The Redstar Rising Trilogy Read online

  Contents

  Book One

  PROLOGUE

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  XXIX

  XXX

  XXXI

  XXXII

  XXXIII

  XXXIV

  XXXV

  XXXVI

  XXXVII

  XXXVIII

  Book Two

  PROLOGUE

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  XXIX

  XXX

  Book Three

  PROLOGUE

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  XXIX

  XXX

  XXXI

  XXXII

  XXXIII

  XXXIV

  XXXV

  XXXVI

  EPILOGUE

  Join The King’s Shield

  Thank You!

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  Book One

  WEB OF EYES

  WEB OF EYES

  ©2018 RHETT C. BRUNO & JAIME CASTLE

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the authors.

  Print and eBook formatting, and cover design by Steve Beaulieu. Artwork provided by Fabian Saravia. Cartography by Bret Duley.

  Published by Aethon Books LLC.

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All Pantego/The Buried Goddess Saga characters, character names, and the distinctive likenesses thereof are property Aethon Books.

  All rights reserved.

  Oliver—may there never be “piders” in your closet.

  PROLOGUE

  An ill King brings circling wolves.

  Sir Uriah Davies, Wearer of White, and sworn protector of the Glass Kingdom had been living by those words since the King’s health declined. After decades of war, uniting the kingdoms of Pantego under the light of Iam, the one true God, the body of Liam the Conqueror had finally started failing.

  King Liam’s condition was kept quiet as long as possible, but his absence from assemblies and celebrations brought whispers from all corners. Angry, envious people spoke in darkness about changing winds. For four years, Uriah had been silencing them, praying for the King’s restoration. But it never happened.

  Foreign lords jockeyed to improve their position with underhanded dealings. Members of the Royal Council bribed the Queen to increase their sway over affairs, all while, she hosted countless grand feasts and masquerades to draw attention away from her dying husband.

  Uriah feared the fate of the kingdom hung by a thread when one fitful, early winter night Queen Oleander’s brother arrived in the capital city of Yarrington. Redstar, as he was known, was foreign like she had been before the King claimed and married her—a savage from the northern lands of Drav Cra.

  King Liam had long rejected Redstar’s requests for an audience, but now, with the King barely able to speak, Redstar swept into the city to beseech his sister. He claimed that as chieftain of the Ruuhar Clan, he sought support for his starving people who once were hers.

  Uriah knew better than to trust a man like Redstar, a worshipper of false gods and notorious warlock who, along with his Drav Cra brethren, raided and pillaged northern towns within the Glass Kingdom. A man who drew on the foul magics of Elsewhere, as if they were a thing for mortals to wield, using them to sow chaos. Redstar denied such claims, but survivors spoke of a half-red-faced raider wielding fire as viciously as a sword, and Redstar’s birthmark—a five-pointed star taking up the whole left side of his face—was impossible to mistake.

  Uriah warned Oleander to send him back to the tundra from whence he came, but advising the woman nearly always led her to do just the opposite. Instead, he stood outside the King and Queen’s door listening to their hushed argument. It was not his place to eavesdrop, but with the King incapacitated, he found himself doing it more and more. Oleander, more crucial than ever, was young, rash, and harsh as the tundra where she was born. Straining, he heard a clatter.

  “This place has made you weak, sister!” Redstar shouted, his voice growing closer. The door nearly smashed Uriah’s face, but he repositioned himself just in time.

  Redstar glared, lips pursed in anger. He was pale as snow, like his sister, except for the dark red birthmark which had earned him his name. It was said only one of the twin moons smiled on him at his birth, leaving him marked, malformed. Seeing him in person again, Uriah believed it.

  “What are you looking at, knight?” Redstar spat.

  Uriah held his tongue. He had no love for the man.

  Merely a boy when the King took Oleander as his own all those years ago, even then, Redstar was tempted by darkness. Uriah hadn’t forgotten the trek home when two of his own men went berserk, killing each other, and Redstar was discovered in his yurt holding a piece of his sister’s hair, blood covering his hands.

  In spite of his hatred for magic—especially dark, blood magic—King Liam spared Redstar because of his relation to Oleander. Uriah called it a mistake, though he honored his king’s wishes as always.

