M.L. LeGette's Blog, page 57

The Return to Independence

My mother and father are both self-employed. My dad is a lawyer and my mother is a physical therapist. Both own their businesses. Growing up, this was all I knew. And I am incredibly grateful for it. Seeing the flexibility and independence in their lives due to the flexibility and independence in their careers was—and is—so moving to me. Being your own boss is something I wish on every single person in the world, even though I know it doesn't work that way.

Being an author—especially a self-published one—is one of those independent careers. I didn't choose writing because of its attractive work schedule (even though it is), but because I love doing it. I don't work on deadlines. I don't have a publisher breathing down my neck (though I fantasize how that would feel). Instead, I listen to my own inner voice. If I don't want to write, I don't. If tomorrow a big boy publisher 'discovered' me and signed me up with a one year deadline, I think I'd faint. Not because of the flattery of being noticed, but because of suddenly having a 'boss'.

I don't know who reads my blog—could be all sorts. You could be an eleven year old who's silently grinding her teeth, waiting for me to stop talking about this and start finishing my third book. You could be a grandmother … doing the same as the eleven year old, though more politely. Or, you may be a shop owner. A cook. A knitter. A potter. A musican. Or fellow writer. Maybe you don't have a creative gene to your name. Maybe you work for Walmart, or processing plants. The possibilities are endless.

But no matter where you come from or what you do for a living, you've probably heard or know from experience, THE ARTS DON'T MAKE YOU MONEY! You want to be a Broadway star? An actress? You want to, dare I say it, paint for a living?

I know this is what every adult thought when I told them I wanted to be a writer. They would grin in a joking way and say, "But what are you really going to study in college?"

I understand their fear and concerns. Believe me, I understand. Trying to start any business is very difficult and very shaky. The Unicorn Girl has been in print for three years, and I am NOW seeing a dramatic increase in sales. Somehow, the book is starting to circulate. I know that it may take me five, ten, possible twenty years before I am actually making a living. But I don't care (note: my ego has thankfully left the house during this post). I know I'll get there eventually because the people who read my work, really like it.

If the work is good, it will speak for itself.

But what I didn't really know is that there is a churning sea of people just like me (not all writers, mind) but people who desperately want to do what they LOVE for a living. But sadly, many of the things that they love rest on the same shaky foundation of starting that dream bakery.

ETSY TO THE RESCUE!!!!

Etsy is a website that's sole purpose is to return shoppers to makers. It promotes people just like me who make and create and dream with their own hands. It is a website that is dazzling in its intricacy. Beautiful in its simplicity. This is where artists, photographers, weavers, collectors, potters, woodworkers, and so many others join hands around the world and connect with shoppers. But this is so much more than just a website selling really cool, unique, handmade items. This is a community.

Check out this fantastic video that details what Etsy is all about.

I hadn't heard of Etsy until late last month and I am very happy to be a part of their movement. Both my novels are for sale there and so is my photography. I should admit that I've put my photography on the back burner. It's hard enough to promote one career—I couldn't fathom doing two! But on Etsy, now—finally now—my photography has its rightful spot on the web.

Thank you Etsy! Thank you for being everything that you are.

Visit my shop on Etsy and while you're at it, have fun loosing yourself in the beautiful, AMAZING items listed there.

Promote Local! Promote Handmade! Promote Independence!

 

For The Kingdom – Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The Spy

 

Ivan thought his skull was smashed. He groaned and opened his eyes. He was lying on a bed in a small, simple room. The curtains over a square window had been drawn back, revealing the torrential rain outside. He could hear the wind whistling and he suddenly remembered. He'd fallen off Arrow. A blasted dog. A stupid, stupid hound had run in front of Arrow and he had fallen off. He'd never fallen off! And the stab of pain that went through his skull only emphasized his wounded pride. He tried to sit up but gasped in pain and quickly lowered back down. By the burning in his ankle, he guessed he had twisted it along with cracking open his skull. If he got his hands on that mongrel he'd skin it!

The door suddenly opened, and Ivan jerked his head around, but quickly regretted it as stars shot before his eyes.

"You're awake, I was worried you wouldn't be 'till tomorrow."

"Sorry?" Ivan asked through gritted teeth, trying to steady his sight, and when he did, he found a young girl with thick, curly hair sitting in a chair beside the bed. She had freckles on her cheeks. They stood out clearly on her colorless skin.

"How do you feel?" she asked, and the worry in her voice made it clear to Ivan that she had somehow witnessed his fall. He noticed that her hair looked very damp.

"Fine," he said, trying to sound indifferent as he lowered his head back onto the pillow. "Just a few bruises."

"You're lying," and the matter-of-fact tone caught Ivan by surprise. "I saw you grimace when I came in."

"So it's a little bit more than a few bruises," Ivan snapped, annoyed. "Who are you?"

"Mally Biddle. I'm sorry that Bonnie frightened your horse. He's in the—"

"That was your dog? Can't you keep better track of that animal?" Ivan barked in anger.

Mally seemed to bristle, color returning to her cheeks.

"Why can't you ride slower in the rain?" she snapped back. "Was a ghost after you?"

"Mally?"

The door opened again and a woman walked in.

"He's awake, Mother," Mally stated, the lack of enthusiasm clear in her voice. She rose and left the room.

"You must excuse my daughter, sir," the woman apologized after Mally had shut the door with a bang. "She has been very worried about you."

Ivan didn't respond, but allowed her to see to his cuts and ankle.

"You needn't worry about your horse. He was uninjured in the fall. My daughter put him up in our stable. As for your ankle, I'm sorry to say that you shouldn't walk on it for a few days."

"Thank you, madam, but I need to be somewhere."

"Nonsense, you're not going to be able to walk much less ride with a foot like that. You're staying here."

Ivan opened his mouth to argue but shut it, nodding.

"My name's Susie Biddle, by the way, and my daughter is Mally. We'll bring you up some dinner shortly, mister…?"

"Finley. Ivan Finley."

"If you need anything, Mr. Finley, call for one of us."

Susie walked across the room and closed the door gently behind her.

 

Down below in the kitchen, Mally sat with her arms and legs crossed so tightly she looked like she was tied in knots. She scowled fiercely at the fireplace. Raindrops were steadily falling through the chimney to land on a heavy, black kettle sitting on a crackling fire. The drops hissed and sputtered on their landing. A very quiet Bonnie lay curled under the table.

What manners, Mally thought savagely, her foot jerking up and down, I've met pigs who behaved better.

The sound of footsteps reached her ears and Susie Biddle walked through the doorway. She smiled in amusement at the sight of Mally and took the kettle off the fire after checking on Mally's clothes drip-drying by the fire.

"I'll make a cup of tea," said Susie, turning to a canister where she stored the tea leaves. "You were drenched to the bone."

"I feel fine," Mally growled, glaring at the fire. "And aren't we getting low? We shouldn't be wasteful about it."

"Have one anyway. Oh. Oh my."

"What is it?" asked Mally, turning in her chair. Her mother stood very still, the lid of the canister in one hand, staring down into its depths. She put her hand into the pot and pulled out five gold coins.

"Did you put these there?" she asked, turning to Mally.

"No," said Mally, startled, staring at the gold in shock. "Where would I have gotten five gold pieces? Where did they come from?"

"I don't know," Susie said slowly. She closed her fingers over the gold in her hand. For a moment she was silent and then as if she had suddenly decided something, she put the gold in her apron pocket and turned to the stove.

"I'm going to take Mr. Ivan Finley some soup—"

The reminder of their rude guest turned Mally's mood sour.

"I don't know why you're being so nice to him," she grumbled. "He's as rude as a—"

"—and I want you to treat him as our guest. He'll be here for a few days."

"A few days?!" Mally gasped.

"At least," Susie nodded firmly.

Mally watched her ladle up a bowl of steaming soup in furious horror. The little black mushrooms she had picked less than an hour ago bobbed up and down as Susie carried it from the room and up the stairs.

Mally snorted.

"Don't know why she's trying," she fumed to Bonnie. "He'll be completely ungrateful, I'm sure."

 

Mally tried not to think about their surprise guest, but her mother kept making her send up his meals and when Ivan requested pen and paper for a letter to his family to tell them not to worry, it was Mally who had to deliver them. Mally had a strong suspicion that her mother was trying to entice an apology from her. The few days that her mother had said he would stay turned into two weeks ("It really is a nasty sprain," her mother had explained to a scowling Mally).

But by the fourth day of his recovery, Mally found herself thinking of Ivan more often than she liked. She'd brush it off like a disgruntled hen.

"So what if he's good looking," she'd mutter to herself as she pulled up carrots from their vegetable patch. "Lots of people are good looking."

But he made her laugh and her palms would become irritatingly sweaty when he looked at her. She didn't need to be pestered to take him his tea anymore. She started steeping it herself and carefully carrying it and a few biscuits to his room.

"What is this tea?" Ivan once asked, making an odd face after he had sipped from his cup.

"Mint tea," Mally had answered, and instead of feeling herself bristle at his expression, she had felt her stomach twist—as if worried he didn't like it. "It's what we drink. I suppose you're not used to it."

It was clear that Ivan came from wealth.

"I think I'm starting to like it," was his reply, which sent Mally's insides into a flutter.

 

She knew that it was stupid to be attracted to Ivan. The moment his ankle was healed, he would be off on his horse, back to wherever he came from or wherever he was off to.  She understood the difference between their social spheres.

But Ivan didn't seem to mind her visits to his room, bringing tea and meals. He never seemed to find their conversations irksome. He actually, if Mally dared to believe it, seemed to enjoy her company.

**

Ivan couldn't believe his luck. Twisting his foot on a trip to see Coletta! It didn't put him any closer to finding his spy, but avoiding Coletta was worth it. He could only imagine how his dear mother was taking the news—his letter would have reached them by now. And to have landed in a simple yet comfortable home with the best food he had ever tasted. Except the tea. That was disgusting. But he had told Mally otherwise, not wanting to hurt her feelings.

