Chapter 2

As dawn began to lighten the sky just outside the marketplace, Avera Voxspira slid from her steed’s back.

Luna nudged Avera, leading her to murmur, “I know you smell some apples. Don’t worry. I’ll get you a few juicy ones before we head back to the castle.” Right after she finished browsing the newly arrives wares.

A shipment had just arrived from the port at Horizon’s End and she really hoped to find a relic from Verlora amidst the new wares. The country, situated a week’s sail from Daerva’s east coast, had fabricated the most wondrous of objects before their continent went dark. The Verlorians used to excel in a craft they called mechanical science, and though the constructs they’d made were rare these days, Avera always kept an eye out for new ones to add to her collection, which now spanned several shelves in a storage room turned workshop. She quite enjoyed opening up the contraptions to study the cogs within, marveling at the intricate work, doing her best to understand how they worked. The tinkering kept her entertained seeing as how she didn’t have much else to do with her time.

Despite being almost thirty, and a princess, Avera didn’t have any assigned duties. Only direct heirs had expectations and tasks. Rather than languish with boredom, Avera spent most of her days playing with Verlorian devices, riding her steed, exploring the marketplace, or reading. Not exactly the most exciting life, but she had little choice. A princess wasn’t allowed to strike out on her own. A princess, even a forgotten and neglected one, was expected to live in the castle with the other royals. To present herself when necessary for special functions. To behave as befitted her role. At least, unlike her older siblings, she’d not been forced to marry to cement an alliance.

As Avera strolled the market, Luna trailed alongside her, used to the early jaunts. After all, they’d been companions for years now. The Volaqu-bred horse, a breed known for their intelligence and temperament, imported from Pequilh, was a surprise gift from her mother, the queen. Ironically, despite the lavish present, Avera felt closer to Luna than her own family. Then again, Luna actually liked her. More than once Avera had wished she could escape the castle where she’d been raised. She’d even asked her mother on more than one occasion about relocating and been firmly refused. A princess, even one far removed from the throne, apparently required constant protection. An explanation that never satisfied since no one had ever attacked the royal family.

For example, at this very moment, she was in alone in the marketplace, not a guard in sight. As she wandered, her gaze locked on a familiar shape on one of the vendor tables. She quickly headed for the item, bending her head to examine and confirm she’d found a Verlorian artifact. It appeared as a simple box of carved wood but when the lid flipped open, a figurine sprang upright and twirled as music played. A fascinating feat that some would call magic, but she could hear the whirring of gears making it a machine.

Before Avera could ask the vendor how much he wanted for it, a strident voice yelled down the main boulevard, “The queen’s been murdered!”

At the impossible statement, her heart stuttered to a stop and she dropped the box back on the table. Surely, she’d misunderstood. Avera turned to see Lord Gendry, his florid face even redder than usual as he hustled into the market square. People stopped and eyed him as he struggled for breath.

The merchant selling meat pies was the one to shout, “What’s that, again, milord?”

Lord Gendry composed himself enough to huff, “There are assassins in the palace. They’ve murdered the queen and the First Prince, as well as his consort and their child. The Tiara in Waiting and Spare Tiara are also said to be dead.”

Dead?

Avera blinked. That simply wasn’t possible. Her family, the royal family, had guards and security that were supposed to prevent incursion at the palace. It should have been impossible for anyone to get close enough to strike one member of the family, let alone all of them. Not to mention, Daerva didn’t have assassins. They were a peaceful country that rarely dealt with crime, let alone murder.

“Who’s responsible for hiring them?” asked a different merchant as he stood in front of his stall full of brightly colored scarves.

Lord Gendry shrugged and mopped his sweaty brow. “I don’t know. Once I heard about the massacre, I left.”

Someone in the listening crowd muttered, “ Coward.”

