With Dagger and Song (Curse of the Cyren Queen Book 2), page 1
part #2 of Curse of the Cyren Queen Series
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Continue the adventure…
Want a glimpse into Delja and Cerys' past?
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Helen Scheuerer
Copyright © Helen Scheuerer 2021
www.helenscheuerer.com
Helen Scheuerer asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the publisher.
First printing, 2021
Print paperback ISBN 978-0-6452216-0-2
Print hardcover ISBN 978-0-6452216-1-9
Ebook ISBN 978-0-6452216-2-6
Cover design by Deranged Doctor Design
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
This one’s all yours, Mum.
Prologue
After centuries of imprisonment, half a decade should have passed like a quiet afternoon. But to Cerys, the five years since she’d lain bleeding on her icy cell floor had been the longest of all. She breathed in, recalling the weight of the small, pink-faced bundle in her arms. A piece of her had been taken away that day, a piece she had offered up willingly, and yet she couldn’t live without it, or so it had felt.
But live on she did. Far longer than any cyren should. No matter how close to death she managed to get, something tethered her to the realm, always. There would be no relief for her, unless what she had planned all those years ago came to pass.
Someone had cleaned the bars of her cell. The sturdy lengths of yellowed bone that had accumulated all manner of moss and grime now gleamed ivory in the dying torchlight. When had they done that? Likely when she had been passed out on her greying cot in the corner. She had no idea how often, but sometimes a pitying guard would lace her lukewarm gruel with a sedative, just enough to render her unconscious for a day – two, if she was lucky, though she had no way of measuring the hours that passed.
From where she sat cross-legged on the floor, Cerys reached out and traced a finger down one of the clean bars, its surface smooth and unmarred, unlike the walls within. Over the last few weeks – or was it months? – she had re-covered nearly every part of her cage with etchings, some she remembered carving, others she did not. Often, she woke to the soft thrum of pain in her talons, which she found torn and bloody. When her cell was completely covered in markings, she was moved to another, as was the company of dead warlocks that stood outside like statues. It was something to break up the endless passage of time, at least.
She dropped her hand, her gaze lingering on the warlock in the centre of the group, his once-beautiful complexion tinged blue. Though he didn’t look like the man she had known, she wanted to reach out and touch him all the same, to cup his face in her hands, to feel the warmth of his skin against her palms. But he had been cold for a long time now.
Cerys closed her eyes, finding what little solace she could in the images that flashed behind her lids. A large hand held hers, danger and adventure entwined around them, a rare fragment of life that moved too fast. A life not contained to the confines of a prison or even the lair itself, but bursting into the realms above: beams of golden sunlight, towering snow-capped mountains and a vast, ancient lake, where the reflection of the stars and moon was so precise, it was unnerving, as though everything were upside down.
The memories stirred something long forgotten resting deep inside Cerys. It seemed to slowly awaken within, and the soft tinkling of musical notes drifted to the forefront of her mind, before forming at her cracked lips. Her throat was raw. She couldn’t remember the last time she had spoken aloud, but she knew what threatened to spill from her core: a song. The song.
Gravel crunched outside her cell and Cerys’ eyes flew open.
Small, chubby hands gripped the bars of bone and wide moss-green eyes blinked at her, bright with curiosity. The nestling tilted her head slightly, her little mouth parting in wonder as she studied the prisoner before her. Waves of dark hair fell to her shoulders, which were pushed back proudly.
Very slowly, so as not to startle the nestling, Cerys stood. She vaguely felt the thin fabric of her shift brush her knees, but her focus was singular. Her chest couldn’t contain the swelling of her heart, her eyes couldn’t absorb the sight before her fast enough, and for the briefest moment, Cerys stopped wishing time would rush into oblivion. For the first time in centuries, she wished it would stop altogether.
‘Rohesia …’ she murmured, the name achingly familiar. Not an hour had gone by that Cerys hadn’t thought of her.
The little cyren’s intense green gaze was much like Cerys’ own, framed by heavy lashes and sharp with intelligence. Cerys clung to each detail as she would a rope in a sea storm and took a tentative step forward, half expecting the nestling to shriek with fear or bolt away down the dark passages of the prison. She did neither. As small as she was, there was a flicker of recognition in her gaze. Someone had told her exactly who her mother was, likely the very person who had brought her to the cell, though Cerys could see no one else present.
Cerys took another step forward and froze; a thin line of gold across Rohesia’s forehead had caught her eye. The nestling didn’t move as Cerys reached out, a single talon tracing the cool line of metal across her daughter’s brow as a vow from half a decade ago echoed in her mind.
‘No harm will come to her.’