  “This way, my Lord,” Uriah said finally, gesturing to Redstar and biting back disdain.

  He escorted the Queen’s brother back to the guest chamber where he would stay until morning, then retired to his own quarters. But Uriah couldn’t sleep.

  An ill king brings circling wolves. It echoed in his mind.

  So, instead of lying awake, listening through the wall to the moans of his King as Oleander struggled to feed him porridge, he returned to the guest wing. When midnight arrived, his patience rewarded him. Uriah hid, then followed Redstar’s glowing torch as
he crept through the dark halls of the Glass Castle.

  His face screwed in disgust when Redstar turned. It wasn’t a torch the man held, his raised hand was wreathed in flame, blood dripping down his forearm.

  Blood magic. How dare he taint this sacred castle?

  Uriah edged toward a corner, peeking around to see Redstar stopped outside the door of the King and Queen’s only son’s room. Pi was weak and scrawny, but a sweet boy—a kindhearted and seemingly worthy heir to Liam’s great kingdom. Uriah had only just begun to teach him the ways of the sword, but unlike his father, he would rather bury his head in books.

  Redstar raised his hand to the lock, sliding it open without even a touch.

  “Pi,” Uriah whispered, rushing to the door as Redstar slipped through. He listened for a moment but heard nothing. Lowering his shoulder, he burst in to find Redstar looming over the sleeping prince, whispering in his ear.

  Then, Redstar looked up. “Shhh, you’ll wake him.”

  “Step away,” Uriah demanded.

  “You should consider how you address your Queen’s brother,” Redstar replied, voice as calm as ever, like the world was his playground. His eyes rose to meet Uriah’s, mouth curled into a dark grin.

  “You should have stayed in your quarters.”

  “I decided I should leave early. Can’t an uncle say a proper goodbye to his nephew?” He drew up the blankets covering the Prince.

  Pi groaned, rolled, and pulled the blankets close.

  Something was missing. Pi always slept with the crude Drav Cra doll his mother had presented him on his birthing day. The Drav Cra called it an orepul and believed the idols made in their likeness contained a piece of their very souls. Uriah considered it worthless pagan mumbo-jumbo that the King only permitted to placate his wife, but Pi had an attachment to it that Uriah hoped he would grow out of soon.

  Presently, Redstar had the orepul clutched in his right hand.

  “In the name of Liam and the one true God, return that to your prince at once,” Uriah said. “I don’t care who you are, warlock.” The term left his lips with venom but hearing it only seemed to embolden Redstar.

  “Arch Warlock now,” he corrected.

  “All the same to me.”

  “Of course, it is. The Queen forgets her own people.” Redstar ran his hand across Pi’s cheek, smearing blood from his sliced palm along it. Pi didn’t wake, merely twitched as if it were the midst of a nightmare. “Yet still she made him this?”

  Uriah drew his sword. “I won’t ask again.”

  “You would threaten a member of the royal family?”

  “There is no royalty in you, heathen.” Uriah edged closer, making sure to keep a safe distance. The stained glass of the arched window at his back rattled, rain driving sideways with the harsh wind.

  “Our Lady and her chosen people are tired of being forgotten,” Redstar said. “Your queen is no longer one of us. It is time she stopped pretending.”

  “Step away, now!”

  Uriah extended his sword. The blade nearly touched Redstar’s throat, but the heathen ignored it and regarded the orepul, then the Prince. His smirk widened.

  “Farewell, my young prince,” he said. “We’ll be together again soon.”

  Uriah saw the glint of a dagger as Redstar reached into his robes. He knew harming the Queen’s brother wouldn’t be overlooked, but he was paid to protect the boy. Uriah thrust his sword at the traitor, but his blade met only air.

  Redstar was unexpectedly fast, sliding across the floor and catching Uriah’s side. The dagger drew a shallow cut, but it was enough to slow Uriah. He swung his blade in a wide arc, but Redstar was already by the window.

  “Redstar!” Uriah roared as the Arch Warlock smashed the window with his elbow.

  Wind and rain like ice sliced in, forcing Uriah to cover his face. Pi’s eyes sprung open as if roused from a nightmare, clutching his blanket, frantic in search of the orepul.

