Forgotten - Kingdom Gone Book 3, page 1
FORGOTTEN
A Kingdoms Gone Story
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Forgotten copyright © 2013 Frances Pauli
ISBN- 978-1492770237
Print edition
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Requests to use the material will be considered and may be directed to:
Frances Pauli at: author@francespauli.com
Published by Gastropod Press
The Heir shall make the sacrifice
The Powers that be awaken
When royal blood has paid its price
Restore what time has taken.
- excerpt from the Soulstone prophecy
Chapter One
The temple could have been a prison, even though the walls were open and the high skies looked down on the altar-stone without barrier. The stout columns ringed the woman in like prison bars, and yet she could have slipped easily between them. She could have left, had she chosen to. Instead, she paced the ring of stone and could not remember for a second why.
She considered the man who kept her there her warden, and yet it was not for this that she rallied against him. It was not her sentence that made her furious, nor was it her incarceration that drove her feet to trace a path along the columns each day until the earth wore bare and smooth stone showed beneath.
It was how he never touched her.
It was how he kept a room’s width always between them, how he hugged the walls as if the sight of her were poison, as if she might leap at him at any second. She hated him for it, almost as deeply as she despised herself and the slim, slivery wire around her left arm that kept him always on his toes around her.
Payne touched it once at the thought. Her fingers stroked the devil jewelry like an old friend. Her oldest friend. She stared out between the columns to the south at the glint of sea thrashing in the distance. On a clear day, she could taste the salt, and yet could not remember how she knew that flavor. Her lip throbbed from chewing on it. All she could taste today was her own blood.
The temple occupied a slender crag of granite that stuck out from the southern tip of the Shadow Mountain range. It overlooked the sea at a distance of more miles than she would ever be allowed to travel. It wasn’t far to the coast, she knew, because it only took the man four days to go there and return. Four days only, if he traveled south across the low forest and fields between the temple and the sea.
When he left to the east or west, she never knew how long he’d be.
His bags were ready this morning. He’d stocked the cupboards of the little tower they shared, the squat keep originally built for the temple’s caretakers, and his heavy pack sat on the stone just outside the door. Leaving again, and from the stretch at the bag’s seams, trekking longer than usual, wandering farther.
She never knew if he’d return at all. Did she care one way or the other? Payne couldn’t remember any more than she understood why the open temple was a cage, why she never left its boundaries. She turned her back on the sea and headed along the circle now, passing the columns one after the other and wearing the stones thin beneath her feet.
He came out before she’d completed her circuit. She felt the weight of his look, and refused to answer it. Let him go, if he needed to. Let him traipse across the wilderness looking for his answers. She had stones to grind away here. She had stores to eat and a sea to stare at.
“I’m heading east again.” His voice like low thunder in the distance.
Payne refused to answer, kept her eyes angled away. She counted columns.
“Maybe try a little farther out.”
She grunted and sped up her steps. Farther out, longer gone, and come home with nothing that could help them. He searched for his magic in the wilds and she was left here with the devil band around her arm and nothing in her mind but fury.
If she aimed her ire at him, who could blame her? She had no memory of any other soul.
“I’ll be back sooner if I find anything.”
Thirteen columns and she flew past him, started her counting again.
“Payne.” His feet shuffled. His robes whispered a far off song. Had he backed away a step when she passed? Did he cringe at her proximity? “Keep an eye out while I’m gone. If anyone comes…”
“No one comes.” She stopped, still as stone with a flurry of dust at her ankles the only sign she’d been running. “No one ever comes.”
He had no answer for that. They both knew she was right. The temple had been forgotten. The narrow path that wiggled through the crags hadn’t been trod in decades. All she knew of the world beyond was that no one cared enough for this place to seek it out any longer.
“Keep watch, just the same.” The words themselves were a ritual.
Once, she would have asked to accompany him. She remembered that much, the asking every time. She remembered his answer, too. It’s too dangerous. It’s not safe. Eventually, she’d given up on it, the same way she’d given up on him and, in doing so, on herself.
Payne sniffed and turned her back more directly toward him. She waited until she heard his steps patter, until she knew he moved. Then she snuck a peek around, looked and watched the back of his black robes ripple. He’d slung the pack over his shoulder, and he used a staff to aid his walking. The years had worn on him as well, or perhaps she had the same way she wore the path inside the stones. She’d worn him down and now he sagged more at the shoulder.
Eventually he would not return.
The breeze swirled higher and chillier. It carried no trace of the sea today, but Payne tasted salt. She blinked and watched her jailor vanish from the bluff. She watched her warden leave and knew she’d keep an eye on that path, a constant eye, until he returned. She’d pace her circle, stare at the sea and the stones with only the constant teasing of the wind for company.
Ý
“Are you absolutely certain that you want a unicorn?” King Leopold frowned, but his eyes had a playful glint that meant he’d every intention of giving in to her.