They weren’t entirely wrong. Who ran when strife struck? A man who was more farmer than soldier. The Gendry family was the largest producer of crops in Daerva and rarely visited the capital. Rumor had it the lord preferred the company of his sheep to people. The gossip mill also said other much more disturbing things about Lord Gendry and his love of animals.

“If the queen and all the heirs are dead, who will rule us?” the pie seller lamented, wringing his hands.

“What of the youngest? The bastard? Was she killed too?” a woman wearing an apron asked.

“Didn’t she die of the pox?” someone ruminated.

“I hear she’s hideous which is why the queen keeps her hidden,” another commented.

Kind of hurtful. Avera didn’t consider herself ugly, and the queen didn’t so much hide her as just not involve her in matters of state.

“Oh, I forgot about the girl. What’s her name? Valerie?” the pie seller mused.

“No, you idiot, it’s Valera,” the aproned matron retorted.

Both wrong, something Avera had gotten used to given she was the unneeded fourth child the queen had born. At twenty-nine summers, she was younger by a decade than her sister with fifteen years between her and Aldrich, the First Prince. While her three siblings shared one father, Avera came about while the queen was between consorts. No one knew who’d fathered her. Not even Avera. The queen never said, and Avera had given up asking as her mother always muttered, “Nobody important.”

There was much speculation, however, because with her coloring—dark brown hair, lightly tanned skin, and brilliant mauve eyes—she resembled no one in the capital. The populace tended to have blonde and auburn hair with skin tones ranging from pale white to pink, or red-cheeked, if exposed to the sun.

While her appearance shouldn’t have mattered, nor the method of her conception, Avera never felt like she belonged to her family. She lacked any kind of bond or relationship with her siblings, though not for lack of trying when younger. She’d been rebuffed at every turn because they hated her. Aldrich especially enjoyed torturing her until Gustav put a stop to it. Being outcast by her brother and sisters might have been bearable if her mother would have granted Avera some attention. However, the busy queen never paid her youngest daughter much mind, which made her refusal to let Avera live elsewhere all the more maddening.

While it would sound horrible if spoken aloud, Avera felt no grief at the passing of her siblings. Shock, yes, though a shock that had more to do with possibly being the only heir left and she’d never been interested in ruling. Please let Lord Gendry be wrong.

As Avera debated returning to the castle, a cadre of soldiers came galloping into the marketplace, their tunics of blue and gold layered over their metallic armor identifying them as palace guards. And they’d come for one reason only.

Sir Gustav, the Grand Rook in charge of the Queen’s security—and the only positive influence in Avera’s life—held his stallion in place as he pointed at Avera. “There’s the First Princess. Protect her.”

First Princess? The words turned her blood cold. Gustav always called her by name not by title, and she’d never imagined that she’d be called first anything.

This can’t be happening.

An urge to flee struck Avera, and she eyed possible escape routes.

None existed as the people in the marketplace packed in tightly around her, drawn by the morbid news, although they did part to allow passage to the knights with the Grand Rook at their head.

Sir Gustav eyed her through the holes slotted in his helmet. “First Princess, there’s been an incident.”

Why so formal? Then again, they had an audience.

“Is it true my family is dead?” Avera asked.

“The queen yet lives, however, the assassins were thorough. Everyone else is dead.”

“All of them? Even baby Kona?” A sweet, chubby-cheeked girl who was always smiling.

“It was a massacre,” Sir Gustav rumbled in a low tone. “And very well planned. You’d have been dead too, had you told anyone where you went. The assassins tried your room only to find you gone.”

Because Avera had slipped away just before dawn, dressed in simple clothes because she preferred anonymity.

“You knew where to find me,” Avera pointed out.

The grizzled soldier’s lips twisted beneath the nose guard of his helmet. “Because you are predictable. A new shipment for the market always draws you in search of something interesting.”

A curiosity that saved her life.

“Am I in danger?” Avera asked as the soldiers spread out to form a circle around her and Luna.