Ivan rested his head back on his pillow and tapped a finger to his lips. Mally. She was an interesting girl. Ivan hadn't met many girls like her.

There was a soft knock on the door and Ivan sat up straight. It was time for his daily tea and visit from Mally.

"Come in," said Ivan and as expected, Mally stepped into the room with a tray of that horrible tea, but also with Susie's phenomenal cookies and biscuits.

"Hi. Mom just told me that your ankle is much better," Mally said. She set the tray on his lap and took her usual seat by the bed. Ivan didn't get to see her in the morning as she had jobs to do. Something about goats, he thought.

"So she said," Ivan agreed, stirring some honey into his chipped mug. "It feels much better. But I'm not complaining. I'm glad I got this sprain when I did—I should thank your dog."

Mally looked startled.

"Why—"

"My mother sent me to Halspeare," Ivan explained.

"Why don't you want to go to Halspeare?" Mally asked.

Ivan swallowed some tea and picked up one of the cookies off the tray.

"Because the only reason she wanted me to go was to get me to marry a Miss Coletta Smith who lives there."

An odd flush spread over Mally's cheeks at Ivan's words.

"Oh."

"But I have absolutely no intention of marrying Coletta or any one else for that matter," Ivan continued, pretending he hadn't noticed her blush.

At his words, Mally perked up immediately.

"Try one of the fig biscuits," she recommended. "We had to hide them from Gibbs when he came collecting taxes."

"He's making his rounds, is he?" Ivan asked, taking the indicated biscuit. "Big, fat beetle."

Mally laughed and Ivan grinned.

"I don't like him at all—him or the other knights," Mally said with relish. "I hate them."

Ivan's ears perked up at that.

"My mom's terrified of them," Mally continued. "She won't let me go to Bosc to find work even though we need it. I don't know what we'll do through the winter."

The conversation had taken an unpleasant turn, and Mally seemed to have realized how bitter she sounded for she suddenly grinned widely and rose.

"I'll see you at dinner," she said, her voice merry again. She lifted the empty tray. "We're making stewed hen."

Ivan nodded and watched the door long after she had closed it, thinking.

 

Shortly thereafter, Ivan's ankle was healed enough that he could walk. He had met Bonnie up close, and because Mally had been watching, patted her on the head. He liked Mally. She wasn't Coletta at all, that was for sure. There was a strength about her that he liked … that he admired. Ivan still hadn't forgotten their conversation about the knights. It had set his mind in motion. Mally looked just the part for a servant. There wasn't anything flashy about her. She was a farm girl. Ivan bet that, dressed in a servant's uniform, she'd look like she had always been a servant. She knew hard work. She hated the knights. She wanted to see them gone. Maybe, just maybe …

The next day, Ivan woke refreshed and feeling completely normal. After Susie had inspected his ankle and deemed him fit enough to ride, Ivan nearly skipped down the stairs. But the grin on his face slid off as he looked at the empty kitchen.

"Where's Mally?" he asked Susie, who had followed him down the stairs.

"Trying to get the goats to come back."

"But didn't she do that yesterday?"

"She does it everyday," and Susie smiled at the look on Ivan's face. "If you want to meet her, she's probably given up by now and is on her way back. Ah, ah, ah!" she said forcefully as he started for the door. "Not until you've eaten."

Ivan didn't complain. Susie's cooking was the best he'd ever had and, having grown up in a wealthy family with a personal cook, Ivan thought that was saying something. After he had his fill, Ivan asked Susie where to find Mally.

Susie told him how to get to the hill that the goats enjoyed most and after snatching another sausage off the table, he headed down the little lane that led to the hill.

This is all working out for the best, he thought to himself gleefully. He'd be able to talk to Mally away from her mother for as long as it took to convince her. And he was going to convince her, of that he was sure. He was not leaving without her.

It turned out that Susie was right. Ivan spotted Mally and Bonnie half way down the hill. He waved at her and she waved back. Bonnie barked and sped down the hill to him and he rubbed her behind the ears until Mally reached him.

"Hi!" said Mally, and Ivan was pleased to see she was smiling widely at his sudden appearance. "Your ankle's healed?"

"Completely. Fancy a walk?" Ivan asked as Bonnie bounded around their ankles. "But if you can't … I don't want to interfere … if you're busy, that is."

"No, no! I'd love a walk."

Perfect, smiled Ivan.

They strolled slowly down a different lane than the one that led to Mally's home, watching Bonnie weave back and forth before them. It was a cheerful day—the sky a radiant blue and the air crisp and fresh. The trees' brilliant shades of colors ranged from golden-yellow to deep red.

"Lovely day," Ivan observed.

"Yes, it is," Mally agreed. "Fall's my favorite time of year."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes," Mally smiled. "Everything's so colorful in the fall and the coolness is like a breath of fresh air after summer."

"You must work hard, living the way you do," said Ivan, taking in Mally's tan and slim figure.

"You get used to it."

Ivan laughed.

"I can think of a few people who'd never get used to it." He pictured his mother plowing a field while ordering the servants to bring her more chamomile tea. "And you got me onto Arrow. Not many women could have done that. Your size is misleading."

"It's not that shocking in a farming town, but if you weighed any more, I wouldn't have been able to do it," said Mally with a laugh.

"I'll remember to watch what I eat," promised Ivan with a grin.

Mally smiled and bit her lip, looking suddenly flushed.

"You're leaving today?"

Ivan heard the sudden change of subject and his senses seemed to sharpen. It was time.

"Yes, and I wanted to talk to you about that," he said slowly. He stopped walking and turned to Mally. "You know I live in Bosc."

Mally nodded.

"And you told me that you've never been. That you've been interested in work there."

"Yes, but as I told you," Mally explained. "My mother won't allow it."

"Because of the knights," Ivan pressed.

Mally nodded again.

"But you're not afraid of them, are you?" Ivan asked, smiling in a way he knew made Mally flush. He wasn't disappointed. Pink bloomed upon her cheeks.

"You learn how to handle them," Mally said. "But it's usually just Gibbs that we see here."

"Not everyone has that kind of bravery," Ivan commended her. "You would make a good rebel."

At his compliments, Mally flushed even deeper and smiled bashfully.

"I once heard from a trader that the rebels somehow snuck into the royal stables and released all the knights' horses," said Mally. "He said Molick was spitting he was so angry."

"We're very grateful for your approval!" Ivan grinned with a short bow.

Mally's eyes widened.

"You mean … you're …?"

"Ivan Finley, rebel and aristocrat, at your service." Ivan beamed at the excited awe that covered Mally's face. "I've been given a very important task—very secret."

"What is it?" Mally asked immediately.

Ivan glanced over his shoulder again before whispering, "I convinced the other rebels that Princess Avona may still be alive."

"But … you think she is?" Mally asked, startled.

Ivan nodded, still glancing up and down the lane.

"But how would you find her? How would you know if she were alive?" Mally asked, her voice hushed as if she too were afraid someone was hiding behind a tree.

"I'd need someone on the inside," Ivan answered, closing the small distance between Mally and himself with a small step. "I'd need to get someone in the castle … to work there. She'd snoop around and tell me what information Molick and the king might be hiding."

"So, do you have someone?"

"I'm hoping I do."

Ivan's eyes met Mally's and understanding came to her.

"Me?"

"If you want to," said Ivan, focusing on her eyes. They were very brown. "It would be dangerous, but I think you could handle that."

"I—I'd have to think about it."

"I don't have much time," Ivan pressed, now standing very close to her. "I'm leaving today and I want to take you with me."

Mally blinked very fast.

"My-my mother, like I said, she won't let me go to Bosc."

"Mally, we're talking about the kingdom … saving the kingdom. Don't you think that's worth some risk—some danger?"

 

To Be Continued …

Copyright M. L. LeGette

 

For The Kingdom is available on Kindle, Amazon.com, and .

Author's Note:

Sorry for the missed update! Last week somehow slipped away …

Any who, I will always be proud of Chapter 5 because of how it ends. Ivan Finley isn't a saint. His heart is in the right place, but he harvests an overwhelming desire for revolution. He will do anything to get what he believes is for the good of the kingdom.  And he isn't stupid. He knows he has good looks and charms and turns them on for Mally. He plays her, to be blunt. He has absolutely no intention of anything remotely romantic with her …  but he allows her to dream those fantasies.

I like Ivan, but he's an annoying pig.

And not to belittle Mally—she DOES want to help the rebels. She just isn't as intense about it as Ivan. But she allows herself to be pushed into a situation that, perhaps under more honest circumstances, she would have thought twice about.

But whatever will Mally say to her mother?! However shall she wriggle out of her mother hen's dominating protection? Good questions. It took Mally and me awhile to figure them out.

Until next week—Melissa

For The Kingdom: Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Bonnets in the Rain

 

Ivan left immediately after an early and rushed breakfast the next morning. He was behind schedule, having to ride to Halspeare and back, and didn't want to waste any more time. He would be quick. He would be efficient. And above all else, he would hide for cover if Coletta or her mother walked by.

Clara's was a very small shop owned and run by an extremely old woman, Clara. Her specialty was weaving blankets—Ivan had to admit that they were some of the best in Lenzar. He had been to the shop many times, mostly on his mother's orders and thanks to her fervent hopes that he would bump into Miss Coletta Smith.

Biting back sour grumblings, Ivan saddled his horse Arrow and galloped out of Bosc. It was a chilly morning and the sky was a hazy gray. Scowling up at it, Ivan thought darkly that it looked like rain.

