eBook
Available on Compatible NOOK devices, the free NOOK App and in My Digital Library.
Related collections and offers
Overview
Magic has been forbidden in Caithe for 200 years. Those born with magic—the Lorngeld—are considered the devil’s children. They are ruthlessly executed by the Caithan Church before they can be corrupted by mind-plague—the volatile madness that afflicts untrained wizards. Only King Kelwyn, artificially gifted with borrowed magic, is exempt from punishment. His daughter may not be so lucky.
Impertinent and rebellious, Princess Athaya prefers to spend her time gambling and drinking rather than courting would-be suitors. Discovering that she is a natural-born wizard is an unwelcome surprise. But there are those who believe it is a gift, and that someone with Athaya’s unique ability may be capable of leading the Lorngeld out of persecution.
Torn between loyalty to her kingdom, her duty to the Lorngeld, and her own impulsive heart, Athaya must harness her burgeoning magic before it drives her mad, and learn to wield its power before those who fear it—and those who envy it—can destroy her.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781625670205 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 11/01/2019 |
| Series: | The Caithan Crusades , #1 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 311 |
| Sales rank: | 993,811 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
| Age Range: | 13 - 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
"YOU'RE CHEATING AGAIN, DAMN YOU," the drunken man said to the black-haired young woman sitting across from him at the gaming table. He glared at her with bloodshot brown eyes and pounded his fist on the pockmarked wood. "Ain't nobody has that kind of luck against ol' Rafe."
Athaya shrugged her shoulders, and the silver studs embedded in her leather doublet winked in the torchlight. "It isn't luck. I'm just better at this than you are."
"HA!" he belted out, punctuating his comment with a gurgled belch. "The day a damned woman half my age beats me at cards is the day I'll hang myself." He peeked at the down-turned card in front of him and flipped it over with a triumphant flourish.
"There. A ten and a queen. Beat that if you can."
His opponent took a look at her own card and tried to hold back a smile. "Get a noose ready," she said, laying the ace next to the king already faceup on the table. She leaned back in the rickety wooden chair, and her expression was undeniably smug. "That's another two crowns you owe me. I believe that makes it an even ten."
The man's eyes bulged. He got to his feet, wavering slightly, and reached over to snatch the woman's wrist with a thick-fingered hand as she scooped up the pile of silver coins in the center of the table.
"Not so fast!" he said. "I don't pay up to anybody who wins by hexing the cards! You hear that?" he shouted to the other patrons in the dingy little tavern. "She's cheating me!" One or two grizzled heads looked up in mild annoyance from their games at the other tables crowding the cramped, smoke-filled room, but none of them seemed overly interested in the drunken man's accusations against his young opponent.
"Get your filthy hands off me," Athaya said through clenched teeth, glaring intensely at the grimy fingers curled around her wrist, "or this will be the last game of cards you ever play."
For a moment, she thought the threat might work. Rafe stared at her incredulously, blinking several times as if attempting to make his eyes focus clearly. But then a gap- ridden smile slowly formed about his stubbly, unshaved chin. His laughter began as a series of wheezy giggles, soon expanding into loud, hearty guffaws. Gleefully, he slapped his thigh with his free hand.
"Feisty little devil, ain't you?" he said, twisting the skin of her arm until she winced from the burn. "I like that in a woman."
He yanked her roughly out of her chair, sending it toppling sideways onto the soiled rushes scattered across the floor. Moving quicker than Athaya thought a man of his bulk could, he reached for the dagger on her belt and snatched it away before she could grab it. He pulled her close to him, the blade poised near her slender white throat, and she felt her muscles tense beneath his grip. With one quick motion, he scanned her body from head to toe, openly admiring the firm curves hidden inside the snug-fitting wool breeches and steel-studded doublet.
"I don't like it when people cheat me," he said, drawing his face closer to hers. The smell of stale beer on his breath made Athaya grimace. "But you're much too pretty to punish. What's say we make a bargain? I'll forget about the game if you apologize to me real nice."
He cocked his head in the direction of the narrow flight of stairs which huddled against the back wall of the tavern and slunk upward through the shadows toward the upper floor. "Understand?"
Athaya's eyes flickered nervously toward the back of the inn. There could be little doubt as to his intentions. The only thing upstairs was a row of tiny rooms sparsely furnished with bug-infested cots and thin, moth-eaten curtains for doors — the working place of the tavern's whores.
She held her jaw firm, trying to appear far less worried than she was. When she had decided to go out into the city tonight, she hadn't exactly pictured the evening ending like this. Just a few drinks, that's all she'd wanted. A few drinks, and the chance to spend some time away from home.
"Uh, look — if you're mad about the money, then just keep it, all right?" she offered, earnestly hoping that the little pile of silver would be enough to satisfy him. "Keep all of it."
"I'm goin' to," he said, leering. "But you're still gonna make it up to me." He tightened his grip on her arm, forcing her to bite her lip to keep from wincing. "So what do you say, love? It's a sight better than me slicing your throat, which is what usually happens to people who cheat me."