“The assassins are still at large.” An answer of sorts. “Quickly now. Mount up and let’s return to the castle.”

Despite her annoying skirts, Avera required no help into her saddle and soon they trotted away from the marketplace, Avera boxed in on all sides by soldiers. She did her best to ignore the stares and whispers of the townsfolk they passed. Not easy since she heard someone exclaim, “That’s the First Princess? Does she not know how to dress?”

More like Avera preferred simple and comfortable garments to the intricate ruffles and layers the other ladies of court tortured themselves with.

The Grand Rook sat stiffly in his saddle as he kept pace with Luna’s quick step. He said nothing and so Avera murmured, “You said my mother lives?”

“For the moment,” Gustav stated. “The wound she took to the belly is a bad one. She only survived because she cut the assassin’s throat before he could stab her again.”

“Mother killed her attacker?” It shouldn’t have surprised. The woman had ice in her veins, but since when did she carry a weapon? Avera had never seen her mother armed and wasn’t even aware she could fight. It has always been odd to Avera that she’d received lessons in combat, but her sisters hadn’t. She could even say without lying that she’d become quite proficient with a blade, probably because she’d spent a lot of time practicing, given she had little else to do.

“Your mother has always been adept with a dagger. Once she killed her assassin, she sounded the alarm, but it was too late. The rest of the royal family had already been slain.”

“What happened to the soldiers guarding them?” The heirs had their own personal cadre of protectors and never went anywhere without them.

“Their guards were slaughtered. The assassins hit just before dawn as everyone slept.”

“I must have just missed them,” Avera mused aloud. She’d risen well before the sun and hit the kitchen for a fresh baked roll with jam as well as some carrots for Luna before heading to the market to be there when it opened.

“The killers were well coordinated. They came in unseen by any, killed everyone, and fled as quickly as they arrived. If it weren’t for your mother taking one down, we’d have never known who was responsible.”

“Who?” Avera asked, expecting him to blame the marauders to the west. The Okkilamian had a thing for attacking their ships, although they’d never been brazen enough to cause trouble in Daerva.

To her surprise, Gustav said, “Judging by the appearance of the one your mother killed, Verlorian.”

“How? They’re all dead.” Verlora and its people had essentially ceased to exist after a catastrophic event. Ships stopped sailing between their lands because those who went to investigate never returned.

“Not all of them perished. A few that weren’t in the country at the time of its demise did survive and, from what I’ve heard, turned to pirating and apparently now murder,” was Gustav’s grim reply. The grizzled soldier had long been in the crown’s service. In his sixties—as old as her mother—and yet still fit and sharp. He could be demanding and quite stern when he gave Avera lessons in swordplay, but at the same time, he’d always been kind to her. She knew when he praised her that she’d earned it. In many respects, he was like a father to her, not that he was ever so bold as to show her actual affection. But the fact he didn’t ignore her helped.

“How did a group of Verlorians manage to get past our port authority without notice?” Avera asked.

“That is a question we’re all asking.”

“Do you think the port inspector was bribed to look the other way?”

“Most likely. The question being, which port?” Gustav mused.

Daerva, a continent that sat high above sea level with dominating cliffs all around, had only two bays where ships could anchor. Horizon’s End was only a day’s ride from the capital city of Velunda, and Seaserpent Bay took a week or more of travel overland. If the killers came through that far port, they could have chosen to save time by crossing the Lake of Tears, but that would have required the assassins hiring—or stealing—a vessel capable of handling the lake’s poisoned waters. Only the most daring ever attempted to cross.

“You said only one of them was killed. So where did the rest of the assassins go?” Avera mused aloud.

“We don’t know,” Gustav growled. “It’s why the queen sent me to find you. Currently, we have knights and pawns searching the castle top to bottom.”

Apparently, they should have been searching the city because as she and her soldierly escort cantered into the last street—one lined with three-story houses inhabited by the richest and most favored noble ladies and lords—they were attacked!