“Yes.” Farine had wanted a unicorn since she’d received a bestiary for her fifth birthday, the one with the golden lettering that swirled as delicately as the engravings. She’d discovered the unicorns in the back, all sleek and shimmering, and her obsession had not dimmed one whit in the interceding thirteen years. “You know I do, father.”
“Well, I believe the Tinkers have a few.” He put his hand up and winced at the squeal she couldn’t hold back. “Fari, please. Decorum should be maintained even in the presence of a unicorn.”
“Yes, father.”
“Where is your maid?” The king turned from side to side, and his accompanying guard echoed him, rattling their mail and slapping scabbards together.
Fari looked at her slippered toes and tried to stifle her impatience. The faire surrounded them. The sun blazed overhead and a thick sheen of thistledown filled the spaces between the booths and awnings. No danger lurked here. Aside from their own people, only elves and merchants filled the glade. Merchants and customers and, if her father was to be believed, a band of Tinkers with a unicorn for sale.
She shifted her feet at the thought, imagined the sleek hide and long, twisty mane even while she answered him. “Hadja is at the shrine, father.”
Leopold the Mighty sniffed and continued his appraisal of the grounds with a crease between his eyes. “She is on her knees too much, that one.”
“It’s harmless.” Hadja’s obsession with the Powers might give the king pause, but if Farine’s maid was too religious, she was also free with her knowledge and her reverent chatter fed Fari’s interest in all things magical. The woman had also been a devoted companion, had looked after her since her mother’s death and earned a greater status than she might have otherwise. Farine didn’t want the maid in trouble with her father, didn’t like the idea of anything that might part them. “She only prays because she has so little.”
“She has you.” Leopold placed his wide hands on his daughter’s shoulders. He looked into her eyes, and the trace of his mirth vanished. “She has the honor of tending to you, and how can she do that, while she bows to her odd gods?”
“I’ll go and get her.”
“Go and get your unicorn first.” He smiled now. Only the king knew how badly she’d wanted one, how she longed to ride as the elves did. “I have business here as well. Take Malcolm with you.”
“Do I have to?”
“Fari.” He narrowed his eyes. The guards would keep an eye on her whether or not she took Malcolm. They both knew it. Her father only meant to push the man at her, his favorite soldier and the one she knew he’d like to have as her suitor. He relented today, however. “Fine. But hurry and fetch that maid of yours from her kneeling.”
“Thank you, daddy.” Sparing her Malcolm’s presence earned him the endearment. She wanted to do this on her own.
“And don’t get skinned.”
“I won’t.”
“I’m not teasing, Fari. Tinkers are not known for their honesty. Check the beast’s horn at least, and make them give you a fair price, pr incess or not.”
“I will.” She tossed her golden hair, snagged her skirts and lifted her hem just enough to scamper free of him, of the watchful guards and the cluster of elvin politicians forming beyond their barrier. He had business to tend to. Well, so did she. She had a unicorn waiting.
She couldn’t help the skip in her step, nor the demure giggle when her father’s mumble followed her. “Just because you’ve a treasury doesn’t mean you need to pay half of it for everything.”
He’d been at the shopping himself then, and his warning was only half for her benefit. She tossed a quick look back, saw the elves move in and the king’s attention shift to politics. Good. Let the Gentry keep his attention for a moment, let them have his ear while she danced between the booths, while she avoided the shrine where Hadja waited and curved instead toward the farthest corner of the faire toward the back row where the Tinker’s wagons had been parked. There her unicorn would stand in the sun, shimmering and snorting in anxious anticipation of its new rider.
She’d fetch Hadja on the way back. The guards might tell on her, but it wouldn’t matter then. She’d be back safe and the proud owner of a unicorn. She slowed her steps and paused behind a wooden stall selling glassware that sparkled with magical sigils for health and longevity. Don’t get skinned, he’d said. Be shrewd and get a good deal. Farine inhaled and felt her heart dancing. She needed to at least look calm, if she meant to deal with Tinkers on her own without losing her purse.
She was old enough to do this alone. Her chin lifted and she struck out at a brisk and much stiffer pace. Dignified. Decorum even when buying unicorns. Inside, the little girl she once was squealed in delight.
The Tinker wagons lined up at the edge of the faire. There were thirty at least, all painted in bright and garish colors. Green and scarlet, gold and blazing purple. The fat-rumped draft horses slumped in their traces, nibbling corn from rough bags tied around their heads. Along the line, the Tinkers squatted in the wagons’ shade. Their clothing was as brilliant and clashing as their carts, and their ilk drifted like the thistledown, mostly sprites and fauns and forest Gentry. She did see an imp or two, and one trundling ogre sat like a stone at the back of the lead cart. He leaned against the rear wheel and stared up at the sky.
The little voice inside her thought ogres were scary, maybe too scary to approach, even for a unicorn. But before she could convince the rest of her to back quickly away, a high-pitched whinny echoed down the line. Her feet were moving again without any conscious decision. Her heart raced, and she kept one eye on the ogre as she passed.