"But I swear to you I wasn't —"
"Shut up and come on," he growled impatiently as he yanked her away. He pushed her toward the staircase, following directly behind her as she mounted the well-worn steps. Athaya felt the tip of her own blade digging into her back.
With increasing desperation, she glanced back at the other patrons in the tavern, calmly guzzling their ale and continuing with their games. Somehow she had expected that a few enthusiastic volunteers would have come to her rescue by now, but even the serving girl, weaving between the tables and refilling goblets from a wooden pitcher, did not seem unduly alarmed by Athaya's situation. Athaya doubted if more than a handful of the dozens of people crowded into the tavern were even aware of what was going on, and not one of that handful looked the least inclined to do anything about it.
"Hurry along, now," Rafe said, giving her a rough shove. She stumbled against the wooden railing and bit back a curse as she recovered her balance and continued.
When they reached the top of the stairs, Rafe gestured toward one of the small rooms just across the hallway. The tattered door curtains were pulled back, showing the room to be unoccupied. Athaya was sickened by the sight of the soiled cot lying near a puddle on the bare wood floor, certain that there were far more lice than straw inside the thin mattress. The floor was spotted with dried mud, tracked in by the last visitors to this room, and a squat, yellow candle sat in a tin cup on the floor, shedding a sickly glow on the scarred, soot-smeared walls.
"Inside," came Rafe's voice in her ear. Athaya could not tell whether his slurred words came from the beer he'd consumed or from eagerly contemplating the events to come.
Athaya turned around slowly, favoring him with a sultry, seductive look. She couldn't fight past him, but maybe there was another way out of this. Dropping her chin, she tossed her head and allowed her elbow-length hair to fall gracefully around her shoulders. Rafe held the dagger loosely now, lowering the blade slightly as if no longer convinced he'd need to use it. She took a step forward, glancing only momentarily behind him toward the common room below, and rested her hand on his shoulder. Running her tongue slowly over her lips, Athaya pressed her chest brazenly against his, immediately conscious of the firm bulge which strained against his breeches.
I think I'm going to be ill, she thought sullenly, still careful to sustain the look of pleasure on her face. How do I get myself into these things, anyway?
"Kiss me," she said, in a low, hushed voice. Tensing her muscles, she steeled herself as he bent over her, trying not to turn away from the stench of rancid ale on his breath. He reached out slowly and dug a greedy, jagged-nailed hand into her hair.
With an ear-piercing cry, Rafe suddenly doubled over, clutching his groin in furious agony. Athaya grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him backward, sending him tumbling noisily down the staircase toward the common room. The dagger flew from his hand and clattered to the ground at her feet. Seconds later, Rafe was curled into a pitiful little ball at the foot of the staircase, moaning and rocking from side to side with his face twisted in pain.
The success of the blow took her off guard — she hadn't expected it to work quite that well. Rafe was easily twice her weight, and she hadn't hit him very hard. Still, she was infinitely grateful that her brother Nicolas had taught her such an effective technique for fending off unwanted advances, even though she had never expected to use that particular bit of knowledge. She would have to remember to tell him how well his lessons paid off.
Quickly collecting her wits, Athaya snatched up the dagger and bounded down the steps two at a time. She straddled Rafe and crouched down to pin him to the floor with the weight of her body. The silver blade of her dagger flashed in the dim torchlight as it found a resting place on the sticky flesh of his neck.
"I'd rather sleep with a mind-plagued wizard." Her voice was low and fluid and gently threatening. She stood up cautiously, keeping the dagger close to his throat, and watched as he tried, without success, to hide the pain inflicted by her well-placed knee.
If you weren't so drunk, you'd feel twice as bad, Athaya thought, looking down at him in disgust. His face had a sickly green cast to it, and he looked as if he were just about to retch. He rose gingerly to his feet, his hands clutched between his legs. Still pale and shaken, he slowly staggered across the room. Roughly shoving aside a startled young man who had been watching the proceedings from the doorway, Rafe stumbled out into the street, muttering curses under his breath.
Athaya walked back to the gaming table they had so recently deserted and counted out the silver coins. Replacing the dagger in its sheath, she rummaged impatiently through the tattered deerskin pouch tied to her belt and drew out a long, slender looca-pipe made of polished cherrywood. She lit the bluish tobacco from the candle on the table and stuffed the tip of the pipe between her lips, drawing a deep breath of the soothing, sweet- smelling smoke.
Realizing that her cup was almost empty, Athaya signaled for the tavern owner's young daughter and ordered another bottle of wine. The round-faced serving girl, her apron streaked with grime and soot, bobbed a clumsy curtsy and scurried away through the rotted oak door that led to the tavern's kitchens. She returned in an instant with a flagon of rich red wine. In exchange for the flagon, Athaya fished a coin out of her pocket and handed it to her.
"Keep the rest," Athaya said softly.
"Oh! Thanks kindly, ma'am!" the girl squealed, her eyes wide. She caressed the coin as if it were made of silk, curtsied again, this time more gracefully, and hurried away to show the prize to her father.
