Tear Down the Throne, page 1
Dedication
To my mom and my grandma—for your love, your patience, and everything else that you’ve given to me over the years.
To readers who wanted more stories in my Crown of Shards world—this one is for you.
And to my teenage self, who devoured every single epic fantasy book that she could get her hands on—for writing your very own epic fantasy books.
Epigraph
Andvarians and Mortans are like gargoyles and strixes—they invariably try to kill each other.
—Armina Ripley, first queen of Andvari
Trusting a Morricone is like trying to grab a lightning bolt. Even if you manage to latch onto it, you’re still going to get burned.
—Dominic Ripley, current crown prince of Andvari
Any fool can tear down a throne. Keeping a crown on your own head is far more difficult.
—Maeven Morricone, current queen of Morta
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Maps
Part One: Worth the Risk Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Part Two: The Royal Trap Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Part Three: The Gauntlet Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Announcement An Excerpt from Conquer the Kingdom
Also by Jennifer Estep
Copyright
About the Publisher
Maps
Part One
Worth the Risk
Chapter One
Sometimes, I despise being a princess.
Don’t get me wrong. I know how fortunate I am. As Gemma Armina Merilde Ripley, the crown princess of Andvari, I have everything I could ever want, from beautiful gowns to sparkling tiaras to scrumptious foods. And I do those fine things proud. I am an excellent dancer, a moderately talented jewelry maker, and an enthusiastic connoisseur of toasted cheese-and-jam sandwiches.
I want for nothing, smile at everything, and can converse on a plethora of benign topics, from the mercurial Andvarian fall weather to the most famous Bellonan gladiator troupes to the unusual intricate patterns of Ungerian competitive ballroom dances.
Oh, yes. I bloody excel at playing the part of a pampered princess. Most of the time, I even enjoy it.
But this was not one of those occasions.
“. . . don’t you think, Your Highness?”
The deep, booming voice jarred me out of my snide reverie. Several lords and ladies were staring at me, as though I were a caladrius in a menagerie they had gathered around to gawk at. At times like these, being a princess was definitely its own sort of prison.
Today my gilded cage was a dining hall lined with white stone planters boasting evergreen shrubs. To my left, servants were clearing away plates from the table in the center of the room. To my right, musicians were performing beneath a white wicker arbor draped with green vines. Clusters of pink wisteria bobbed above the musicians’ heads, as if the flowers were dancing along to the low, soft tunes, including “The Bluest Crown,” my own cursed, unwanted personal anthem.
A dark gray banner featuring a black snarling gargoyle face—the Ripley royal crest—hung on one of the walls next to a forest-green banner with a gold oak tree with gold acorns dripping from its branches. The crest of Lord Eichen, the luncheon host.
“Don’t you think, Your Highness?” Eichen repeated, his trumpet of a voice much louder than before, as though I hadn’t heard him.
With his silver-rimmed glasses, dark brown eyes, wrinkled dark brown skin, and cropped iron-gray hair and mustache, Eichen looked like a kindly grandfather, and he was a longtime friend of my own grandfather, King Heinrich Ripley. The sixty-something Eichen was also a wealthy plant magier whose estate was within spitting distance of the Mortan border.
His booming voice drowned out all the other conversations, and this time, everyone in the dining hall looked at me. The musicians paused their playing, and even the pink wisteria seemed to peer in my direction.
The weight of everyone’s stares pressed against my chest like an anvil, but I smiled as though my ears weren’t still ringing from Eichen’s sonorous voice. With that ability to bellow, he should have been a gladiator ringmaster.
“You’re right,” I replied. “The Black Swan troupe will be the main rivals to our Andvarian gladiators heading into the winter season. Why, it wouldn’t surprise me if the Black Swan troupe once again won a championship or two.”
“They’ve won almost every bloody championship for the last sixteen years. Ever since Serilda Swanson returned to Svalin.” Eichen spat out the famed warrior’s name like it was the vilest curse. Several of his grandchildren competed for the Andvarian troupes, so he took the gladiator rankings, victories, and defeats much more seriously than most folks did.
“Serilda is a fine warrior,” I murmured, not wanting to further incite Eichen.
“That she is.” A smile split his face, and his mustache bristled with a happier mood. “Did I ever tell you that I once saw Serilda herself compete? I did! It was against a Mortan troupe, and she wiped the floor with every gladiator they set against her . . .”
Eichen launched into a long-winded tale about Serilda’s tournament. I kept smiling, although I once again tuned out his words.
As Princess Gemma, I was a traveling ambassador for the Ripley royal family, responsible for maintaining good relationships with wealthy nobles, especially those like Eichen with strategic holdings near the Mortan border. For the last three days, I had been visiting with Eichen and his family at Oakton Manor, oohing and aahing over his impressive gardens, and charming and ingratiating myself with everyone, from the wealthiest lady to the newest servant.
