Spellbreakers

Evernight
Publishing ®

www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2014 Katherine Wyvern

 
ISBN: 978-1-77130-946-2

Cover Artist: Sour Cherry
Designs

Editor: Karyn White

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized
reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.
 
No part of this book may be used or
reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the
case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction.
All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.

DEDICATION

To
Eric and Kaylee

who
shared the long road with me

SPELLBREAKERS

Katherine Wyvern

Copyright © 2014

And it was said that his soul was taken

He was locked
away – sleeping

For a hundred
years under ice eternal

Untouched by
the honey bees of June

Forever
beautiful

And forever
cold

In an endless
frozen winter

A hundred years
he waited

A hundred years
he slept unmoving

He waited for
the kiss of summer

And a gold wind
from the south

The gold of the
sun in the humming gardens

He waited for
her kiss,

Her warm, warm
kiss,

So he could be
free

Then he could
breathe and sing again

Sing the bees
in the reveling roses

Sing the summer
song of June

The
summer song of love.

From the song of Princess Leal of Escarra and Kjetil
Alversen Hawkeneye, last Warlord of the Elverlaen, as was sung by the troubadours
of Castel Argell.

Chapter
One

The adventure of Princess Leal of Escarra in the far
northern kingdom of Dalarna began at court, one hot southern afternoon, nearly
a month after mid-summer, in the year 1467.

It was a sultry day, with a lifeless pale sky, neither
blue nor grey. Even in the great hall of Castel Argell, under its high vaults
of stone, behind walls seven feet thick, it was too hot for comfort. There was
a hope that rain might come, but when? The whole Val d’Eran was parched and
dry. The leaves in the vineyards hung flagging in the sun. This far south, rain
was a gift in summer, even in the mountains.

The ladies of the court, all in their most sumptuous
gowns, swathes of pale Andalouan silks and rich Umbrian velvets embroidered,
slashed, and pinked in a myriad of colors and patterns, fanned their faces ceaselessly,
like a meadow full of trapped butterflies, each silently praying that the
Hassian ambassador would get going, and get it over with. The heralds had been
ready for their fanfare for a good five minutes now, fidgeting with their drums
and trumpets, but the great ambassador was
late
.

It was outrageous, deliberately insolent.
A bloody bad beginning to a most unpleasant business.

Well, of course you could say that this story began
long before that. You could say that it started with the Red War of 1104, when
the rivers ran crimson with blood and even the sky above wept scarlet tears at
the atrocities committed on the ravaged battlefields. Or you could say that it
started with the White Death of 1466, when men, women, children, sometimes
whole families, were carried away by the silent inexplicable plague that swept
through the kingdom, so that grief spared no one, rich or poor, good or evil.

But for Leal, it started on that grey dull afternoon,
at court.

She was not even paying attention, really. “Are you
all right,
m’lady
?” asked Daria, in a whisper, leaning over Leal’s
shoulder. Her voice was almost covered by the fanfare that accompanied the
fantastic light show overhead.

“Yeah ... I mean, no, not really, no. I can’t breathe,
hardly.” Leal squirmed in her tight bodice. It was no good to wear a soft
silken shift under a stiff damask bodice, if the shift bunched up in pleats and
folds that itched like crawling ants on a sweaty skin.

She felt a fumbling at her waist, and a slight relief
came as the ties on the back of her corset were loosened somewhat. She kept her
hands demurely crossed in front of her, trying to look bland and vaguely
smiling while the Hassian ambassador finally—finally!—advanced along the nave
of the great hall. The bodice gave way just enough for her to take a deeper
sigh. It was not freedom, not even close, but better than nothing. She breathed
easier, and gave a quick sideways nod over her shoulder to Daria, who stood a
step behind her, out of sight, in a respectfully subservient position.

Leal tried to concentrate on the advancing figure
striding among the columns of the throne hall. The Hassian ambassador was short
and thin, a ludicrously small figure, topped by a dandelion-head of frizzy
black hair. What he lacked in physical stature he made up in attitude. It was
rumored that he was a favorite with Black Admund and that he had already been
chosen as future governor of Escarra. As he advanced, he scanned the nave of
the hall as smugly as if he already owned the place. Leal could have sworn that
he was measuring the place for curtains.

His visit had been expected for almost a month. The
Challenge time had come ‘round again, as it did every fifty years since what
now looked like beginning of time, although it was in fact barely three hundred
and fifty years.

The heralds’ trumpets rang on and on, perfectly
deafening in the echoing stone-vaulted hall. The ambassador bowed stiffly in
front of the king and queen, showing through the scarlet of his robes an
elegant leg clad in a golden silk stocking.

“Hail, Guillem, king of Escarra...”

Leal’s attention wandered as the titles and
formalities piled up.
Come to the point, you ... you garish cockatoo,
she
thought, wary even in her thoughts, lest her expression give away her scorn.
We
all know you have the best archer and that Escarra is doomed.

“... and the time has now come again. In the name of
King Admund Schwarzwald the Third, I hereby challenge the king of Escarra to an
archery contest, whose outcome will decide the fortunes of our kingdoms once
again. It is King’s Admund’s pleasure to name a champion. Hristo Straightaim,
of Kareli, will shoot for Hassia. You may choose your own champion. If he wins,
your kingdom shall stand free for fifty more years. If not, you will accept the
Hassian rule, at long last. You will find Admund a lenient king. To show
respect to the royal house of Escarra, he will take the heir to your throne,
the princess...” he hesitated a moment, because the heir to the throne had
changed twice in as many months, “...the princess Leal, as his rightful
spouse.”

Leal blinked three times. The words were clear yet
made no sense.
Spouse?
Did he say spouse?
Did he say Admund will marry the heir to the Escarran throne? Admund will wed
...
me
?

Behind her, Daria scoffed. A buzzing murmur like a
thousand hornets rose among the mighty pillars that upheld the stone vault of
the great hall. Princess Amata, Leal’s younger sister gave a high pitched
giggle, quickly suppressed by an icy glance of her governess. Little Princess Beatriç
began to grizzle and had to be taken away.

Lord Dionis, the king’s brother, his most trusted
councilor, and the Escarran Master of Enchantments, stood up and coughed. His
seat was several steps below the throne, yet even so he was in many ways a more
formidable figure than King Guillem. He was taller, and in his youth he had
been an extraordinarily handsome man. Even now, he was a stunning figure, with
a lined but clean shaven face, a shock of white but thick, unruly hair and
disconcertingly pale, piercing, commanding blue eyes. His heavy blue-black
cloak was edged with a silver border of interwoven crescents, the mark of his
order. The high rigid collar of the cloak framed his stern face and made him
look even taller and more imposing.

He stepped forward, bowing slightly to the ambassador.

“The Challenge is, of course, once more, accepted,” he
said in a soft voice, which mysteriously carried through the whole hall.
“However, it has never before been contemplated that the two royal houses
should unite.”

“Never before has King Admund issued the Challenge, my
lord. It is his prerogative to choose his terms.”

The Master of Enchantments stared down at the
ambassador with cold pale eyes. He rolled his shoulders slightly, and thunder
rumbled overhead as he took another step forward. The great hall went darker.
The thunder grew louder, gathering strength as Lord Dionis bore down on the
Ambassador who took a hasty step back. Then the old wizard clasped his hands
behind his back, pausing in his stride. A slightly condescending smile
flickered on his lips. The light grew stronger again, and the last grumble of
thunder died away.