For King and Corruption, page 1
For King and Corruption
Dark Maji Book Four
Kel Carpenter
For King and Corruption
Published by Kel Carpenter
Copyright © 2020, Kel Carpenter LLC
Contributions made by Lucinda Dark
Edited by Analisa Denny
Proofread by Dominique Laura
Cover Art by Trif
Map and Graphic designed by Zenta Brice
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
Created with Vellum
Contents
1. Of Heads and Heralds
2. A Wicked Return
3. Mercurial Dispositions
4. A Wary Encounter
5. Penchant for Peril
6. A King, A Tyrant
7. The Hunt
8. Bizarre Happenings
9. Letter from a Lady
10. A Point to be Made
11. Check
12. Lord Sunshine
13. Courting Darkness
14. In Cold Blood
15. Boundaries Crossed
16. Whispered Truths
17. Chains of Time
18. Temperamental Magic
19. Rumors and Riots
20. A Contest of Deception
21. Cruelty’s Consequence
22. Court of Misfits
23. Games of War
24. Reinharts’ Welcome
25. King of Fools
26. Dinner’s Folly
27. True Loyalty
28. Uneasy Times
29. Unveiled Intentions
30. Dangerous Delights
31. The Red Ball
32. Strength by a Different Name
33. Paint It Black
34. Grave Destiny
35. Silver Feather
36. Grim Ends
37. Grief’s Gambit
38. An Eye for An Eye
39. The Dark Realm
About Kel Carpenter
Acknowledgments
To Graceley
* * *
You wanted your name in this book. Now it is. Thank you for being the motivation to write it when I couldn’t find anything else.
Changing is what people do when they have no other options left.
* * *
Holly Black, Red Glove
Of Heads and Heralds
“Trust, when hard won, is not easy to break.”
— Lazarus Fierté, soul eater, the contemplative King of Norcasta
* * *
Heavy was the head that wears the crown.
That’s what Claudius told him with his dying breath before declaring Lazarus king. Months had passed, and he didn’t agree with the sentiment any more than he had on his coronation day. The truth of it was that the crown itself wasn’t the least bit heavy. The stipulations of being king, while tedious, weren’t unmanageable. He didn’t mind the royal games when he was the hand that moved the pieces.
What weighed on him as more time passed was in the back of his mind, a woman in leathers with a wicked smile called him a fool. She’d told him that the crown wouldn’t be enough. She’d declared that he would want more.
And she was right.
Lazarus shifted against the wooden boards, iron nailheads prodding his thighs uncomfortably. His fingers curled around the metal armrests as he listened to the nobles before him, droning on about some circumstances they wanted him to fix. They were under the impression that he existed to cater to their needs. A glorified butler of sorts. Lazarus could thank Claudius’ blood heirs for that. They were still making a strong claim in the north, even after his ascension to the throne. With tensions heavy and the nobles’ loyalties split, he had to handle the southern lords delicately—until he found a way to deal with the three children stirring up discord in his country.
Once again, he found his attention wandering to a woman he hadn’t seen in several, very long months. His fingers curled tighter around the iron rests.
Draeven stepped forward and coughed twice. “Your Grace, if I might suggest we adjourn with the public audience for today?” His left-hand stood with both arms behind his back and his expression neutral.
Lazarus nodded. “Very well,” he said, appreciating the reprieve from the lord’s incessant whining. He glanced over at the short man in question. He was rounder in the middle than a lord his age should be, his tunic fitting too tight in the stomach and too loose in the shoulders. From the raised platform of the throne, Lazarus saw more than he wanted to in the man’s pale complexion—clammy beneath the chandeliers. He found the sweat dotting his brow nearly as repulsive as the high twinge of his tenor. “We’ll continue this . . . another time.”
The lord stumbled for a moment over his words before muttering, “Very well, Your Grace.”
Lazarus waited the brief stretch of time it took for the man to leave. Draeven sent away the servants milling about soon after.
When it was only the two of them, his left-hand sighed, dropping away the pretenses of formality. “You’re drifting again, Lazarus.”
“I tire of bending to the whims of lesser men,” Lazarus replied curtly, leaning back into the ancient chair. He was growing used to the stiffness of it. It served as a constant reminder of the throne he chose and the position he now found himself in.
“Those ‘lesser men’ are all that stand between Leone and the blood heirs. They have nothing more left to lose since their father gave his country to his friend and not his children,” Draeven said in a stiff reminder.
“That’s not quite true,” Lazarus said. “They still have their lives.”