**

About a half a day's journey from Bosc was a very small town by the name of Blighten. In this small town was a girl of around seventeen with thick reddish-brown hair. She had her large curls tied back, out of her freckled face. Her name was Mally Biddle, and at the time, she stood bent over, trying to entice a group of unruly goats to follow her back home.

"Come on sweeties," she cooed with a sugary voice, but there was an edge of aggravation that she couldn't quite hide. "Come get the carrot. Come on."

She waved the large carrot before the goat five feet from her. It stared pointedly at Mally; long strands of grass jerked up and down from its mouth as it chewed.

Mally gave an exasperated groan. Why, why did they have goats? Why couldn't they have cows or a pond full of fish? Do fish suddenly develop a dislike of their pond and leap out in search of more exciting waters? No, Mally thought angrily, they stay in their pond.

She straightened and closed her eyes. The goats had escaped from their paddock five times since last week, but who was counting? Hands on hips, she watched them munch happily at the grass. What was it about the grass halfway up this hill that was so much more delicious than the grass at home? A deep sigh escaped her lips as she stared at them, perplexed.

She knew what she had to do now. It was an unwritten set of steps that she had become accustomed to. The goats escaped, she tracked them to this hill, she tried to get them to come home, she failed, she went home without them, they returned on their own later. It had happened this way so many times that she wondered why she even bothered to try to bring them home, instead of waiting patiently in the yard. But try she did. An annoyed smile on her face, she waved goodbye to the goats and marched back down the hill.

After a thirty-minute walk, she turned onto a small winding road with wild, tangled hedges growing on either side. A twittering bird zoomed out of the hedge, barely missing her head.

Mally walked down the narrow lane, a house coming into view at the end. As she neared it, her heart skipped a beat. Three horses stood grazing by the front door of her home. Mally stood frozen before a rickety gate, taking in the horses—that were completely oblivious to her appearance—with mounting dread. The bits in their mouths sparkled; their manes were freshly combed; their saddles were the color of roasted hazelnut shells. She had seen horses like these before and always her heart pulsed painfully fast at the meaning their presence brought: the knights were here.

Mally swung the gate open and suddenly heard muffled voices from within the house. The horses snorted and one turned its head toward her. As she walked past the horses to the front door, she spotted Lenzar's coat of arms branded on the sides of the saddles. But before Mally had touched the doorknob, the door swung open and she quickly took a step back to keep from being hit.

A short, fat knight with oily, slicked-backed hair stood in the doorway. He was turned away from Mally, speaking over his shoulder.

"Thank you for your generous hospitality, my dear," Sir Leon Gibbs simpered, his voice just as oily as his hair. He raised a pudgy hand that held a ginger biscuit in a mocking salute. He chuckled at his own wit and his two companions walked past him through the open door.

Mally knew Sir Leon Gibbs. He was the tax collector for Blighten, Leaveston, and Bosc. Every month he would appear with two cronies demanding their silver and gold. When Gibbs felt that he wasn't given enough, he would search their homes, trying to discover their secret stashes. Or, more accurately, he would make his fellow knights search while he ate or drank whatever the homeowners had in stock.

Mally didn't recognize the two knights that were with Gibbs today. There always seemed to be two new ones. Not for the first time, Mally wondered how many knights there actually were.

"Remember," said Gibbs in an obnoxious sing-song sort of voice while rattling the numerous fat bags of gold tied to his belt, "be sure to save up for your collectors! We all must do our part!"

One of Gibbs' lackeys guffawed. The other—a blonde knight with a red hat—scowled. Gibbs finally turned around and walked over the threshold to join his companions outside. Mally hastily stepped back to give them more room but Gibbs spotted her. He chuckled again, making his large cheeks jiggle and reducing his eyes to slits. He winked.

Mally tried to keep the revulsion from her face. It was always best not to take their bait, to just let them take the money and go. With some satisfaction, Mally watched Gibbs fail to mount his horse twice, due to his vastness in size. The blonde knight seemed to be looking determinedly in the opposite direction while the other picked at his teeth. Then they were gone, back down the narrow lane to take money that was not theirs from the rest of the people of Blighten.

Mally turned and saw her mother standing cross-armed in the doorway. Mally could almost see a thundercloud crackling over her head.

"Mom?" said Mally tentatively.

"Come inside," said Susie Biddle in a clipped voice. "I have tea steeping."

"Did they search?" asked Mally, following her mother into the house. A large, black dog immediately leapt from under the kitchen table and tried to lick Mally's ears. "Down Bonnie, down!" ordered Mally half-heartedly.

Susie flashed a small smile at Mally and Bonnie before pouring tea into two mugs.

"I gave Gibbs enough silver to satisfy him." Susie sat at the table and passed a mug to Mally. Bonnie curled beside Mally's feet and sighed heavily. "But we still have five silver pieces under my mattress."

Only five. That wouldn't go far.

"Maybe I can trade Stuart mushrooms for some fish?" Mally offered.

Susie sipped her tea.

"We're also getting low on flour," Mally added.

Susie still remained silent.

"Did Gibbs eat all the biscuits?"

"Every last one," Susie answered tartly. "But I managed to hide the fig ones before they knocked down the door."

Mally smiled and then bit the inside of her cheek. She knew her mother didn't want to hear what she wanted to say. In the silence, Mally stared into her chipped mug, trying to think of a good way to broach the subject on her mind.

"No goats?" Susie asked suddenly.

Mally looked up and shook her head.

"No goats."

"When the beans come in we'll be fighting to keep them out of the garden." Her eyes were focused out the window, the mug of tea still held in her hands.

"At least I won't have to hike up that hill anymore," Mally replied with half a smile, trying to lighten the mood. Mally licked her lips nervously and suddenly said in a rush, "I still don't understand why we can't go to the city."

"We've been over that," Susie replied firmly, still staring out the window.

"But we could sell at their market!" Mally argued for what seemed the hundredth time. "Allen's told me about it—"

"Did he also tell you that the knights charge entry?" Susie rebuffed. "That they are just as likely to rob you blind as they are to beat you? We would be more than lucky to make any money in Bosc." Susie took a sip, her tone steady and even. "Allen is a fool to go into that city."

"But we need the money," Mally said quietly. When her mother didn't respond she forged onward. "The market in Bosc is four times the size of the one here. And there are wealthy people there. Or I could get a job at one of the shops—"

"I need you to pick mushrooms for dinner. I'm making soup," Susie interrupted firmly. She put her mug down and rose from the table, turning her back on Mally as she faced the fireplace.

Mally heard the change of subject very clearly and slumped in her chair. Her mother would never let her go to Bosc no matter how badly they were in need of money.

At the words "mushroom hunt," Bonnie perked up and started thumping her tail against the floor.

"You may want to get going soon," Susie advised, speaking to the crackling logs. "It looks like it may rain. If you can find them, get black bonnets."

Biting back further arguments, Mally rose from the table.

"Come on, Bonnie."

And with Bonnie behind her, Mally walked back through the door and headed down the road in the direction she had come, but instead of continuing down the road, she turned sharply to the right at a small opening in the hedge. On the other side was a field and Bonnie galloped on ahead, snapping at bees. Mally followed, heading straight for a small forest at the opposite end.

Mally was a well-trained mushroom hunter. She had been taught by her father, Jonathan Biddle, who had passed away when Mally was fifteen. Mally's skills were well known in Blighten. She was often asked by people in the small town to find them certain mushrooms in exchange for meat or cheese. Mally didn't mind. She enjoyed finding them. It reminded her of her father, always bringing home some strange fungi and them discussing its characteristics at length over steaming mint tea or, if they were lucky and managed to hide their gold pieces from Gibbs, hot cocoa.

She and Bonnie were under the canopy of the trees now, and, glancing up at the steadily darkening sky, she quickly started her search. Black bonnets were smallish mushrooms, jet black in color with slightly pointed caps. They were usually found at the bases of old oaks, but Mally had once spotted some that had fruited under a fallen tree trunk. A sharp wind whipped suddenly through the trees, making Mally's skirt flap violently around her ankles.

Speeding up, she headed for a cluster of large oak trees that were a little farther into the forest. She hoped that there would be enough black bonnets there to satisfy her mother and that she'd be able to get back before the downpour. Smiling grimly, she thought of the goats. They won't be happy at all about getting their hooves wet. They'll probably be waiting by the barn when I get back. Then she thought of Gibbs and for a moment savored a mental picture of him catching his death in the rain.

"Oh, excellent!" Mally cried suddenly, for she had just come to the cluster of oaks and as she had expected, little black mushrooms littered the ground. Mally crouched down and started to pick, but all too quickly she had to stop. The majority of the black bonnets were past their prime—shriveled with age. She rose, called for Bonnie, and headed for another promising spot by the road that ran through the forest. Mally glanced up at the sky again as a few large raindrops landed on her nose.

By the time she had spotted the road, the rain had increased at a shocking rate. Her hair was plastered to her face. She thought about turning back, but she was nearly there. Slipping and sliding down a hill, she crouched down by a smaller oak and inspected its roots. The rain was pounding now; she could barely even see the road, fifteen feet ahead of her. But she was in luck. A large group of young black bonnets clung closely to the trunk of the oak. She loaded her pockets as a sopping wet Bonnie jogged onto the road and sniffed a rabbit hole.

Mally knew what was coming a split second before it happened. She heard over the heavy rain the sound of hammering hooves.

"BONNIE!" she yelled, leaping to her feet.

But the rain was too dense for the horse or its rider to see Bonnie until it was too late. Bonnie yelped and dashed away from the road; the horse tried to stop, slipped, and tumbled off the side of the road.

Heart in her throat, Mally slid down the rest of the hill to the road. A trembling Bonnie sat crouched behind a boulder. The horse had already half risen by the time Mally had reached where it had fallen. It snorted and jerked away from her, but Mally had her eyes on the rider. He lay in the mud, unmoving. Dropping to her knees, she searched for a pulse. He had one.