Today was the grand finale of my visit and included a luncheon with dozens of nobles, merchants, and guilders from the nearby city of Haverton. The actual luncheon had ended thirty minutes ago, and now the guests were indulging in some more wine before taking their leave to get ready for the ball tonight.
A few weeks ago, I would have enjoyed whiling away the afternoon with idle gossip, picking up information, and seeing who I could convince to keep me abreast of the goings-on in Haverton so I could expand my network of unofficial spies into this corner of Andvari.
Not anymore. Now every hour that passed increased the threat to my kingdom—
I still can’t believe she defeated a group of Mortan soldiers.
The stories must be lies. She’s a princess, not a warrior.
She can’t possibly be a mind magier. Otherwise, she would know exactly how ugly I think her dress is . . .
I kept my smile fixed on my face, as though nothing were wrong and I couldn’t hear what everyone truly thought about me.
The nobles were right—and wrong. I might be a princess, but a few weeks ago, I had defeated a group of Mortan soldiers. As for my being a warrior, well, that was debatable, but I was most definitely a mind magier who could hear each and every one of their deepest, darkest secrets.
Unfortunately.
People thought all the bloody time, and their mental musings constantly buzzed around me, like bees droning on and on in my ears.
Not only could I hear the nobles’ not-so-kind thoughts, but I could also feel their emotions, from the slightest bit of dull boredom to the sharp pricks of curiosity to the petty jealousy that scraped against my skin like sandpaper. Lady Kendra really did not like my dress, and the disgust rolling off her was strong enough to make my own stomach churn.
I drew in a deep breath and focused on myself, on my tiny internal ship that constantly sailed around on the sea of other people’s emotions. Slowly, that choppy sea smoothed out, Lady Kendra’s disgust faded away, and my ship righted itself.
Normally, I would have ignored people’s thoughts and feelings as best I could. But given the danger I planned on putting myself in later, I actually needed to hear people’s silent musings to make sure I could pull off my scheme—and that no one was spying on me the way I planned to spy on my enemies.
So I waited until Eichen launched into another story, then reached out with my magic. In an instant, I was leaning over the deck of my internal ship, dipping my fingers into that sea of emotions, and skimming the thoughts of everyone in the dining hall, from the nobles clustered around Eichen to the servants still clearing the table to the guards stationed in the corners.
This wine is awful . . .
Wish I could get closer to the princess . . .
Glitzma’s hands are ruined now . . .
That last snide, mocking thou
Rage bubbled up inside me, and dull aches rippled through my clenched fists, while my fingertips tingled with hot sparks of remembered pain. Despite several rounds of healing, bright red scars still adorned my hands, front and back, as though someone had painted scarlet starbursts on my skin.
The sight of the ugly marks made more rage bubble up inside me, along with my magic, both of them burning even hotter and fiercer than the phantom sparks of pain still twinging my fingertips. I blinked, and from one instant to the next, the dining hall vanished, and I was staring down at my own body chained to a table. Ribbons of fire rippled through my back, while white-hot agony throbbed in my hands and blood dripped out of the gruesome wounds in my palms—
“What do you say, Your Highness?” Eichen’s voice blasted over me yet again, shattering my memory and snapping me back to the here and now.
All eyes turned toward me. I loosened my fists, flexed my fingers, and picked an imaginary piece of lint off my skirt, even as I rewound Eichen’s words in my mind. Princesses learned at an early age to always listen with half an ear.
“Oh, yes,” I replied. “The Haverton troupe does have a good chance of advancing to the championships, especially given the impressive performance your grandchildren treated us to earlier.”
Several gladiators had sparred in an outdoor fighting ring before the luncheon. The warriors had been skilled enough, but I had seen far better. Serilda Swanson, Paloma, and of course Queen Everleigh Blair. Still, it would be rude to insult my host.
Eichen’s chest puffed up with pride. “Thank you, Your Highness! I appreciate the vote of confidence. Perhaps King Heinrich will allow some of our more accomplished gladiators to serve as your guards and escort you to the upcoming Summit. After all, we wouldn’t want the Morricones to get their hands on you again.”
All around us, the other nobles froze, and Lady Adora, Eichen’s gladiator granddaughter, sucked in a strangled breath. I kept my smile fixed on my face through years of practice and sheer force of will.
A few weeks ago, I had been undercover, trying to figure out who was stealing tearstone from a mine in the Andvarian city of Blauberg, when I had encountered Prince Leonidas Morricone. Even though Leonidas was a childhood enemy, I had still saved him from being murdered by Wexel, a Mortan captain. Later on, Leonidas had saved my life when Conley, the Blauberg mine foreman, had shoved me into a chasm and left me for dead.