Athaya filled her goblet and sank back in her chair, lazily shuffling the cards with half-closed eyes and flipping them onto the table in a halfhearted game of solitaire. She sighed despondently, glancing around the smoky room at the drunken sots hunched over their tables, and contemplated whether or not to go home.
Ugh, that's worse than this place, she thought with a shudder and resumed her game of solitaire.
She took another puff from her looca-pipe, filling her lungs with the calming smoke and trying to erase all memories of Rafe from her mind. Although her experience was not that wide, Rafe's attack only increased her suspicions that the majority of men did most of their thinking with an organ located a good distance from the brain. She had met precious few men in her life who were sincerely good, without being obsessed by their prowess either on the battlefield or in their beds. Offhand, Athaya could think of only two truly good men — her brother Nicolas, and Tyler.
Tyler. Athaya smiled at the very thought of him. With a twinge of shame, she realized she ought to have told him she was going out tonight. But what difference would that have made? He would have told her not to go, she would have gone anyway, and in that event, she would now be feeling even more guilty than she already did. And besides, after this game she would head for home, and he would see for himself that there was nothing to worry about.
Athaya held back a yawn. It was late, the smoke from the pipe stung her eyes and numbed her thoughts, and she had drunk enough wine to make her sleepy.
Then a shadow fell across the cards, and in the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of white linen as someone settled into the chair that her earlier opponent had vacated. Athaya looked up, recognizing the young man whom Rafe had shoved aside during his humiliating exit.
"Every time Rafe loses a game, he thinks somebody's hexing the cards," he said lightly. His voice was tinged with a faint, unfamiliar accent.
The man looked a few years older than she — twenty-five, perhaps — and was by far the best-dressed man in the tavern. His deep blue doublet and crisp white shirt stood out from the sea of brown and black wool covering the backs of the other tavern patrons, most of them local farmers, miners, and tradesmen. A soft-crowned felt cap was cocked to one side on a head of straw-like blond hair, giving him a carefree, innocent air like that of a traveling minstrel, and his hands were smooth and soft, as if more accustomed to a harp than a plough. But despite his friendly brown eyes and engaging smile, Athaya offered no greeting. If this man claimed friendship with someone like Rafe, then she wanted nothing to do with him.
"Were you?" he asked, leaning forward on his elbows.
Athaya frowned. "Was I what?"
"Hexing the cards."
Her eyes flashed, and she flung her cards down angrily. "Please! I've been insulted enough for one night."
She took a deep drink of her wine and puffed on her pipe a few times. Somewhat mollified by the numbing effect of both, she added, "Besides, there's only one plague-ridden wizard in Caithe that I know of, and he's up at Delfar Castle."
The young man balked for a moment, then looked at her with surprised confusion. "Sorry, I didn't mean any offense." Then, assuming it would explain everything, he added, "I'm not from around here."
"Congratulations," Athaya said dryly. She'd intended the remark to be sarcastic, but the moment the word was uttered, she was surprised at how much truth it contained. Given the choice, she would have left Delfarham long ago. There were better places on the Continent than the congested and squalid capital city of Caithe. There had to be, she added inwardly.
Her new companion scooped up the cards from the table and began shuffling them, gazing at them intently as he turned them over in his fingers. "Well, they're not marked," he said, setting them back down again. "I guess Rafe was just the victim of a run of good luck." He chuckled to himself. "But don't bother trying to convince him that you were playing an honest game. He's an awfully sore loser."
Athaya furrowed her brows. "If you're not from around here, how come you know all about this fellow Rafe?"
She gave him an icy stare, tapping her fingernails on the tabletop and watching his composure begin to melt under her gaze. The young man squirmed in his seat. His eyes flickered toward the staircase, and Athaya knew, with queer satisfaction, that he was thinking of what she'd done to the last man who'd crossed her.
"I've only been in Caithe for a few days," he explained quickly. "I'm a messenger — from Reyka," he added, with a touch of pride. "I came in here for a drink this afternoon after I delivered my letters and won a few crowns dicing with Rafe. That's how I know he's a sore loser. Swore I was cheating, and when he heard I was from Reyka, he accused me of putting spells on the dice and called me a mind-plagued wizard."
Athaya laughed softly, regarding her naive companion with a smile. "I hope you realize how much of an insult that is around here," she commented.
He stared at her blankly, and Athaya laughed again. Obviously the young messenger had never been to Caithe before. "Well, never mind that now," she said, picking up the bottle of wine and swirling the contents around. "Care for some?"
He leaned over and plucked an empty goblet from the next table. "Thanks. And by the way, the name's Jaren. Jaren McLaud."
"Cheers, Jaren," she said, and they clicked the rims of the pewter goblets together and drank.
They sat together for close to an hour, and Jaren watched Athaya begin another game of solitaire, being unwilling, as he said, to challenge such an obviously superior cardplayer and surely lose whatever money he had. Instead, he chatted away on a variety of topics, balancing her relatively pensive and sullen mood. He told her about his journey from Reyka, how terrible the roads were and how repulsive the inns, and filled her in on the latest court gossip from the Reykan capital of Ath Luaine.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Call of Madness"
by .
Copyright © 1990 Julie Dean Smith.
Excerpted by permission of Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.