A lie. For Rohesia wore a circlet, the permanent mark of the isruhe. The vermin of the deep. Cerys’ swollen heart collapsed into hot liquid, and a raging fury flooded her, rendering her limbs useless, her words inept and her vision blurry. It didn’t matter that there was nowhere else a daughter of hers could have ended up, despite whatever promises the visitor had made all those years ago. But seeing it … It made it different, more real than it had ever been. Centuries ago, when Cerys had wandered Saddoriel freely and proudly, there had been more prisoners – mostly deserters from the Age of Chaos – and so there had been more circlet-wearers. Cerys remembered spotting one or two of them loitering in the shadows, in the outskirts of the lair. But in all her time locked away, she had not met another prisoner, and judging by the quiet of the surrounding cells, she guessed the circlet-wearers were not nearly as common these days, and were likely far more reviled by cyrenkind.
She knew the uncommon was often feared, and fear brought out the worst in cyrens.
‘Can you talk?’ The nestling spoke suddenly, snatching Cerys from her reverie.
Desperate for contact, Cerys gripped the bars gently, close to where her daughter did the same. ‘I can talk,’ she said, her voice raw.
Rohesia scanned the etchings on the walls behind Cerys, her posture rigid with intrigue. ‘I like to draw, too,’ she said, a freely offered kernel of information Cerys would cherish until her last breath.
Cerys licked her dry lips. ‘Do you?’ It had been so long since a conversation had graced her cell that she couldn’t remember how to carry it.
But it didn’t seem to matter to her daughter, who nodded enthusiastically. ‘They’re pretty,’ she announced, pointing to the carvings on the wall. ‘What are they?’
Cerys couldn’t help but stare at her daughter. The very being that had fitted in the crook of her elbow was now this articulate, inquisitive nestling. She showed no fear, no shame in the circlet around her head … Cerys followed Rohesia’s pointed finger to the etchings and her stomach turned. It was too soon to tell her, wasn’t it? What if she repeated Cerys’ explanation to the wrong cyren? What if with one word, all their plans came undone?
Cerys found her voice. ‘Masks.’
Rohesia tilted her head again, her little brow furrowing, as though she were trying to count. ‘Why did you draw so many?’
A hollowness opened up inside Cerys. ‘Because they remind me of my friends.’
Rohesia’s eyes brightened. ‘I have friends,’ she announced. ‘Two best friends. But they don’t wear masks.’
And though Cerys was heartened to hear that her daughter was not alone in this godsforsaken lair, darkness pooled within her. She lifted her gaze, meeting the innocent, wide-eyed stare. ‘Every cyren wears a mask, Rohesia.’
Chapter One
A pearly-grey morning greeted Roh and her four companions as they trekked along the stony shore, across an unknown coast. Colossal cliffs loomed overhead, casting shadows over the black pebbles at the company’s feet, the salt spray of the sea kissing their skin. Roh couldn’t be sure how far they’d journeyed since crossing the threshold of the cyren territory of Talon’s Reach into the lands above almost two weeks ago. There had been no significant landmarks yet, only the winding beach before them. What she did know was that the sky was endless, an infinite patchwork of pale blues and silver clouds, and the crisp breeze that tangled her hair was cool enough to send a rush of goosebumps across her skin.
‘Who has the map?’ a cold voice cut through the hiss of the waves.
Roh didn’t need to turn to identify who’d asked. Finn Haertel knew damn well she held the map. Not addressing her directly was one of the many ways he’d chosen to undermine her over the course of their recent travels.
‘What do you need to know?’ she said, refusing to take out the weathered piece of parchment, instead stealing a glance at the human by her side, Odi, who shook his head in frustration.
She heard the intake of breath behind her. ‘I need to know exactly where you’re leading us. Last time I checked, isruhes had little experience navigating,’ Finn ground out.
The barb that might once have seen Roh double over didn’t sting. What did hurt was the soft snort to Odi’s left. Roh’s chest constricted. Harlyn. Her friend had discovered her own ways of showing her newfound hatred for Roh, which usually came in the form of siding with the highborn, whom she apparently now detested less than she did Roh.
‘Finn,’ snapped another, softer voice, accompanied by the slap of a hand on a leather jerkin. ‘That’s enough.’ It wasn’t the first time Yrsa Ward, Roh’s final chosen companion, had come to her defence, as though there were something unspoken between them since they had taken on a sea serpent together.
Gold flashed in Roh’s mind. The glimmer of scales carving through the turquoise current, the chase of an almighty sea drake … And then, a different gold – the shine of her circlet, lying broken in two on the marble floor …
‘Well, it’s true. Who knows where she’s taking us? One of us should be the map keeper. We’re Jaktaren, for Dresmis and Thera’s sakes.’ Finn’s angry words brought Roh back to the cool shore.
With a sigh she relented, rummaging through her inner jacket pocket and pulling out the map. She stopped abruptly and crouched, flattening the parchment and using the round black stones to pin it in place. The others gathered around.
‘There,’ she snapped, pointing to a southern landmark with her sharp talon. ‘The Five Daughters are there. There is only one direction of travel, unless we decide to take Odi on a scenic detour out to sea. I don’t need to be a Jaktaren to navigate that.’