Mally grabbed the horse's reigns and tried to calm him. Frantically, she looked up and down the road, hoping someone would materialize through the curtains of rain. She'd even be glad to see Gibbs' round form appear, but no one did. Looking back down at the pale man, Mally squared her shoulders and tried to lift him from the ground. After a few failed attempts and much straining and gasping, she managed to get him back onto the horse's back, lying awkwardly across the saddle. Mally quickly made sure that he was breathing. She hoped feverishly that nothing was broken, that he had only hit his head hard on the road.

"Bonnie!" Mally called, and with a firm grip on the reigns and one hand steadying the rider, she led them slowly back to the field, the rain lashing them violently.

 

To Be Continued …

Copyright M. L. LeGette

Available on Amazon.com, mllegette.com, and Kindle.

Author's Note:

So now you've met Mally Biddle, my first fictional mushroom hunter! When I was writing Kingdom, my dad and brother were into mushrooms. They had hunting guide books and magazine after magazine. Not before long, they had ordered spawn in the hopes of farming our own mushrooms. This didn't get very far and after months of struggle, they tossed out the spawn in disgust.

But the excitement they had for growing our own edible mushrooms got to me, and Mally—who I never invisioned searching the woods for mushrooms—became a Hunter. I'm not much into research. I'll be honest—I hate it. So I know that Mally's knowledge and experience is not based on any reality except from the few gleams I got from the mushroom guide book I'd thumbed through and a few mushroom hunting websites. More than researching hunting techniques, I was curious about what different mushrooms looked like and the characteristics to look for when choosing the delectable and the deadly. Some of the mushrooms mentioned later on in the book are real while others are completely fictional.

You'll be happy to know that (especially if you live in Athens, Washington, or Augusta GA) that the mushroom frenzy could not be contained for too long. We are trying once again to grow our own culinary mushrooms at my brother's farm! My dad and brother have been drilling holes into logs and I've been 'infecting' them with shiitakes, oysters, and so many others. We've got plans on selling these gems at our farmer's markets, so keep your eyes open while passing the Lazy Willow Farm stand!

Note to the curious, I do not AT ALL encourage harvesting mushrooms in the wild unless you KNOW what you are doing. Mushroom hunting is extremely dangerous and should only be done by the professionals. The awesome thing is, if you're curious, you can always learn—but don't go popping stuff in your mouth, please.

For The Kingdom: Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The Plan

Ivan Finley walked quickly through the crowded streets of Bosc. He attracted many looks from passer-bys. Perhaps it was his high brow or his steady, firm gaze. Or it could have been his freshly waxed boots or the glimmering of his expensive cloak, both of which spoke volumes of his social standing and his wealth. Either way, Ivan didn't seem to notice or care that people watched him brush by. He seemed oblivious to the hopeful glances of many a young woman. His long, red cloak swished behind him as he weaved through the jostling people, hurrying from stand to stand in the large market. In fact, the only time Ivan Finley appeared to take the slightest interest in anything about him was when he neared a rickety table just erected that morning, nearly buckling under many miniature mountains of apples.

"But, m'lords, please," wheezed a stooped man, whose entire frame seemed to vibrate with every word, "please, don't take them all! I must make a living, Sir Adrian!"

Before the poor man's stand stood five knights, loading apples in large satchels. The fifth smirked at the man.

"Come now, dear fellow," Sir Adrian Bayard simpered. "Us knights are spending valuable amounts of time and energy to look after poor fools such as yourself. It only makes sense that you repay us." Bayard shook the man's shoulder slightly like a friend sharing a joke, but he laughed harshly, his eyes cold. The four other knights laughed.

Ivan jerked to a stop and watched the knight continue to pat the tiny man on the back, making him quiver worse than ever.

"It's our right to take whatever we like," Bayard continued with a sharp grin, fingering the hilt of the sword at his hip. "But if you are so attached to your apples, perhaps I would be content with your granddaughter instead?" Bayard leered at the girl shivering behind her grandfather.

The farmer's forehead immediately beaded with sweat.

"No-no, m'lords! Take the apples! Take all of them, please!"

Bayard and the knights laughed loudly, making those around them turn and stare. They loaded their satchels and Bayard snickered and winked at the girl, now white as old oatmeal.

It took a moment before Ivan realized he was still standing frozen, glaring in fury at the pitiful farmer. Grinding his teeth so much that his jaws hurt, he forced his legs to move. With a bitter taste twisting his mouth into an ugly frown, he turned from the scene and resumed his trek. He quickened his pace and left the large crowds as he turned sharply off the main road onto a narrower one. He nearly flew down it, his shiny boots clattering loudly on the cobblestone. Next, he hurried down a section of steps, the noise of the main road more muffled with each step he took.

For someone who hadn't been the slightest bit interested in his surroundings, he suddenly spent a good deal of time looking over his shoulder. The steps ended at a quieter street. He passed bolted doors before halting suddenly, his cloak swishing violently about him, as he stared intensely down the street behind him and up at closed, dirty windows. The street was empty. Ivan continued on his journey.

He was now rushing down a dirty alleyway. The stench of rotting food hung heavy in the air and a rat scurried under an upturned basket, torn and stained with mud. Ivan Finley stopped halfway down the quiet alleyway before a heavily bolted door. His eyes lighted upon a muttering old woman, shuffling at the other end of the alley as he knocked thrice on the splintered door.

"Who's there?" grunted a voice through the door.

"Ivan Finley," Ivan whispered to the door, his eyes still on the murmuring woman.

"Password."

"Sebastian."

The door creaked open and Ivan stepped over a dark threshold. The smell of mildew and dust nearly overpowered his senses. Ivan wrinkled his nose.

"Why do we have to keep coming here, Garren?" he asked in aggravation.

"Because the knights haven't searched it yet, that's why." A gruff-looking man closed the door behind Ivan, throwing them into even deeper darkness. He was powerfully built with large arms and shoulders. A thick, brown beard covered half his face. "The meeting's started. What kept you?"

"Got a little distracted."

"You weren't followed?" Garren asked sharply.

"No."

"Good." Garren started walking down a set of warped stairs with Ivan close behind, "I don't care to think what Adam would have done if you had been."

"Bit testy today, eh?"

In the dark, Ivan couldn't see Garren's face, but he had the feeling Garren had rolled his eyes.

"Testy doesn' describe it."

They had reached the end of the stairs and stood before a closed door. Muffled voices issued from behind it. Garren half turned to Ivan and said with a twisted smile, "Get ready."

He opened the door and the stairway was flooded with light from the room before them.  Loud, arguing voices pounded against Ivan's eardrums. The room looked more like a cave, with its low, dirty, stone walls.

A rusty wagon wheel, adorned with stubby candles, hung from the smoke stained ceiling, illuminating a crowd of men gathered around a large wooden table that took up the most of the room.

"But we can still go forward with the plan," argued a young man with copper hair. He stood at one end of the table.

"And get ourselves killed?" replied an irritable voice.

"Vin, if we don't then countless months of planning will have been for naught!" shot the young man.

Ivan inched along the edge of the room toward his empty seat while Garren closed the door and took his own. Ivan sat next to the youngest man in the room. He had sandy-blonde hair that was slightly curly. He shot a questioning glance at Ivan, but Ivan jerked his head slightly and turned his attention to the argument between Egan and Vin.

"Yes, Egan," Vin said icily, "but are countless months of planning more valuable than our heads? The knights have gotten wind of the attack. It would be suicide."

"Jacob risked his life to be heard!" Egan continued heatedly. "He should not rot in the dungeons!"

"He should not have been stupid enough to get caught."

"That's enough, Vin," said the oldest man in the room. "Egan, Vin is right. We cannot possibly continue with our plans for freeing Jacob. The risks are too great."

Egan seemed to deflate. Not looking at anyone in particular he sat down and glowered at a small burn in the worn table. There was a momentary silence, then …

"What took you?"

Ivan turned his attention to the man sitting at the opposite head of the table: Adam Thain. His muscled shoulders and hard eyes made it clear he was not a man to be crossed.

"Nothing to worry about," Ivan answered, shrugging, as if he didn't mind Adam's harsh tone. "Slight distraction. That knight Bayard was bullying another farmer."

An angry murmuring sparked around the table.

"We must do something!" an angry man exclaimed.

"What can we do, Daniel?" the old man beside him asked.

"Something, Cian, something! I'm tired of watching knights abuse our families and take our gold! Another house was burned because the owner refused to call that-that creature 'His Majesty!' What use are we if we stand aside and do nothing? We are acting like cowards!" Daniel slammed his fist on the table.

"The knights are livid from Jacob's writings. They are looking for any excuse to lash out at the people," said Cian.

Ivan lowered his eyes, fighting the shame that ate at his insides. He could have forced Bayard away from the farmer, he could have …

"What use would you be Daniel, if you were locked in the dungeon?" the young man beside Ivan asked quietly.

All eyes focused on the youngest of their group who was staring at Daniel.

"Not much use at all," he continued, answering his own question.

"Galen—"

"We are doing what we can," Galen spoke over Daniel's feeble attempt to argue. "If we attacked every single knight on our own or at the spur of the moment, then we wouldn't be here right now. We'd all be sharing cells on the bottom-most floor of Bosc Castle."

"Galen's right," said Cian to the sudden stillness. "We're getting to the knights, there's no doubt about that. Molick is making it his top priority to have us snuffed out. We have made progress—"

"But not enough!" shouted Egan, thumping his fist on the table.

Silence settled once more on the seated men. Garren cleared his throat.

"We could try talking to the king again? Surely he can't be happy with the knights."

"We've already tried that," Vin snapped angrily. "And if you remember, the letter was supposedly ripped apart and burned. I don't think he's interested in speaking to us."

