Banshee's Honor, page 1
Banshee’s Honor
Copyright © 2015 by Shaylynn Rose. All rights reserved.
First Smashwords Edition: August 2015
Edited by Cheri Fuller, Katie McCoach
Cover Design by Kaitlyn Connolly
Printlayout by Streetlight Graphics
All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Other Books by SHAYLYNN ROSE
The Tales of Y’Myran
Banshee’s Honor
(Book One)
Banshee’s Vengeance
(Book Two; Coming in Fall 2015)
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Banshee’s Honor
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
About Shaylynn Rose
Other Books from Ylva Publishing
Coming from Ylva Publishing in 2015
Acknowledgments
Hello, gentle reader, and welcome!
Thank you so much for buying this book! Publishing Banshee’s Honor the first time was such a milestone for me. For years, I lived and breathed the kingdoms of Y’Myran, and when the book was finally a reality, my joy was boundless. Seeing my name on the cover, experiencing the “book” smell of the pages was everything my dreams had promised.
Fast forward a few years: things changed. Nothing in life is forever. My former publisher, much to my sorrow, dissolved. What an amazing surprise it was to have another publisher invite me to join their catalog. Even more exciting, they were offering me a chance to go back, to revisit Y’Myran and see if there was anything I wanted to change.
Now, here’s the thing—in the interim between when I first wrote Banshee and when Ylva Publishing gave me this opportunity, my skills have matured. Things that weren’t done to their utmost the first time could be rectified. It also gave me the chance to include a few ideas that had been set aside the first time.
It’s a bit like buying a car. You go to a dealership, find a vehicle that you love and that you can afford, and you buy it. It’s perfect, it’s everything you wanted…for a little while. Then, maybe one day, you’re out and you see another car just like yours, only it’s got fancy rims, a spiffy paint job, and an awesome sound system. It’s a Pretty Penny, while yours is now just Plain Jane.
Now, the car beneath all the glitz and glamor is still the same car—the engine’s the same, it still gets great gas mileage, and so on, but, boy, does it look gorgeous.
That’s how I felt about the first edition of Banshee’s Honor. This new version is still very much the same story; it’s just had some…improvements. Everyone from Azhani to Zhadosh is still there, but, you see, some of them have a little more polish. Some get to follow story lines I’d put aside for fear of not being able to do them justice.
What I hope is that you will enjoy this new Banshee’s Honor and it’s sequel Banshee’s Vengeance as much as you did the first version, if you read it back then. If you haven’t read this series before, well, then, please be welcome to Y’Myran. Kick back, get a drink and a snack, because it’s going to be a crazy ride!
Because this time, I bought the chrome rims, the pin striping, and the boss-ass stereo system.
Dedication
To everyone who cajoled, begged, and threatened me until it was done the first time: thank you. To the editors who took the time to untangle my infant prose and help it grow from a stumbling toddler to a proud adult, thank you. To my amazing mother: thank you for loving me for my flaws. To my dad: thank you for not hating an inveterate dreamer. Most of all, thank you to every fur friend who ever shared the warmth of my arms. You taught me that love expands beyond the shadow of death. You are all stars in my personal constellation. I can’t wait to see you on the other side of that rainbow bridge. Finally, to my cover artist, thank you for capturing the spirit of my story and making it shine in living, beautiful color.
Prologue
Long before the Firstlanders came to dwell upon the fair land of Aldyran, a dark prophecy haunted the sages of the elves. This nightmare warned of a time when war and strife would beset all the peoples of the land. Inscribed in the ancient histories, these are the words of that terrifying vision:
“The breaking is at hand. The Blade, the Heart and the Pawn shall meet, and on that day the sun will stand still and the stars will no longer spin with time. The Beast will rise to seek his place among mortals. Stand well against the storm, and sages shall sing of thy glory into the mists of Eternity. Fall, and all shall blacken and fade.”
Their dreams filled with darkness and death, the ancient seers kept faithful records of their oracles. Lesser divinations told that one would come who would seek to shatter the locks that bound the most terrible of all demonkind to the abyss.
Laws more ancient than even the nearly immortal elves prevented the gods of Aldyran from interfering with the prophecy. Instead, they kept watch, waiting for the ones who would come to battle the darkness.
In the fullness of time, the Firstlander humans came to Aldyran and claimed it for their own, giving to it the name of Y’Myran. During the wars that followed, nearly all of the elves’ ancient knowledge was lost.
Peace was eventually achieved. Kingdoms rose and flourished and the peoples of Y’Myran forgot the past and strove toward a future of prosperity.
Deep within the halls of Hell, this prophecy was remembered by one who waited patiently. The time would come.
* * *
Kasyrin Darkchilde glared at the green-topped forests of Y’Dan and cursed his fate. I was so close. All of his carefully wrought plans had been destroyed.