Draeven stilled. “Even if killing them was an option, we don’t have anyone that could get close enough to do the job.” Lazarus lifted his brows, and Draeven amended, “Anyone that is presently here.”
“She’ll return.”
“Perhaps,” Draeven nodded, lowering his voice a fraction. “But when? It’s already been four months and we’ve heard nothing more than the whispers that carry to our door. We hear of the things she’s done, but where is she? And why hasn’t she come by now—if she’s going to at all?”
Lazarus grit his teeth, uncurling his fingers from the throne despite the urge to crush it instead.
“She’ll return,” he repeated. She swore it.
“That’s fine and well,” Draeven said, “but in the meantime, you have a country to run, and while you dislike listening to the lords, you’re not exactly in a position to do otherwise. Regardless of the blood heirs, you need them to support you or you risk war—not just on you, but on all of us.”
Lazarus looked away from his left-hand and friend—one of the only true friends he had. “Get the man whatever he wanted within reason. I can’t grant every request, or they’ll think me weak, but I can try to appease them . . . at least until this situation with the heirs is dealt with.”
Draeven nodded, “I think that would be wise.”
He moved to leave when a knock came at the door. Without waiting for a command, the heavy wood creaked open.
“His Grace asked to be left—” Draeven started.
“My apologies,” Gulliver said, stepping into the doorway but not closing it. His dusty gray eyes looked wary, and his weathered hands shook slightly as they held a wooden box between them. “We received a message for His Grace, and I—uh, think that this one warrants immediate attention.” The older man pressed his lips together in a flat line and awaited Lazarus’ command.
“Who was the sender?” Draeven asked before Lazarus could get to it.
“The messenger didn’t say. Only that His Grace would know it when he saw it.”
Both Draeven and Lazarus exchanged a look.
There were few people on this continent that would send a package to the now Norcastan King and have the audacity to assume as much. All of them but one were rulers in their own right.
A heat spread through his limbs as Lazarus stood from the throne and beckoned his vassal forward. “Bring it to me, and close the door behind you.”
Gulliver shifted, careful to maintain his grip on the box as the heavy oak door fell shut. His footsteps echoed in the empty chamber as he crossed the length of the throne room. Lazarus descended several steps, meeting him halfway.
His blood pumped heavily, the pounding of it making the other noises fade. Gulliver dropped to one knee on the sandstone steps, and presented the message. Lazarus reached for the golden hinge that kept the lid shut.
His lips parted for a moment as he took in what sat inside.
“What is it?” Draeven asked, striding forward. Lazarus reached in and grabbed the gift by its hair. He held it up in the light for them to see. “Is that a—”
“Severed head,” Lazarus finished with a no
Lazarus reached up and tugged the paper from its mouth. The jaw unhinged and several rotted teeth dropped out, clattering against the steps.
“That’s disgusting,” Draeven said, turning his head to cover his nose with the back of his hand. “I think I might be sick.” Lazarus placed the head back in the box, and Gulliver shut it quickly.
“My apologies, Lord Adelmar,” Gulliver said to Draeven. His left-hand waved him off, though his eyes were watering from the stench.
Lazarus used his thumbnail to break the wax seal and unfold the message.
Four words was all it held, but they were enough.
For the first time in months, Lazarus smiled.
“Well?” Draeven asked. “What’s it say?”
Lazarus refolded the letter and slipped it into his pocket. He turned on his heel and took the steps to resettle himself on the oak and iron throne. The discomfort didn’t bother him so much as it had minutes ago. He knew why, but that didn’t matter for now, not when his months of restlessness were almost over.
“She’s coming home.”
A Wicked Return
“Some days it pays it be a person with power, but most of the time it is the ones without that have true freedom.”
— Quinn Darkova, fear twister, right-hand to the King of Norcasta
* * *
One month later . . .
* * *
Her lips were chapped and her lungs were on fire, but despite the dry heat, Quinn was never so happy to see the gates of Leone. In all her time in Norcasta, she’d only visited its capital twice. The first time to be sold, and the second to be hanged, though she found her way out of that predicament, much as she always did. Still, the limestone bricks piled a good ten horses high weren’t so intimidating when the guards atop the wall wore red and gold. Lazarus’ house colors. The colors of the new king.
“The gates are closed,” Risk said over the pounding of hooves as they approached. Her voice was muffled through the white cloth wrapped around her head to keep the sand and sun at bay.
“It won’t be a problem,” Quinn replied. A wicked smile graced her lips as they came upon the great wall and strolled to a stop. The two guards on the ground looked them over.