Leonidas had taken me to Myrkvior, the Mortan royal palace, to be healed, and I’d stayed there under an assumed name in hopes of figuring out who had stolen the Andvarian tearstone—and what they planned to do with it. While at the palace, I’d had a series of dangerous, disastrous encounters with both Queen Maeven Morricone and her firstborn son, Crown Prince Milo Morricone.
Maeven had assassinated Emperia Dumond, one of her bitter rivals for the throne, and blamed me for the noble lady’s murder. After I’d discovered Milo was making barbed arrows out of the stolen tearstone, he had taken great pleasure in torturing me. First, he had lashed my back with a whip made of coral-viper skin. Then, he’d driven his cursed arrows through my hands.
And Leonidas . . . Well, his betrayal had been the cruelest, most calculated one of all.
He had made me believe he actually cared about me.
Eventually, I had escaped from Myrkvior and returned to Blauberg, where I had faced off against Milo, along with Captain Wexel and numerous guards. Using my mind magier magic, I had driven the Mortans out of the city and warned Milo that I would kill him if he set foot on Andvarian soil ever again.
Tales of my supposed heroism during the Battle of Blauberg, as it had been dubbed, had quickly spread through Andvari. Rumors abounded about exactly what had happened, but my family and I had taken control of the story as best we could and had (mostly) told the truth. Officially, I had tracked some stolen tearstone to Myrkvior, where I had been held as a political prisoner by the Morricones, before escaping, returning to Blauberg, and driving some rogue Mortan soldiers out of the city. Despite my obvious scars, we’d downplayed my suffering and the conflict with the Morricones, so as not to appear weak to our nobles or worry our citizens.
The curiosity of Eichen and his friends didn’t surprise me, as I’d heard more than one silent speculation about my part in the battle, but so far, no one had been brave, bold, or stupid enough to mention the Morricones—and my ordeal at their hands—out loud to me.
Adora rammed her elbow into Eichen’s side. His eyes bulged, and his mouth gaped as he realized his mistake.
“Your—Your Highness!” Eichen sputtered. “Please forgive me! I meant no offense!”
His apology blasted through the dining hall, drawing even more unwanted attention. Everyone stared at me again, and their thoughts slapped up against my mind, threatening to capsize my internal ship and render me frozen and useless.
I gritted my teeth, glanced down, and focused on the pendant that lay against my blue dress. The silver base featured small pieces of black jet that formed the Ripley snarling gargoyle crest. Tiny, midnight-blue tearstone shards made up the gargoyle’s horns, eyes, nose, and teeth, turning the crest into the face of Grimley, my own beloved gargoyle. Alvis, the Andvarian royal jeweler, had made the necklace for me when I was younger and first learning how to control my power.
Everyone in Andvari and beyond knew that Princess Gemma always wore her famed gargoyle pendant, but it was far more than just a pretty bauble. The pieces of black jet helped to block people’s mundane thoughts, while the blue tearstone shards would either store my own magic or deflect an enemy’s power.
Dozens of thoughts crowded into my mind, causing the bits of black jet to heat up. I grabbed the pendant and rubbed it between my fingers, concentrating on the sharp pricks of the hot jewels against my skin instead of the snide, sympathetic, and speculative musings buzzing in my ears.
I used to be almost totally reliant on my pendant to block other people’s musings and keep their feelings from overwhelming me. But ever since the Battle of Blauberg, I had been relying more on my own skill and willpower to control my mind magier magic, rather than shoving my power down as I had for so many years. Now I could usually keep my internal ship from capsizing in the sea of thoughts and emotions that constantly roiled around me. As for controlling and using the storm of my own thoughts, emotions, and magic that continuously churned inside me . . . Well, that was still a work in progress.
But there was no hiding from the nobles still silently wondering how I would react to Eichen’s words, so I released my pendant and lifted my head. The lord’s face was pinched tight with worry, and I decided to put him out of his misery.
“No offense taken,” I replied. “Your offer of gladiators is quite kind, but Grandfather Heinrich, Prince Dominic, and Captain Rhea have already seen to our security needs for the Summit.”
Rhea had done most of the planning, since my stepmother was the leader of the royal guards, but I didn’t remind Eichen of that fact. It would be lost in the red-hot embarrassment pounding through his body and burning in my own cheeks.
“I’m relieved to hear that,” Eichen replied, his voice softer and more subdued than before.
Eichen cast a desperate glance at Adora, as if hoping she would introduce a new topic of conversation to break the awkward silence.
“Princess Gemma! There you are!” a light, feminine voice sounded.
Heels clattered on the flagstones, and a woman glided forward, her quick, purposeful strides easily cutting a swath through the nobles as she stepped up beside me. She was a couple of inches shorter than I was, with a lean, strong, muscled body. Her long black hair had been curled into fat ringlets that danced around her head, while gold shadow and liner brought out her vivid emerald-green eyes. Dark red berry balm stained her lips, further enhancing her golden skin and pretty features.