  Redstar performed an exaggerated stage bow, then fell backward. Uriah reached for his leg, grabbing only silk before the Queen’s brother flipped back over the sill and into the night.

  Uriah stuck his head out into the driving rain and stared down the castle’s tallest spire. There was no falling body, no corpse lying in the courtyard. He was just… gone.

  “Sir, what happened! I heard raised voices and... was that Redstar?”

  Uriah whipped around to see one of his men, another member of the King’s Shield standing in the doorway, claymore drawn.

  “Torsten,” Uriah said. “Rouse the Queen. The Prince has been robbed.”

  Torsten’s gaze shifted between the frightened prince and Uriah. “What did he take?”

  “The boy’s soul…”

  I

  THE THIEF

  ONE YEAR LATER…

  “What’s the difference between a Westvale whore and a dwarf?” Haam asked from behind the Twilight Manor’s worn bar, white shirt stained from a day's work—although he’d likely been wearing it for much longer. “One’s short, fat, and has a beard. The other lives in the tunnels of the Dragon’s Tail!”

  The motley company surrounding him erupted in laughter, slapping the bar and spilling pints all over the faded wood floor. Laughing especially hard was a scruffy, red-haired dwarf, a member of a small mercenary crew hired to guard a trading caravan. Like anyone interesting who found themselves in Troborough, he was simply passing through.

  Whitney Fierstown didn’t make a sound at the joke, just sat alone at a corner table, nursing his ale. His finger drew circles around the rim of his earthenware mug, mindlessly keeping time with the out-of-tune bard strumming his lute by the hearth.

  The Twilight Manor was fuller than usual thanks to the traders, but this wasn’t Yarrington or Winde Port. Far from it. The tavern sat in the middle of a cobbled square in the quaint farming village of Troborough.

  Whitney stared through the dirty, cloudy window beside his table, completely unsure why in the name of Elsewhere he found himself back in the town he’d grown up. It had been many years since he fled the small life for adventure, so long, nobody recognized him. So long, he learned his parents had both passed a while back at the hands of a plague in the town’s water supply. So long their shoddy gravestones were weathered, the names barely legible.

  It was tough to say the news made him sad. He’d never been close with them, especially not his ceaselessly grumpy father who cared about nothing except for the next harvest. But a new family now lived in the farmhouse he’d grown up in. A husband and a wife, and two kids who’d never amount to anything in this place. One of the children, a particularly scrawny boy, played swords in the square with his younger sister just as Whitney remembered doing with his only childhood friend, a Panpingese orphan named Sora.

  The boy parried and dodged, not just swinging the stick but allowing himself to be stabbed and prodded on occasion as well—the sign of a smart child preparing himself for the harsh realities of life. Any man Whitney had ever met who fancied himself an unconquerable hero found his head on the wrong end of a spike. They were only the stuff of myth and legend, nothing like how he and Sora used to imagine.

  The thought of her brought a smile to his lips. He'd only just gotten in that night, and he didn't plan to stay long, but she hadn’t shown her face. He’d passed the home where she’d grown up on the edge of town, under the care of the nutty town healer, Wetzel. Nobody was home, and the barely-standing shack seemed abandoned, though it always had.

  Whitney only dreamed she’d moved on as he had so long ago, and figured that old Wetzel had probably kicked the bucket by now. He’d been ancient when Whitney was a child. A few times that night, he considered asking Haam about her but didn’t feel like getting into a whole thing about who he used to be, or worse, finding out the plague had claimed her too.

  He preferred the dream, and not a soul in the tavern remembered him, even Haam. He doubted she would either. It was like he was a ghost visiting his old life.

&nbs
p; “Need another, traveler?” Alless, the barmaid asked from a few tables away. Whitney remembered her when he was a boy as well, the stuff of fantasies, or rather, she was. Age had robbed her of much of her beauty.

  No fantasies left in this gods-forsaken place.

  Whitney waved his hand dismissively, and she returned to the back of the bar and whispered something to Haam. He shooed her away, eager to keep his attentive crowd with more crude jokes, obviously thrilled to have so many visitors. The man had tended the Manor as long as Whitney could remember, and unlike Alless, he’d already been so old back then, he still looked the same save for a rounder belly.