He didn’t move, and the way his chest lifted and fell suggested sleep, even though his huge eyes were open and staring. She moved forward, but her steps slowed. Farine had seen imps before, and the castle was usually crawling with elves, but her father didn’t allow ogres inside the walls, nor fiends nor gobelins. He didn’t trust the Gentry reputation for skinning enough to trade directly with them, but he did allow them to camp here, at the fringe of the faire, and he had sent her to find her unicorn.
He had also told her to fetch Hadja.
She stumbled over a lump of root. The horse’s hooves had churned up the turf, making a mess of the normally flat glade. Farine’s arms flew to her sides, flailed for balance and thumped the forehead of the imp who’d been about to steal her purse. It squeaked and backed away rapidly, tripping and ending on its rump amidst the tousled thistledown.
Well, she hadn’t been looking where she was going, and it had been reaching for her decoy purse, the one all nobles wore openly and full of only a few small coins. She’d managed to retain her feet and the poor thing had fallen hard. Now it blinked wide, round eyes at her and scooted on its bottom in the opposite direction.
“B-beg pardon.”
“I’m the one that hit you.” She hadn’t meant to, but it seemed worth noting. Farine didn’t love the idea of losing that purse, but it wouldn’t have dented her unicorn budget in the least. That money, she’d tucked safely into her waistband pocket. “Are you all right?”
The gray face scrunched up like a prune and the imp’s jaw dropped open. Farine examined it more closely. Small even for an imp, and dressed in only a ratty pair of short pants. A child, it would seem, and she’d terrified it.
“I think you need some practice.”
The jaw snapped shut and, if she wasn’t mistaken, the shine of tears watered the big eyes.
“It’s okay. Here.” Farine offered him her hand. The Skinner in training flinched and scooted farther from her. “No? Well, I hope you’re not hurt overmuch.”
“I-I…”
“What’s your name?”
“My name?”
The little Skinner’s eyes darted to her belt and back. It knew she’d caught it, and it expected worse from her than a greeting. Well, she had enough to spare, and the Tinkers, she knew, did not. They took great stock in names, however. She remembered that too late. It explained the suspicion in the poor child’s eyes.
“I am Farine.”
It hissed between pointy teeth and whimpered. Her name, it would recognize, and she’d given it freely.
“Slipstone.”
“I see.” She should let the poor thing be, had already given it a nice bruising on accident. But striding as she was into the Tinker’s camp had been stupid. Her status was obvious, and it had made her an easy target. She needed to look less separate, and having an imp to guide her just might do the trick. “Well, Slipstone, I’m so very glad to have run into you.”
“You are?”
Farine stroked her decoy purse and watched his face. His eyes glued to her movement, followed the gesture and widened. His cheek twitched and, just for a second, she knew what it felt like to be a Skinner, to work a trick and feel that little rush of power and control. The imp wanted her purse, and she wanted a service. Technically, it was a fair deal. Still, she couldn’t help the whisper of excitement in her voice when she delivered her offer.
“I want to make a deal with you.”
Chapter Two
The fourth morning dawned the same as every other one. He’d been gone three days, four nights and now the sun wandered in between the shutters while the dust motes drifted lazily through the keep. Payne woke up alone.
Already, a thin wind whistled against their walls. She lay on her back and followed the grain patterns overhead, the old boards whose lines she knew as well as the veins in the back of her hand. Was it better to wake up alone or to him fluttering around the keep, making his secretive noises, thinking he was too quiet to rouse her? She almost wished to hear them now. But the silence had its own comfort. It said no one would cringe from her presence today.
There would be no one to flinch away from her.
The wood grain held her interest for a few moments. She followed the lines down the wall to a scattering of knife gouges, nicks and outright scars. She could practice throwing, perhaps, while her mind chewed on what to do. She’d tired of pacing. Without him to irritate, the activity soon lost its luster. They had more than enough supplies laid in, didn’t need wood or herbs or anything that she could collect in the wiggle of brushy land behind the temple. She could always walk down the trail.
Her snort rattled the beams and sent a fresh cascade of motes flying. The surreal idea got her moving though. She rose and dressed and glared at the contents of her bedroom. Like every other morning, the walls were unimpressed by her attempt to will them out of existence. Payne stomped out into the main room and scanned it for any sign of him.
She shouldn’t care if he was back or not, and she cursed her eyes for glancing toward the door to his sleeping room. Shut and vacant, it’s sigils dark. The hearth burned merrily and perpetually away, crackling blue flames beneath a cooking pot that had more sigils than unmarked space on its old surface. Payne checked the contents, found gruel and berries and helped herself to a bowl before ordering the pot to clean itself and begin its preparations for her mid-day meal.
The ingredients would vanish from the pantry shelves, the fire would crackle and the pot would cook. Payne dropped her bowl into an empty wash basin and frowned at it while the water filled from the aether, while the soap bubbled by magic.