"Maybe we should try again," Garren growled.

Vin glowered at Garren.

"King Salir is either too stupid or too scared to act against Molick," Vin stated harshly. "It's obvious who's running the kingdom. Romore is just his puppet in fancy clothing. We'd be wasting our time."

"I have an idea," Ivan spoke suddenly.

His heart was racing. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears. He knew that he was probably going to be laughed and sneered at, but at least he wasn't the youngest in the room. He was ahead of Galen by four years.

All eyes had turned to him and his pulse quickened under the intense gazes.

"Well, speak young Ivan," said Cian Raghnall impatiently.

Ivan swallowed, his eyes darting from face to face.

"Find the heir to the throne."

There was silence so complete one would have thought the room was empty. Galen first looked shocked and then smiled in mock exasperation. But there was a bark of laughter that shattered the heavy silence.

"Find the heir to the throne?" Vin repeated, leaning over the table to get a better look at Ivan. "You must be joking? She's dead."

But Ivan was ready for this; he had been planning this very conversation for days.

"Her body was never found."

Vin laughed even louder.

"Do you hear him?" he cried, turning to the others. "Where exactly did you get that information, boy? She's buried beside her dead mother and father."

"Why was no one allowed to witness it?" Ivan shot loudly over Vin's continued chuckles. "Why was no one allowed to pay homage to it? Why were the catacombs shut off from visitors?"

"Her body may have been too mangled for—"

"Vin," Adam cut in sharply, a warning in his voice.

Vin fell silent but continued to sneer at Ivan. But Ivan stared at Vin with the intensity of a mind reader.

"So you don't believe she died of a fever?" Ivan asked him.

Vin shrugged dismissively.

"I don't believe anything that comes out of Romore's mouth," he replied, his tone icy.

There was a slight pause as Ivan breathed deeply through his nose. The others seemed to be holding their breath, their eyes darting from Vin to Ivan.

"I have heard rumors," Ivan continued, looking around the table at the other members. "Rumors that I believe the knights have not gotten wind of … yet. The people are clinging to this hope as if it is their last breath." He felt a rush of anger as Vin rolled his eyes. "You have heard them, Galen! You all have heard the rumors. They are whispered. They are spoken only in the most extreme of confidences. The people guard this one hope as intensely as any member of their families. Is it so hard to believe, to hope, that she is still alive?"

Vin was scratching his chin, gazing at the wagon wheel above his head. He had obviously stopped paying attention to Ivan, but Cian frowned at Ivan across the table.

"If she was alive, and we found her, our task would still not be easy," the old man stated. "She would be in more danger than any one of us if Molick discovered she was alive and threatened to take the throne."

"What do we have to lose?" Ivan asked quickly, glad that Cian wasn't on Vin's side. "We can sit here and plan and plot and not do anything or we can look for the princess and continue to plan and plot."

Cian smiled slightly and turned to Adam.

"What do you think, Adam?"

Adam frowned deeply.

"It's a long shot—a very long shot. How do you plan on finding her—if she is alive at all?"

Ivan leaned forward, heart racing in excitement.

"I'd love to get someone inside the castle—someone posing as a servant to ask questions, discreet ones—find the people that were there the night it happened—discover what information has been hidden from the people about her so-called death."

Ivan searched Adam's face, but he couldn't decipher an answer.

"Who all agrees?" Adam finally boomed across the table.

Ivan smiled triumphantly as he watched the nodding heads—all except Vin who looked like he'd swallowed a lemon.

"It is settled. Ivan, begin your search. Meeting's adjourned."

Ivan was amazed his plan had worked. Galen caught his eye as they rose together and followed the others up the stairs.

When the group of men reached the landing, they waited in line while Garren opened the door every few minutes, so that they could leave alone or in pairs. This precaution had to be enforced, no matter how irksome it was. They were a rebel group, formed by Adam Thain and Cian Raghnall. The two men had been acquaintances for many a year before the Kellen Royal Family's tragic deaths. But it was five years after Salir Romore had taken the throne that Adam and Cian had first discussed the idea of a rebel group. Times were turning dangerous and they didn't see any of that changing in the near future. Ridiculous laws had passed, taxes had increased to the point of thievery, and those who spoke out were beaten or thrown in the dungeons.

When Salir Romore had taken the throne, Lenzar had been in a state of uncertainty and despair. Their king and queen were dead. And then shortly thereafter, the little princess had succumbed to a fever.

It was hard to pinpoint when exactly the changes started. First came the new laws. For safety, the people could no longer visit the catacombs beneath the castle's floors. They were too dangerous, King Salir had explained. Bosc Bell Tower, a common retreat for the people with its spellbinding view of Bosc and the ocean, was prohibited after a castle servant jumped to her death shortly after the little princess died. A knight was stationed outside its circular stairway night and day.

Then the taxes increased and the knights began refusing to pay for food or drink, saying they would take what they wanted as payment for their service to Lenzar.

The months and years passed, with the knights becoming bolder. Fights began in alleys, where the knights often left their victims bleeding on the cobblestones. The king was seen less and less. Instead, Illius Molick, the captain of the knights, took the reins, or at least, that was what the people suspected.

The people supposed that the knights had finally reached a point where they knew no one could stop them. In a horrible display of where the power now lay, the knights smashed and crushed each statue of King Sebastian and Queen Amara in Bosc. They removed paintings of them from shops and homes, only to rip and burn them in the streets. In hurt and anger, writings appeared—Patrick Falk, a very well respected voice in Lenzar, leading the charge—criticizing the new wave of violence. The pamphlets were circulated across the country, the people's voices rising in rebellion. But then the knights came and searched all the homes in Lenzar. They burned every copy and threw the printer and as many of the writers they could find in the dungeons. Patrick Falk was beheaded, thanks to a new law that any ill word against the king or knights was treason, and punishable by death. The streets of Bosc were silent as Falk's head was displayed by gleeful knights. The silence grew as the head was transported to all the towns and cities of Lenzar.

But not all of Falk's pamphlets had been destroyed. Some very few had been hidden successfully during the burnings and were heavily guarded by their owners.

After five years of torture, it was time to act.

Adam and Cian carefully sought out people that would be interested in a rebellion. This had to be done painfully slowly, for the knights—as greedy and barbaric as they were—still had eyes and ears.

There had already been many poorly planned skirmishes between the people and the knights, though they usually didn't last long and the outcomes were predictable. Those fools that weren't killed in the fight were taken to the dungeons. There was never a discussion or announcement of how long they would be imprisoned and the knights didn't allow visitors.

The people were divided as to who to blame. Some believed the king was behind it all. He is the king! they would exclaim. But others had their doubts. They watched Illius Molick strut about the city like a king. They watched him order the searches for rebellious writers or fighters. They did not doubt that if Salir Romore was weak, he would be easy to bend—easy to be put to use by Illius Molick

The line had dwindled and Ivan and Galen were at the door now. They were last and the only person in front of them was Vin. Garren opened the door for him and Vin brushed past without a word. Ivan frowned after him. He had disliked Vin Connolly since the first time he had met him. Garren nodded at Ivan and Galen and let them leave the dilapidated building.

They took a few steps down the deserted alley before Galen said, "That was quite a speech."

"But they all agreed, didn't they?" Ivan said happily. "The only one who gave me any trouble was that bastard Vin." Ivan actually took a skipping step and Galen chuckled.

Galen looked causally around and Ivan knew he was searching for knights.

"So, when do you leave to find your spy?"

They had climbed some steps and entered a more active street.

"As soon as possible. Maybe even tomorrow. You should come!"

Galen shook his head.

"Sorry, Ivan, but no can do. Mom wants me at the inn all day tomorrow."

"Have you still not told her?" Ivan asked, suddenly demanding.

Galen sighed heavily.

"No, it would kill her."

Ivan exploded immediately.

"We're doing the right thing!"

Galen gave a small smile.

"It would still kill her."

Ivan snorted, his hands deep in his pockets.

"I'm telling you, Galen, when this is all over—when the king is replaced and the knights are reformed—they'll all be thanking us on bended knee."

"Don't speak so loudly," Galen advised softly. His eyes were trained on a knight, but the brute hadn't heard anything as he was busy leering at a girl.

They walked on in silence, Ivan shooting moody glares at the people they passed and Galen focusing on the cobbled road. At the end of the street, they parted, Ivan to the left and Galen to the right.

Ivan now walked down a large road. Heavy stone walls flanked either side, guarding the large houses sitting behind them. He passed these by until he came upon a tall iron gate. He took out a brass key from inside his trouser pocket and opened it. A hand resting on the gate, he looked around. The large lawns were still green but were starting to look pale, and some patches here and there had already turned brown. Red and yellow leaves littered the ground and as he watched, some took flight in a sudden gust of chilly wind. He yanked the gate shut with a loud clatter and turned the key in its lock.

It was near noon. He was sure his mother and father were in the garden having lunch, so he headed in that direction, walking around the large house instead of through it. Yes, there they were, sitting at a small circular table, laden with trays of sandwiches and jugs of juice.

"Ivan!" his mother called happily when she caught sight of him.

"Mother," Ivan nodded.

"Have a chicken sandwich. They're delicious."

"Thank you, maybe later—"

"Have some almond toffee," Mrs. Finley continued, raising a mug of a warm, steaming drink. "Or would you prefer tea?"

"I was actually hoping to have a word with you, Father," Ivan said, looking pointedly at Mr. Finley who was drinking from a glass of wine.

Mr. Finley lowered his glass, but didn't set it down.

"Certainly. If you'll excuse me, Abby dear?"

He rose, glass still in hand and headed into the house, Ivan following behind. They entered a small study that was expensively furnished. Oil paintings of Ivan's grandparents hung on the walls along with glass ornaments, fine dinnerware that Mrs. Finley enjoyed showing off, and a large wooden case of expensive cigars.