It should have been so easy. I should have won. Bitterly, he allowed himself to recall how he got here. Casting his mind back to the past twenty years, he remembered what had transpired to bring him to this place...
“Did you think I wasn’t watching you, boy? Did you really believe I wouldn’t see your murderous ways? That I wouldn’t miss a harlot here or an alms boy there? Did you think killing anyone who wouldn’t work for you would make you look stronger than me?” Istaffryn’s rough voice struck Keskyn like a whip. “And did you truly, honestly think I wouldn’t notice you slipping your hand into my pouch and trying to filch that which is rightfully mine?” He circled Keskyn, slapping the blunt, hard end of a club against his palm. Without warning, he lashed out, striking the young thief in the gut, bending him double. “Get him up,” he commanded, not even looking as two of his men rushed forward to drag the wheezing man upright. “You could have been my heir, Keskyn, but you got greedy.”
Keskyn spat and sneered. “You’re old, Istaffryn. Someone will get you.”
“But it will not be you, boy. Not someone who sees the path to my chair as a road of death and destruction,” Istaffryn replied. “If you want to control something, Keskyn, you have to be willing to accept allies, friends, even, in strange and sometimes counterintuitive places.” A gesture caused the gathered crowd to part. A man, tall, dark-haired, and proud, walked into the dimly lit, smoke-filled chamber in which they had all gathered.
In shock, Keskyn stared at the king’s right hand, the warrior Rhu’len DaCoure. “You?” Keskyn gasped. “You dare to step here, in this den you are sworn to destroy?” With his arms pinned, there was nothing Keskyn could do to strike out, to batter the body of this man who had, so many times before, been the bane of all that he and the Cabal had tried to accomplish.
Rhu’len’s face was a mask of calm, but his eyes glittered as he looked around the room, finally stopping at Istaffryn and bowing. “I am here merely to uphold the king’s law. A man has reported a break-in. His retainers have captured the would-be assassin and thief. Thus, it is my duty to see to it that the perpetrator is punished accordingly.” He smiled. “It gives me great pleasure to declare you Oathbreaker, Keskyn Nightblade. No man, woman, or child of the kingdoms shall grant you succor. Your name will become anathema. Your deeds curses. Your holdings property of those you wronged. Flee Y’Dan, Keskyn, for it has declared you unwanted!” Turning, he glanced at Istaffryn, and added, “It’s done. Next time you need to clean house, talk to the constables. ”
“As you command, milord,” Istaffryn said with a cold smile. “Still, your task is done and this one is now mine to...deport.”
“Yes,” Rhu’len replied. “The king will have no further interest in him so long as he is gone from Y’Dan by week’s end.”
Istaffryn smiled. “I think that will be easily arranged.”
With that, Rhu’len DaCoure departed, leaving Keskyn to meet the doom he could see in the faces of those who hemmed him in, keeping him from escaping Istaffryn’s clutches.
Taking a fireplace poker from the hearth, Istaffryn pushed the tip into the heart of the flame, holding it there until it glowed red hot. Only then did he remove it, and, with a casual cruelty that belied the soft, almost gentle nature of his elderly face, he drove it into Keskyn’s side, branding and burning him, making him scream again and again as the superheated metal destroyed his flesh.
* * *
They left him in a broken heap at the border, wrapped in rags, crawling toward the trees. Most laughed. Some took the time to throw rocks at him, others emptied their bladders over his head as he strained to cross from Y’Dan into the no-man’s land at the foot of the Crest of Amyra. Only when his feet were beyond the border did the torment finally cease. Istaffryn’s men rode away and Porthyros Omal, Keskyn’s most loyal friend and servant, dashed out of the shadows, picked up his master, and raced away with him.
For months after this event, Porthyros tended him, using their few remaining connections in the kingdoms to establish allies, then depending on their help to keep Keskyn alive. Once he was strong again, he wanted nothing more than to destroy Istaffryn and his unexpected ally, Rhu’len DaCoure.
In the mountains, they found an old sorcerer. Though he was near senile, he had plenty to teach his eager student—the same student who one year later challenged and destroyed him in a duel of magick. With that magick, Keskyn changed his face, with guile, he changed his name, and with Porthyros at his side, he returned to take what he felt was his—and failed, again.
* * *
“And here we are again,” Istaffryn said, shaking his head as he and Rhu’len DaCoure stood over the near-dead figure of he who was once Keskyn Nightblade and who now claimed the name of Kasyrin Darkchilde. A thief no more, Kasyrin was one of the most hated and feared sorcerers in Y’Dan, guilty of so many crimes that the king had declared him an Oathbreaker even before he’d been caught. “You never learn, do you boy?” He squatted down, grabbed Kasyrin’s chin and forced him to meet his gaze. “This time, it’s not me who’ll give you your final lesson. You’ve stepped beyond my hands, lad. The king’ll have you now.”