“The gates are closed for the evening. Nothing in, nothing out; King’s orders,” the one on the right declared.
“You must be mistaken,” Quinn answered them in a cold tone. “I am the King’s right-hand, and His Grace would never—”
Two howling laughs greeted her ears. Risk looked over, an uneasy expression crossing what little of her features were visible through the garb. Quinn narrowed her blue eyes in contempt. Her fingers tightened around the reins guiding her steed.
It was all she could do to not lash out.
“If you were really the King’s right-hand—you’d know that His Grace has a big event tonight going on at the palace,” the one on the left started.
“Event?” Quinn asked.
“Oh, yes,” the one on the right answered. “Most of the nobles from the southern region are here attending some ball. His left-hand saw it fit that no man, woman, child, or beast be allowed in or out of these walls while so many wealthy landholders are here.” He let out a chuckle, and his stout build shook from it.
“So you see,” the one on the left started again. “Right-hand or not, the left has deemed it so, which means the King has—and unless we’re told otherwise—”
At that point, Quinn’s patience ran out.
She released the reins on her mount and lifted both hands, calling forth their fear. Both soldiers collapsed instantly, their bodies shaking and shuddering in the dirt not so different from how they had been when laughing. Quinn grinned as shouts started atop the wall.
Risk merely sighed. “Was that necessary?”
“They were annoying me,” Quinn replied, her eyes watching as an archer took aim. With a wave of her hand, an illusion manifested itself in their place as both Quinn and Risk took off down the wall. Arrows rained down where they’d been only moments before, harmlessly embedding themselves in the rocky ground.
How easily fooled the skeevs were. Quinn was going to enjoy this.
“What’s your plan now?” Risk called, easily guiding her horse over to the shaded side of the wall.
“How well can you climb?” she called back. Several months ago, she wouldn’t have dared try a stunt like this, but her sister was a fighter—just as she’d predicted. True to her word, Risk chose to live for herself above all else and threw her malnourished and weak body into intense training. Today was just another test in a long line that Quinn had put them through to make sure she was ready—body and mind—for the inevitable return to Leone.
Risk didn’t disappoint.
With a huff, she spoke in low tones to the beast, guiding it right up beside the wall. She pulled herself up to balance on the creature’s back, and trusting as it was with the young beast tamer—it let her. Her nimble gray fingers sought the cracks in the stone as she slowly began her ascent. Quinn watched her with pride, plucking a dappa fruit from her satchel to munch on while she waited. The guards were entertained enough with the illusion several hundred yards away. To them, Quinn and Risk hadn’t left their spot at the gates, but somehow they managed to deflect the arrows.
It perplexed them as much as it amused her.
Risk reached the top of the wall, her hands growing claws that helped her haul herself up the last few feet. She pulled herself over the edge, and her body disappeared for a brief second before she popped back up. The white cloth wrapped around her face had fallen away, and in the sunset her onyx horns gleamed maliciously.
Quinn smiled as Risk pulled a length of rope from her satchel and tied it around one of the stone posts, releasing the other end. Quinn dismounted from her horse and slapped it on the rear to send it running in the distance, repeating the same action on Risk’s. Her sister watched them go with a sad sort of understanding as Quinn strolled up to the wall and grasped the end of the rope.
Her wooden staff hung at her side, and the satchel carrying her only worldly possessions hung close to her side. She gripped the roughen strands, thankful for the months she spent as a gladiator in Jibreal. Ten horses was nothing to climb when she didn’t have a windwyvern at her back, threatening to send her to her death with a single misplaced step.
Quinn dispersed the illusion at the gates and set to climbing. Her hands were rough and calloused, more than they’d ever been before. It made it easier to hold the rope as she dug the toes of her boots into the uneven mortar of the wall. Tiny filaments slipped from between the stone, sliding out beneath her boot to the ground now fatally far below.
Quinn felt no fear as she scaled the wall. Above her, the sounds of a scuffle quickened her pace. While Risk was clever and sure-footed, she still had a ways to go before she’d be able to beat Quinn in a duel. The only thing she had going for her in close combat was her panic.
Like a beast cornered, she lashed out under pressure.
It was the single thing that kept Quinn’s own powers in check when she hauled herself over the top of the wall. Her stomach heaved from the exertion. Quinn was beginning to regret eating the dappa fruit while she waited, but all thoughts of queasiness fled her at the three bodies by Risk’s feet. Claw marks slashed their chests as crimson bled onto the sandy stones.