"What is on your mind, Ivan?" asked Mr. Finley, sighing heavily as he sat in a large armchair. "And more importantly, what is it you don't want your mother overhearing?"

"I've just come back from a meeting," said Ivan, taking a seat, his voice slightly hushed. He glanced over his shoulder at the closed door.

"Ah!" Mr. Finley leaned forward, his face eager. "You do know that if I was younger and fitter, I would be stuffing it to those knights. Speak, son. Speak! And quickly before your mother wanders in."

Ivan grinned and scooted his armchair closer to his father.

"I told them my plan."

"And?"

"They've agreed! They're letting me go forward!"

"Well done!" Mr. Finley slapped Ivan's knee. "Congratulations! Pour yourself some wine!"

Ivan happily obeyed.

"So what's next?" Mr. Finley asked as Ivan sat back down. "Where do you go from here?"

"I have to find someone who I can get into the castle," said Ivan. "I was thinking about leaving tomorrow."

"Hmmm," Mr. Finley rubbed his chin, his face serious. "You will of course inform the person of the dangers involved?" Mr. Finley pressed, suddenly stern. "If the knights realized why this person was there … if Molick or Romore ever got a hint, your spy would be dead before you could say almond toffee."

Ivan nodded his head.

"Brenden, what are you two talking about?"

Mrs. Finley had just entered the room and was looking curiously from her husband to her son.

"Nothing, Abby, nothing," Mr. Finley said quickly, flashing a winning smile and straightening in his chair.

Mrs. Finley's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Well, if you're finished, I need to speak to Ivan." She turned her attention to her son. "I need you to go to Clara's in Halspeare and pick up a few blankets; ours are getting a little worn."

"Clara's?" Ivan sputtered. "But why there? They sell blankets here in the city!"

"Clara's are better!" his mother said forcefully. "And anyway, while you're there you can stop in on Miss Coletta. She does so love your visits."

A quaint smile on her face, she turned on her heel and left Ivan with his jaw open in disbelief.

"Clara's?" he rounded on his father. "In Halspeare! That's a three day journey!"

"She's probably hoping the weather will be bad and you'll have to spend the night at Miss Coletta's." Mr. Finley chuckled and gazed at the empty doorway affectionately. "Your mother won't rest until she sees you married."

"I have absolutely no interest in Coletta!" Ivan raged furiously.

"But you must admit she's a charming girl."

"Oh, yes, charming, of that I am certain," fumed Ivan, rolling his eyes. "I just wish she'd try to charm someone else! And what am I going to do about finding my spy?"

"Maybe you'll run into one on the way? Oh, come now," Mr. Finley said, spotting the mutinous look on Ivan's face. "Don't argue with you mother. The sooner you go, the sooner you will be back."

He drained his glass, slapped his own knee and left Ivan alone in the sitting room.

 

To Be Continued…

Copyright M. L. LeGette

 

For The Kingdom: Chapter 2 (Continued)

"Cayla, you've been inside for far too long," Nanette snapped irritably. "Go outside—"

"I've been outside!" Cayla retorted indignantly.

"To the orchard," Nanette scoffed, hands on hips, rolling her eyes sarcastically. "Wow, Cayla, I'm so impressed."

"All right, all right," Cayla grunted as Nanette beamed triumphantly, "but someone has to watch the princess and she still has to be fed and—"

"—and don't worry," Nanette interjected. She placed her arm around Cayla's shoulders.

"We can't be gone for very long!" Cayla continued. "I can't—"

"Cayla," Nanette said with force, letting go of her shoulders and glaring at her. "We are going to the Lone Candle—ah, ah, ah!" She waved a hand briskly to stop Cayla from interrupting. "And we are going to have a nice, long dinner. I'll be back here at seven and we can be off."

She smiled pleasantly, gave the princess a peck on the forehead, and left to find Kiora Locke, an older servant who often helped Cayla with Princess Avona.

At five till seven, Nanette entered the Princess's Chamber, obviously still pleased with herself for getting Cayla out of the castle, closely followed by Kiora.

"I've just fed her," Cayla said with the attitude of a fussy mother hen, "so she'll probably go to sleep. If she wakes up and starts crying—"

"Cayla, Kiora has done this before," said Nanette, amused, "and we'll only be gone for a few hours. Not two months."

"Well, you never can tell!" snapped Cayla, snatching her cloak off the back of a chair, kissing her charge gently and hurrying from the room. Kiora and Nanette shared slightly exasperated yet amused smiles before Nanette closed the door and followed Cayla down the corridor.

Cayla and Nanette stepped out into the crisp night and Cayla was pleased to find that there was no wind. Bright lamps illuminated the wide gravel road that led to the main gate. Cayla and Nanette nodded silently to the guard before continuing down a cobblestone road. The hems of their skirts and cloaks swished heavily around their ankles, dampening from small pools of water between the uneven stones. The road gleamed yellow from the lines of flickering lamps.

The Lone Candle was by far the most popular inn in Bosc, the capital of Lenzar. It was a cheerful hole-in-the-wall run by a rosy-cheeked man and his rosy-cheeked wife. The food and drink was some of the best for miles and traveling musicians provided a continual foot-tapping jig. Cayla and Nanette stopped at the Lone Candle's brightly lit windows, sparkling merrily with raindrops. The inn's sign, that of a squat candle with lumpy ribbons of wax dripping sluggishly down its sides onto a cracked, wooden table, creaked in a sudden cold breeze.

Nanette opened the heavy wooden door and they flinched slightly as the battering ram of music and talk issuing from the crowded room barreled over them. Cayla and Nanette entered and with difficulty squeezed through the throng of people standing around the thumping musicians in the corner by the door and weaved between tables to one at the far end of the room. They shed their long, wet cloaks—the large fireplace in the stone wall kept the inn comfortably toasty.

"Well I'll be!" rang a loud, clear voice.

Olive Dunker, the rosy complexioned co-owner of the Lone Candle had squeezed through the wooden tables with difficulty due to her very large stomach and stood before their table.

"I'll be!" she exclaimed again, even louder than before, hands on her hips, a smile taking up more than half her face. "If it isn't Cayla Black. Why, I haven't seen you in ages! Beginning to think you'd vanished," Olive laughed merrily.

Cayla smiled.

"When's the baby due?" asked Nanette.

Olive chuckled. "February. But the way he's growing …" She patted her stomach affectionately and shrugged her shoulders as if to say "but what's wrong with that?"

"Any names yet?" Nanette asked.

"Not many," Olive admitted, flushing slightly. "Thomas and I know so many people—customers, you know—and you'd be amazed at how hard it is to find something original. But I have a soft spot for Galen. What do you think?"

"Galen Dunker. Sounds nice," Nanette agreed. "But what if it's a girl?"

Olive's eyes widened.

"Names are so difficult," she said. As Nanette laughed, Olive turned back to Cayla, "So why the long time no see?"

"It's taken me longer than I thought to … to deal with Alice's death," Cayla replied quietly, though proud that her voice had remained steady.

Dawning comprehension swept over Olive's face and she bent closer to them, no longer smiling, her voice hushed.

"Horrible, that's what it is! Never would have dreamed—I'm still horrified! And you two were friends with her!" Her eyes widened in shocked realization.

"Everyone liked Alice," Nanette said quickly, laying a hand on Cayla's arm, who looked as if a dark cloud had suddenly materialized over her head. "She was very kind."

"Yes, I know!" Olive nodded, her eyes wide. "It's just baffling! But I guess you can't tell with some people, can you? I feel so horribly for the poor princess. An orphan and not even a year old."

"I think we'll order now, Olive," said Nanette, cutting a glance at Cayla who was sitting so still and rigid she could have been stone.

"Oh, yes, dears." Olive fumbled with a piece of paper and extracted a short quill from her apron pocket. "What will it be?"

"Can you believe that?" Cayla hissed heatedly, watching Olive's retreating back after she had scribbled down their order. "You can't tell with some people … She spoke as if she was glad Alice was dead!"

"Well, I think they are," Nanette said carefully.

Cayla's head jerked around.

"Alice's memory is being dragged through the mud!" she whispered lividly. "Alice does not deserve this!"

"No. She doesn't," Nanette agreed softly.

Cayla felt tears welling in her eyes. Her throat constricted.

Nanette squeezed Cayla's arm before removing her hand to make room as their beer and a healthy wedge of stilton were placed between them.

Cayla hastily wiped her eyes on her sleeve and took a sip of beer.

"Do you think, that for right now, you can simply enjoy yourself?" Nanette asked quietly, leaning forward over the table. "This isn't healthy, Cayla."

Cayla smiled slightly and nodded.

"I'll drink to that!" cheered Nanette.

They clanked their heavy mugs together, beer sloshing over the edges.

Suddenly, the whole room seemed brighter, as if a thin cloth had been lifted from the scene. The merry customers around them drank and danced foolishly and before Cayla knew it, her foot was happily tapping to the beat of a young traveler's fiddle.

"Pheasant pie?" huffed a long-nosed young man, who had just arrived to their table, staggering under the weight of a huge pie.

"Oh, yes. Thank you."

Sweat beading on his forehead, he bent his knees and slide the pie onto the table between them, where it steamed.

"I tell you, I could live off this pie!" Nanette said with a feverish glint in her eyes.

As the night continued, the Lone Candle seemed to grow even louder. After a few pints of mead, the musicians had sped up substantially, the thumping of heavy boots keeping tempo to the pounding drums.

Cayla and Nanette finished their pie and beer, along with a helping of apple crumb tart topped with almond cream. Cayla was leaning back in her chair, gazing peacefully around the inn. It had been beautifully decorated for Christmas with baubles, ribbons, and bundles of holly.      Cayla's roaming eyes rested on a corner a few tables away from where she and Nanette sat. It was a good bit darker than anywhere else in the room because there were no torch brackets nearby. The table was empty and Cayla thought she understood why. Why ever would you want to sit in the dark?