‘Oh, really? How far off are we?’ Finn sneered, pushing back a strand of chestnut hair that had escaped its knot, his fingers brushing over the zigzag pattern shaved into the side of his head.
Roh gritted her teeth. ‘According to your initial calculations, we should be there by nightfall. Though with all this bickering, who knows.’
With his mouth set in its usual straight line, Finn didn’t deign to respond.
Fury surged through Roh’s veins. While she had handpicked the highborn to accompany her on her quest, she had nothing but disdain and loathing for him. It had been Finn who had informed the Council of Elders of Odi’s true identity as the Prince of Melodies, and she had nearly lost Odi and the tournament because of his underhanded, serpentine behaviour.
Roh forced herself to take a deep breath. Regardless of her personal feelings towards the Jaktaren, she had three gemstones to find and a queendom to solidify. ‘I took the advice you gave when we left Saddoriel,’ she said as calmly as she could. ‘We’re taking the secret path up the cliffs by the falls. From there, we trek through the tussock networks, onwards to Akoris. What more do you want?’
The highborn folded his arms over his broad chest. ‘I thought I’d made it clear. I want the map.’
Roh got to her feet. ‘Tough.’ She folded the parchment deliberately, pocketing it once more and starting off again.
To her relief, Odi stepped in line with her, matching her pace. ‘I don’t know why you two antagonise each other so much.’
‘He antagonises me,’ Roh argued. ‘I rise above it.’
Odi lifted a brow, his amber eyes dancing. ‘Is that what you call it?’
‘He deserves it,’ Roh huffed.
‘Then tell me again, why in the name of all the gods did you bring him?’
‘I told you – all that scheming, all his Jaktaren knowledge, is on our side.’
Odi heaved his pack higher onto his shoulders and shot her a sceptical look. ‘For now.’
Although Roh didn’t reply, she was inclined to agree. She liked to think she’d learned from her mistakes and had drawn up a contract for her companions to sign prior to them leaving the cyren territory, which detailed their obligations to her throughout the quest and demanded unwavering loyalty. But there were only so many clauses she could include and there were no doubt plenty of loopholes a Saddorien cyren could find, or create. And the gods only knew whom back in Saddoriel they might be reporting to.
She gave Odi a sideways glance. ‘Never trust a cyren, eh?’
‘That’s what I’ve heard,’ he allowed. But a moment later, he paused, turning to face the sea, shielding his eyes from the misty glare of the horizon. ‘The Isle of Dusan,’ he said. ‘It can’t be far off from here.’
Roh winced inwardly, knowing how hard it would be for Odi to be so close to home, and yet so far. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
He shrugged and tugged at his frayed fingerless gloves. ‘I couldn’t be sure. People from home don’t travel this way. For obvious reasons.’ He eyed the trio of cyrens behind them.
Roh couldn’t blame Odi for his resentment after all he had endured at the hands of her kind. He had been hunted like a wild beast throughout his own lands for his mastery of music, and his stepbrothers remained trapped and were forced to play their fiddles back in the lair. Even now, though he appeared to travel and converse freely, he was outnumbered and compelled to partake in a quest that had nothing to do with him.
It was either this or leave him at the mercy of the council and the lair, Roh told herself, motioning for Odi to keep walking.
The human tore his gaze away from the horizon and did as she bid, if only to reclaim the distance between him and the Jaktaren behind them.
‘When I’m crowned queen, I will grant you your freedom,’ Roh had vowed to Odi in the dark tunnels of Talon’s Reach, and now she wanted to tell him again, to reassure him that she would see him home when all this was over. But with the tournament already unfairly extended and the fight for the three birthstones of Saddoriel ahead, she knew her words would sound hollow, and so she stayed quiet.
They continued onwards in the shadow of the dark cliffs, the tops of which reached up into the clouds. Roh and her companions had yet to find any sign of life along the shores, as though they were the only ones left in all the realms. As a comfortable silence settled between her and Odi, Roh scanned the desolate surroundings. Somehow, the realms beyond the lair weren’t what she had imagined. She did not feel liberation or a wild sense of abandon, only the need to push forward. The urgency had not faded since she’d learned of the additional tasks. It thrummed inside her chest, which grew tighter each day as her mind flitted from one possibility to the next.
The competitor will have seven moons to obtain the three birthstones of Saddoriel. The competitor may choose up to four travelling companions to assist their quest. The competitor may be challenged thrice throughout their journey. Once for cunning, once for strength and once for magic, the very virtues cyrenkind reveres …
The main quest to obtain the birthstones was a constant obsession, as was the question of when, not if, someone would challenge her. There were many Saddoriens who would happily see her banished from the lair, which was precisely what would happen should she be defeated. As for those who challenged her, glory and riches and elevated station awaited them, should they be named victor. Cunning, strength and magic … Saddorien cyrens were rife with all three vices and virtues.