In silence, Rhu’len dragged Kasyrin out to the field beside Banner Lake and there, upon a platform, he was raised, placed on display for all to see and mock. For a full fortnight, the people of the kingdom were invited to come and stare, to throw stones and curses, to pummel and pelt, to smear whatever they wished onto the face and body of this most hated of men and Kasyrin could do nothing to prevent this ultimate humiliation for his hands were bound, his mouth gagged, and his most faithful servant, Porthyros, could not get past the dozen guards ringed around him at all times.
On the fifteenth day, the old king himself appeared. Standing before the abused, malodorous wreck that had caused so much trouble, Thodan sighed and said, “I am here to formally and finally call you Oathbreaker, Kasyrin Darkchilde—or Keskyn Nightblade. Whatever name you wear, you will always and ever be one who is anathema to the kingdoms of Y’Myran.” He looked to one of the guards, nodded, and waited for the sorcerer’s gag to be removed. Two mages stood by, waiting in case the man attempted magick, but he could barely move his mouth, much less speak the words to a spell.
“I-I claim the r-right to challenge your man in a d-duel,” he said, his voice harsh from disuse. Though Kasyrin knew this was his own arrogance speaking, it was also the only chance he would have of escaping death. Summoning the last of his strength, he rasped, “You will not hang me, Thodan.”
Though he knew the king could pretend the words were not spoken, he also knew that he was not such a man. Honor compelled him to agree to Kasyrin’s terms.
“So be it. You will face Rhu’len DaCoure at the rise of noon.”
“Water. Food. You will not deny me these things,” Kasyrin said, his tone crisp with disdain.
Thodan’s jaw hardened, but he ordered that bread and water be brought.
Kasyrin ate, consuming every crumb, every drop of water, making everyone wait, and forcing the king’s mages to waste power to keep him magically bound. This would be his chance, his moment to steal glory right out from under everyone’s noses, and he was going to make every drip on the day candle count.
They brought him a laughable excuse for a sword, a shield that had last seen the inside of a smithy some fifty years prior, and an old iron pot for a helm. The pot he disdained, wanting everyone to see his face, the shield, he donned, though it would likely only survive one or two blows. It was the sword he wanted, for with it, he would spread Rhu’len DaCoure’s entrails over the field, and make his little girl watch her precious father die.
Plans and machinations, however, would not match reality, as Rhu’len simply tore Kasyrin to pieces. Kasyrin would feint and Rhu’len would laugh and cut him. They danced, blade smashing into blade. Sweat poured into Kasyrin’s eyes, but he refused to surrender, to give up this one chance at freedom. They clashed, teeth clenched, blood pouring from dozens of tiny wounds that, taken one by one, would be insignificant, but counted as a whole, worked to drain what little energy Kasyrin had.
Rhu’len treated Kasyrin like a novice, slapping him with the flat of his blade more often than not, never taunting him verbally, but never giving him the chance to truly hurt him, either. Any time Kasyrin attempted anything underhanded, such as grabbing at a handful of dirt to toss into his opponents eyes, Rhu’len would punish him with another cut that would bleed freely, stealing yet more of Kasyrin’s strength.
The fight wore on, the crowd chanted, howled, and begged for the death of the sorcerer until he became lost in rage and unleashed a flurry of blows, hammering away at Rhu’len’s shield. His sword could not take the abuse and, between one strike and the next, shattered. Pieces of metal rained around them, most flying backward to pierce Kasyrin’s flesh.
Rhu’len drove his sword into Kasyrin’s gut and said, “Now you will bleed in the dirt like a rabid dog.” Twisting the blade, he jerked it free, kicked the dying man over and walked away...
* * *
“...and that’s when the people went mad with rage, Master. Beating you, doing horrible things to you—I tried to act quickly, but it was difficult to get my hands on fresh vitter pods.”
Kasyrin nodded. “Of course, they would not yet be in season,” he said, wondering where his servant had eventually found the poison that would mimic death, giving the servant the chance to save his master. He remembered only the surprisingly bitter taste of the herb before blissful unconsciousness had finally dropped over his thoughts.
“I found an apothecary who’d grown them in his greenhouse,” Porthyros said proudly. “And then, after sunset, under the guise of a beggar seeking dropped coins, I acted.” He smiled. “The blinding powder worked just as you claimed, Master, and I was able to filch your body from the field and flee.” Growing nervous once more, he began to pace, walking around the sorcerer in jagged circles. “I knew of an old wisewoman who lived outside Y’Dannyv, and she could do little to stop me from entering—a bit of coercion brought about your healing.” He paused and shivered a little. “I killed her, of course.”
That Porthyros used violence to attain his aims did not surprise Kasyrin. “Very good.”