"Perfect dinner!" Nanette exclaimed, startling Cayla by slamming her hands on the table and pushing herself up. "I think it's time we headed off."

They slowly made their way back to the castle, stumbling over uneven stones in the road, chuckling at their clumsiness. They turned a corner and the brightly lit windows of the castle shone proudly through the night.

"… didn't expect this to happen …"

Cayla stopped so sharply that Nanette stumbled again.

"What—" Nanette began, but Cayla pinched her sharply.

"Shhh!" she hissed, suddenly fully awake.

For some reason, the harsh voice she had just heard through the darkness left her feet frozen in place.

"… Just finish the job—tonight, along with the maid," said the cold voice so quietly that she inclined her head to hear better; her eyes strained painfully as she tried to see through the dark alley.

"Cayla—"

"Shh!"

But whoever had spoken had vanished.

"They're gone," Cayla whispered.

She started walking again, tugging Nanette along with her.

"Cayla—Cayla, what is it?" Nanette huffed, jogging to keep up with Cayla's quick pace. "Who's gone?"

"Nothing," said Cayla shortly. She nodded curtly to the gate guard and entered the castle. "I just thought I heard something."

"Well, I didn't hear anything," Nanette grumbled dismissively. "I'm going to bed—see you in the morning."

With a large yawn, she turned on her heel and shuffled down the corridor. Cayla stood stationary in the corridor for a full three minutes before coming to her senses with a start. She ran up the spiral staircase to Princess Avona's chamber, the cold words echoing in her brain. She wrenched the chamber door open with such force that Kiora dropped the tea pot she had been holding.

"Never mind it, never mind it!" huffed Cayla quickly as Kiora bent to retrieve the broken pottery. "I'll take care of it—don't know my own strength sometimes—Go on, I'll take care of everything." And with an arm tightly around Kiora's shoulders, she half-pushed half-led her out the door before she could protest and closed the door with a snap.

Cayla stood staring at the wood of the door, her hand pressed flat against its grainy surface. Surely she was overreacting … panicky about the slightest thing that seemed strange … Cayla shook her head as if trying to rid herself of an aggravating fly. No, this was real—what she had heard was real—she had to act now!

She spun around, a plan—a horribly, foolish plan—had taken form in a matter of seconds. Her face set with fierce determination, she crossed the room and picked up the sleeping baby.

To Be Continued …

Copyright M.L. LeGette

For The Kingdom is available on Amazon.com, mllegette.com, and Kindle.

For The Kingdom: Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Meetings and Musings

 

Four weeks passed, bringing with them icy rain that left the roads a muddy, slushy mess. Cayla glared out of the rain-smeared window from the Princess's Chamber. Even though nothing strange had happened in the castle for the last twenty-eight days, Cayla could still not accept that the danger had passed. King Sebastian's murderer was free, and it seemed to Cayla that she was the only one bothered by this.

 

"Cayla, we've been through this," her friend Nanette had exclaimed in exasperation one week before. "I know it's hard for you to accept Alice's death, but—"

"She didn't do it, Nanette," Cayla had snapped fiercely.

"You know I know that," Nanette had sighed. "I'm just saying that nothing has happened. If there was a murderer lurking the halls, don't you think he would have done something by now?"

"But what Gerda said makes sense!"

"You're listening to Gerda now?" Nanette had shook her head in mock disappointment. "Good Lord, Cayla, you are desperate."

"I'm serious!" Cayla had fumed and Nanette had stopped smiling. "Who would want King Sebastian dead?"

"Criminals?" Nanette had shrugged. "Or Sir Salir? It was settled long ago that he would rule if King Sebastian or Queen Amara weren't able to—if Princess Avona was still too young, that is."

"I thought of him first, too," Cayla had agreed. "I would think that at some point an advisor would get tired of advising and want to start doing. But—"

"But he doesn't seem the type to go about poisoning people," Nanette had finished dully for her.

Cayla had nodded.

"Did you see him when it was announced that the queen had died? He looked so shocked."

"He could be a good actor," Nanette had suggested.

"No one's that good," Cayal had stated. "He looked like a ghost. Like a shell."

"Okay, scratch him off then." Nanette had waved her arm as if slashing a name off an invisible list. "Who else? A knight?"

 

Cayla snorted irritably as the memory faded, glaring at the rain-washed courtyard below. A knight. Cayla did not enjoy the knights' company. A group of knights in particular were a bit too quick to pull out their daggers for Cayla's liking. King Sebastian and Queen Amara had often been displeased with this small group, but Sir Illius Molick, the Captain of the Knights, had always assured them that he had them under control. They were volatile. Violent.

It wasn't hard for Cayla to believe that a knight from that group had poisoned the king and blamed it on Alice. The question was, which one?

Sir Adrian Bayard was a hot head. Cayla doubted he would have the finesse for slipping  poison in a goblet. He seemed too attracted to his own fists. But Sir Alexander Vinsus on the other hand … Cayla could easily see him plotting this murder. He was steely, cold, and as slick as a snake. Cayla often chose to travel down different corridors to keep from walking past him.

Cayla snorted again, turning from the window. She and the rest of the servants had heard rumors that the "difficult" group of knights had been quietly planning a revolt, but none of the rumors had been substantial enough to be taken seriously, especially with King Sebastian on the throne. But if the knights were going to rebel … if they had been behind King Sebastian's death, then they would show it, wouldn't they? Cayla tried to remember how the knights had been behaving over these past few weeks. Bayard had been strutting about the place like he owned it, but he always strutted. And yes, Vinsus had been more open in his aggression toward the poor and the servants … had sneered and grabbed his sword a bit more than usual. And Cayla had seen an increase in whispered conversations between these knights. Just yesterday she had seen Vinsus and Sir Anon Haskin talking in undertones, but Anon wasn't a troublemaker. He was one of the few knights Cayla felt comfortable around.

Wanting to turn her thoughts to something else, Cayla picked up the letter that had arrived earlier that day. Two old friends were in the city … she'd need to pay them a visit, or at least write back.

Princess Avona suddenly screamed shrilly, shattering Cayla's thoughts quite effectively. Tossing the letter to one side, she rushed to her, cooing and rocking her gently, but for all the good she did, she might as well have just ignored her.

"Goodness, the child isn't too pleased, is she?"

Cayla spun around. Salir Romore stood in the doorway, looking slightly amused at the ear-shattering pitch the princess had reached.

"Would it pain you if I joined you?"

Cayla blinked dumbly before hastily curtseying as best she could with the wriggling princess in her arms. She still hadn't gotten used to the fact that Salir Romore, King Sebastian's quiet advisor, was now ruler of Lenzar.

"Of course, Your Highness," Cayla replied over Princess Avona's yells. "Shh! Darling, shh!"

"Perhaps she is not fond of my company?" mused Salir with a good-humored smile as Princess Avona screeched particularly loudly.

"No!" Cayla denied, still desperately trying to quiet her. "That's ridiculous, Your Highness!"

"Either way, I think I will return when she is calmer—asleep perhaps …" He turned to go.

"No, please! Your Highness, do stay. Look, she's quieting."

And in fact the princess's yells had dwindled to a small, pathetic whine, her face as red as a cherry.

Salir smiled, but then the glow from his smile dulled and it seemed suddenly to Cayla that his young face looked much older.

"I have not yet spoken to you of Alice Spindle's death," he said quietly, "and I apologize for that."

The room was suddenly much colder.

"Thank you," said Cayla jerkily.

"I was told you were friends with her."

Cayla nodded, looking firmly at a chair's legs. She wished he would leave … why had she called him back? She felt as if something large was jammed in her throat, keeping her from swallowing.

"I want you to know that I am here for you," Salir said softly. "If you need to speak to anyone … just know that I am here."

Cayla nodded again, her jaw clenched tightly. When she did not reply, Salir slowly walked toward the door.

"Sir!"

Salir stopped and half turned, looking at her over his shoulder. "Yes?"

"I-I don't think Alice murdered King Sebastian," Cayla said in a rush, frightened at her own daring. "I think she was set up … by someone in the castle."

Salir's eyebrows rose.

"And what made you form this theory?" he asked in surprise. "All evidence pointed to her poisoning His Majesty's goblet."

"I know, sir, I know." Cayla shook her head, her eyes shut. "But I trust my instincts. Odd things have happened—the queen's accident—"

"You believe that was not an accident?"

Cayla hesitated before replying.

"I do."

"I see." Salir looked around the room. His eyes momentarily rested on Princes Avona who still fidgeted in Cayla's arms. "I will do all I can to help put your mind at ease." With a curt nod, he went out the door, closing it softly behind him.

Cayla stood still, eyes fixed on the newly closed door, for quite some time until Princess Avona suddenly grabbed hold of one of her locks of hair and yanked. Gently scolding, Cayla returned the princess to her crib, but her mind was only partly on the giggling baby. The other part was wondering if Salir Romore would try to find out if Alice had been framed.

 

To Be Continued…

Copyright M.L. LeGette

 

Author's Note:

Expect the rest of Chapter 2 next week!

For The Kingdom is availble on Amazon.com, mllegette.com, and Kindle.

For The Kingdom: Chapter 1 Continued

Cayla didn't attend the execution. She did not go into the city. She stayed inside the castle, busying herself with her daily tasks, refusing to let her mind wander. Refusing to let her gaze drop in shame. She kept her jaw clenched, her red eyes from shedding a single tear. She would mourn in solitude at Alice's grave. She would not mourn before people who were spreading not-so-quiet whispers about Alice. Saying horrible, terrible things about Alice.

