heard. “You did! Don’t keep it there. What happened?”

There was no reason to lie, they’d force the truth out soon enough. In one breath I repeated the brief interaction, omitting my clumsier moments of colliding into him.

“Honestly, I don’t know why it excites you,” I said with a touch of bitterness. “I will be matched with someone of the king’s choosing, and without Timoran nobility in him, Legion Grey will not be in the running.”

“I still think he’d make a delightful face to fantasize about.” Mavie grinned. “I know you’re against taking vows, and trust me, I’ve always found it strange how second or third Timoran daughters receive a lottery of potential husbands. Allow yourself to dream, instead, of Legion’s lips on yours, instead of—”

“An old fool who smokes too much?” I proffered dryly. “At least Runa knows who she’ll take vows with.” My sister had the responsibility as the eldest to ensure our delicate royal blood remained secure. She was already betrothed to our cousin, Calder. A blithesome man who had eyes for everyone but Runa. Perhaps, I was the more fortunate one.

“Well, blame your uncle,” Siv snapped. “Who, by the way, has been here for nearly an hour. Pick up the pace.”

My stomach lurched. It was required to greet the king and if I never showed, even my absence would be noticed. As we walked, I stripped my coat and the heavy leather belt around my waist. I’d need to be washed and dressed before the next hour, so no sense waiting to undress until my room.

Siv paused at a divot in the wall marked with a blue sash. With a firm nudge of her shoulder, the wall gave way to a large sitting room made of satin chaise lounges, endless shelves of books, pewter tea trays, and bear-fur rugs next to an open hearth.

“Welcome home, Kvinna Elise.”

I jumped at the voice and shot my gaze to the door leading to my bed chamber. Bevan, the steward of the house, hunched in the shadows, smiling. I guessed him to be a few turns older than my father. His hair had thinned on top, but his skin had only started to sag a bit.

“Bevan,” I said, casting furtive glances at Siv and Mavie.

The steward took in the two serfs at my back. “Siverie, Mavie, I’d advise veils and to hurry back to the kitchens before Cook resorts to the switch.”

Siv frowned, but I guessed it was more at the command to place the netted veil over her face. A requirement in royal households. Mavie paled, but for her, it was because of Cook. The old woman was terse and took her frustrations out with willow branches.

“We’ll speak soon,” Siv murmured under her breath and together my friends abandoned me to the stillness of my chambers.

“Kvinna Elise,” Bevan said after a stretched silence. “It’s not my business where you spend your time, but I will beg of you, whatever you are doing, please never do so beneath the night sky again. What if you were injured, or mistaken for an Ettan? Could take weeks to sort out such a mess.”

“Bevan, what about me screams Ettan?” True enough. My skin was freckled, pale as paper, dry as an onion. Not the smooth, tanned complexion as most Ettans, with their chestnut, or raven-wing black hair.

“All the same, I hope you’ll hurry. A bath has been drawn. I’ll wait for you downstairs.” Bevan gestured to the washroom and left me with a nod to his head.

A gown sprawled across my goose-down mattress. My fingers traced the cold beads sewn into the indigo fabric, the swooping neckline that would show too much flesh.

In the washroom, the water had gone tepid from my tardiness, but was still fragrant with lavender, mint, and rose. I scrubbed the dirt with the bristled brush, scrubbed my fingernails, my hair, until I was pink and raw.

Cleaned and dressed, I once more braided my hair with the rowan tiara. Black lace gloves rested on the edge of a chest of drawers. My frown deepened. Doubtless, my mother had put the gloves out. I wished she hadn’t. Was it such a shame to have survived an attack with a scar? Then again, only my family knew of my encounter with the Blood Wraith. But was that so shameful, too? I suppose since I had been sneaking about. The point was I hated the gloves.

Before leaving my chamber, I practiced walking in the new heeled shoes, curtsied in the mirror. Satisfied I would not tumble on my face, I gave my reflection a lazy salute, and left with a healthy reluctance toward the fete all together.

At the thick ballroom doors, Bevan waited.

He wore a grim sort of smile. “Lovely, Kvinna.”

“Thank you, Bevan,” I said.

“I am told congratulations will be in order, no doubt, after your meet with the king.”

I paused; my brow furrowed. “Congratulations?”

Bevan’s bronze skin paled. “Never mind.”

“No, no, Bevan,” I scolded. “What do you mean?”

His granite eyes locked on me. “Forgive me, but the talk, uh, the talk in the serf corridors is that Kvin Lysander . . . he . . .”

“Bevan! What is it?” My heart lodged in the back of my throat. My stomach turned in sick.

Bevan licked his chapped lips. “Seems at the king’s behest, your father has agreed for his majesty to open the bid for your hand, Kvinna. You’re to be matched.”