The other servants—people who had known and lived with Alice for years—believed her a killer! Cayla felt their eyes on her as she passed; she could only imagine what they thought of her. From the moment she had heard of Alice's predicament, she had loudly denied her guilt. But King Sebastian was dead. Murdered. Someone had to pay. So in an attempt to be as alone as possible, Cayla used the old servant passages. They fit her mood. The plain, empty, silent corridors were like a sanctuary to her. A sanctuary where she could remember Alice. Where there was no chance of seeing the horrible celebrations around the castle, as the people "avenged" their king's death, for there were no windows in the servant passages.

Bosc Castle was an impressive building. Towers rose overhead and gargoyles dotted the exterior. Inside were gloriously furnished rooms with highly intricate tapestries and walls covered with large oil paintings. Huge curving staircases of gleaming marble snaked from floor to floor. The corridors were wide and brightly lit with waxed tables and imposing statues dotted the floors. The servant passages, on the other hand, were neither grand nor imposing. They were dark, narrow, low, and unbearably cold during winter. But they were also incredibly intricate … and hidden.  In the era of Bosc Castle's creation, servants were part of the setting … the backdrop … a piece of furniture that was to be overlooked. They were needed, necessary in fact. But never were they to be seen. Never were they to attract attention. Never were they to use the main corridors.

Since the servants were meant to be overlooked so was their means of travel. Tapestries, portraits, backs of wardrobes all hid the openings of the servants' passages. They were a maze of narrow corridors that weaved throughout the castle. Servants might have been the lowest of the low, but much careful thought was spent on them in the construction plans for the castle. It was so vital for them to flit in and out unnoticed that the entrances were perfectly invisible. Even the servants did not know them all. At times they still stumbled across floorboards that moved, or wardrobes with hidden doors. But times had changed and the necessity of keeping servants out of sight had faded away. Now, they could walk the main corridors, side by side with nobility. Over time, the passages had become forgotten by the court and the servants only used them when they were convenient.

"Cayla! Oh, Cayla!"

The mournful gasp made Cayla jerk in surprise. She had thought she was alone. When she turned and saw who was rushing to her, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply through her nose. Gerda Higgs was a new, young servant who never failed to put Cayla's nerves on edge.

"I'm sorry, Gerda, but I'm needed in the Princess's Chamber," said Cayla firmly.

"Oh! I couldn't possibly keep you," exclaimed Gerda, her already large eyes widening dramatically. "It's just—I just—" she choked wetly, drawing a damp handkerchief out of her pocket.

Cayla stood stoically, waiting for Gerda to recover herself.

"I'm sorry," she hiccupped into the handkerchief. "It's just so hard to believe. Alice—sweet Alice!" she cried, dabbing her eyes. "I'm sorry, I must look like a fool!"

Cayla didn't trust herself to reply.

"Who could have done this?" Gerda sobbed.

Cayla frowned, and though she had decided not to speak to Gerda, she couldn't stop herself from saying, "What do you mean? I thought you believed in Alice's guilt."

Gerda's large eyes, swimming with tears, widened.

"Where would you have heard that! Alice could never—she was always so nice. No, no I don't believe she did this!" Gerda said, fiercely shaking her head.

Cayla felt a warmth spread in her chest at Gerda's outburst. She had always found Gerda tiresome and silly, but at her words Cayla felt her gaze softening.

"It's just so hard to believe!" Gerda exclaimed again. "Why would anyone want to kill His Majesty? Especially one of us?"

"Someone could have snuck in through the servant passages," Cayla muttered.

"But we're sworn to secrecy!" Gerda gasped, horrified by the very idea.

"Then it must have been someone in the castle," Cayla replied darkly, more to herself than to Gerda.

Gerda looked close to fainting.

"In—in the castle?" Gerda repeated, clutching her handkerchief, her eyes darting about nervously.

"It's just a thought," Cayla said wearily, pinching the bridge of her nose. She suddenly wanted to be alone again. Her eyes were burning.

She pushed past Gerda who was still too shocked to stop her. It seemed that she couldn't believe that any of the servants would do such an atrocious deed. But after a few seconds, Gerda spun around and said something that made Cayla stop in her tracks.

"But it couldn't be a servant! What would we gain by killing King Sebastian?"

 

What would a servant gain, indeed? Nothing that Cayla could think of. King Sebastian had been loved. As far as Cayla knew, none of the servants had a grudge against him. And I would have known, Cayla thought wryly. Gerda's specialty was gossip and spreading it as fast and far as possible.

Cayla had entered Princess Avona's bedchamber from a hidden entrance behind a large tapestry. She'd been the princess's nanny since her birth. Cayla picked up the little wriggling baby and cooed softly.

Just as Cayla had calmed the fretful princess the chamber door creaked slowly open. Cayla turned and watched it sway forward as a large man with a grizzled beard slowly stepped through the door. When Sir Anon Haskin caught sight of Cayla he started.

"Cayla! Didn't see you there! Gave me a start," he said with a loud laugh.

"I'm sorry, Sir Anon," Cayla replied. "Did you need something?"

"No, no … no, no. Just wanted to check on the princess … make sure all was right."

"Why would you think something was wrong?" Cayla asked, alarmed, shifting the baby in her arms.

Sir Anon rubbed his bearded chin slowly, a crease appearing between his eyebrows.

"We live in dangerous times, Miss Black. Tragedy seems to be surrounding the castle … like a mist. I am a knight—my duty's to protect."

"Do you think someone might try … to hurt the princess?" Cayla whispered, clutching her burden closer as if she were afraid someone would run toward her from behind the dresser swinging a butcher's knife.

Sir Anon shrugged, though his serious air remained.

"Like I said, I am a knight."

Cayla nodded silently.

"Forgive me for intruding upon you." Sir Anon tilted his head respectfully toward the princess, who was goo-ing and gaa-ing, before exiting the chamber and closing the door behind him.

**

A chilling breeze blew through the cemetery. The execution was over and a tall man stood watching the proceedings, a look of quiet repulsion on his young, narrow face. Salir Romore, King Sebastian's advisor, watched as the servant Alice Spindle'''s limp body was slowly carried from the wagon that had transported her body from the central square where the execution had taken place. The wind ruffled his black hair. Beside Salir stood Illius Molick, the captain of the knights.

"I weary of funerals," Salir said suddenly. "Do you ever tire of them, Molick?"

Molick, a chiseled, hard-looking man, cut his eyes to the younger man beside him.

"As many as I have seen …" Molick sighed. "Yes, I tire of them."

Salir breathed heavily through his nose as Alice's body was lowered into the prepared grave. "I fear, Molick, that this will not be the last I witness as ruler."

Salir who had not moved his eyes once from Alice didn't notice how Molick had turned to him sharply.

"It has been decided?" Molick asked quickly. "You are to be king?"

"Until Princess Avona is of rightful age to take my place, I am king," Salir nodded.

"When will it be announced?" asked Molick, his eyes taking in every inch of the pale man beside him.

"Tonight. At sunset."

**

As advisor to the king, Salir Romore had been present at all of King Sebastian's speeches, but he had always hovered in the background, lost in shadow—quietly observing. Now he stood before the people—his people—speaking clearly and calmly, his words washing over the ashen faces below him.

After his short speech, Salir walked quietly down the brightly lit corridors, his face like a slab of stone. It couldn't be clearer that his mind was elsewhere.

He suddenly came to a stop and looked at the door he stood before in surprise. He stood before his old chamber – the one he had occupied as advisor. With a soft laugh, he turned from his old bedroom and moved through the corridors and stairs, passing staring servants, to the King's Chamber.

He hesitated before the heavily engraved doors, his hands hovering above the gold handles. He tightened his jaw, pulled the door open and entered. Slowly, the oak doors swung shut behind him and for a moment he stood still, letting his eyes roam over the room.

A magnificent chandelier hung at the center of the domed ceiling. The room was three times the size of his old chamber, with a handsome, rosewood writing desk, a sitting area with luxurious chairs and glittering crystal bottles of wines and liquors, a fireplace large enough to roast a boar, and a giant bed. Along the walls hung decorative tapestries, and two glass doors closed off the winter chill from a balcony. Salir, of course, had seen all of this before. As advisor, he had sat in that very chair, discussing issues with His Majesty, often over a bottle of gooseberry wine. A smile slowly formed upon his face.

Salir walked past tall candelabras, whose flames flickered, to the glass doors. There he stood, overlooking his city—his kingdom. He stood just as still as the stone gargoyles that leaned boldly over the balcony's intricate edge, watching the setting sun sink to her death. He stared, never moving, at his darkening city, his slim figure bathed in bloody reds and deep golds.

Sharply, he yanked the delicate drapes back over the glass. The tall candlesticks sputtered light into the darkened room, making wild shadows dance upon the walls. His shoulders suddenly tense, he turned slowly on the spot until he faced the two large portraits opposite him. Slowly yet deliberately, never shifting his gaze, Salir walked across the floor to one of the paintings.

Salir stepped before King Sebastian's portrait and tilted his head back, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight.

"Long live the king."

 

To Be Continued…

Copyright M.L. LeGette

 

Author's Note:

There are many things that I like about Salir. One of them is his first name. Doesn't it sound cool? It is actually a Spanish word that got taught one day in my high school Spanish class. It means 'to leave'. I didn't much care what it meant, to be honest with you—I was so thrilled by how it sounded! How it looked when written! I remember scribbling it down on the corner of some paper with a bunch of exclamation points. But then I ran into a problem. I had made the decision to have my characters have both first AND last names—that was a feat, let me tell you.

I came up with name after name—both firsts and lasts, trying to find something that equaled Salir's awesomeness. But it wasn't until my friend, April Shelton, helped me that his name was completed. She came up with Romore. After that, his name was set.

For The Kingdom is available on Amazon.com, mllegette.com, and Kindle.