Fog & Mist: the Canens Chronicles book 1 (a fairy tale retelling) Read online

  FOG & MIST

  THE CANENS CHRONICLES BOOK 1

  KELSIE ENGEN

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Winterberry

  Part I

  1: Winterberry

  2: Rus

  3: Winterberry

  4: Blanche

  5: Winterberry

  6: Blanche

  7: Winterberry

  8: Rus

  9: Winterberry

  Part II

  1: Rus

  2: Winterberry

  3: A Faery Tale

  4: Blanche

  5: Rus

  6: Winterberry

  7: Rus

  8: Rus

  9: Winterberry

  10: Blanche

  11: Rus

  12: Blanche

  13: Winterberry

  14: Rus

  15: Winterberry

  16: Blanche

  17: Rus

  18: Winterberry

  19: Rus

  20: Blanche

  Part III

  1: Winterberry

  2: Winterberry

  3: Blanche

  4: Winterberry

  5: Rus

  6: Blanche

  7: Winterberry

  8: Winterberry

  9: Winterberry

  10: Winterberry

  11: Winterberry

  12: Blanche

  13: Winterberry

  14: Winterberry

  15: Rus

  16: Winterberry

  17: Winterberry

  18: Winterberry

  19: Winterberry

  20: Rus

  21: Blanche

  22: Winterberry

  23: Rus

  24: Blanche

  25: Rus

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  Bonus Material

  Bonus Faery Tale

  Fire & Frost

  1: Winterberry

  Would You Leave A Review?

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Novels by Kelsie Engen

  Short Stories by Kelsie Engen

  Copyright © 2019 Kelsie Engen

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, April 2019

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 0-9984994-3-7

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9984994-3-7

  Litera Scripta Manet

  PO Box 10845

  Fairbanks, AK 99710

  Cover designed by coverquill.com

  Map drawn by Edward Tanzosh

  Created with Vellum

  To Boppy. We miss you.

  PROLOGUE

  WINTERBERRY

  I do not trust beautiful things. They always hold something ominous beneath the surface; something that ought to be as kind as it is beautiful is never so.

  When I was young, I decided beauty, kindness, and queenliness could not mix. In order to be a queen, you must be a warrior. And in order to be a warrior, you must not be kind. A beautiful queen, therefore, would have her kindness destroyed.

  I watched it happen. I know it to be true.

  So many of the Queen's efforts go into suppressing me that I wonder at what she has left to give the people of Canens. What am I to her, after all? What is this country to her? It is the throne that calls to her, demanding every ounce of her, leaving nothing for anyone else. Answering its call, she has filled its seat with dark magic, polluted the land, and cursed us.

  The throne has become nearly a living thing, as dangerous as the most dangerous enemy.

  I do not want it. I have never wanted it. And yet I would protect it to the death.

  I always knew the throne would be her downfall. I just had no idea it would also be mine.

  PART I

  1: WINTERBERRY

  ARRESTED

  T hey come for me as I stand in my cold, impersonal, stone room, while my fireplace snaps in hunger and ravages my last, precious log.

  When the Queen's guards enter, I whirl away from my window, furious at their invasion.

  "What's going on?" I fear I already know the answer.

  "Winterberry Scilla, you are under arrest for treason to the Crown," says one of the men as he grips my arm like a wolf's teeth grips its prey.

  "Treason?" I scoff. "Impossible. I've not left this room in six months." I motion to the threadbare, velvet curtains, which block out what little sun musters the strength to shine through the ice-crusted windows. It's all but been my prison since my father died. Am I now to exchange it for a true prison?

  Another guard reaches for me, and I jerk away. The first digs his nails into my flesh like teeth.

  "Let me go!" I demand. "I am your princess."

  The first guard chokes out a laugh, as if he has had little to laugh about for too long.

  I have never been so helpless as I am struggling against the unyielding grip on my arm. I try to rip myself free, but a second armed man lunges toward me, his sword sheathed on his hip. Two more men step forward, one drawing a knife from his belt, the other putting a hand to his sword's hilt.

  They have come prepared for battle; I'll give them a battle.

  From my loose sleeve, I pull out a short, adamas-tipped knife, lashing out at the men. Unsuspecting, the one gripping my wrist moves his fingers too slowly, and I slice the blade across the top of them.

  He curses as he releases me, but the respite is short. Growling, he lunges in, wrenching my wrist upward and bending it back until I gasp and my fingers loosen. In a pitiful echo of my own cry, the knife clatters to the stone floor.

  The injured guard leans close, his breath a hot cloud against my cheek. "That was foolish, girl. Very, very foolish." He spits the words, spraying me with venom I have never heard before from a guard.

  But it's his disrespect which casts a long shadow on me. The other men tighten their grips.

  "Hurry up," the captain of the guards, a cold, brutish man, snaps from the hallway.

  His four best soldiers each grip one of my limbs, carrying me from the room as though I am a disobedient child.

  "Where do we take her, Captain Plaga?" the soldier with his hand on his sword asks. Beside him, the one who drew his knife plays with it, letting it catch the light of my dying fire as he tilts it from side to side.

  "Take her to the dungeon," he purrs, eyes narrowed on me. "Then inform me so I can inform the Queen when the job is completed."

  My face drains of blood.

  Catching sight of my panic, the captain grins, revealing a missing incisor and a chipped front tooth. His face is battle scarred, the ugliest I have ever seen. His eyes sweep over me, my frailness, my malnourished child's body, too thin by far for a woman my height.

  The back of the captain's hand brushes against my cheek. I wish to recoil, but to do so would be to lean into the soldier holding me from behind, and I refuse to give either man that pleasure. As Captain Plaga leans in, he inhales deeply, taking in the scent of my grimy skin.

  Repulsed, I turn away and his lips fall on my cheek.

  Face to face with one of the other guards, I meet cold gray eyes. The hint of a snort reaches my ears, the soft rise and fall from the chest of the man who holds me betraying it as his.

  Is he amused? Inwardly, I gape at the audacity of this soldier. But I have no time to react as the captain wrenches my chin back toward him with cold, bruising fingers.

/>   I struggle, pulling at the vice grips that hold me. Kicking and shrieking, I make a last stand, desperate to avoid whatever they plan for me. I manage to jerk my legs free and twist in the grip of the two other soldiers.

  "Stop it, girl!" one of the guards snaps. He sweeps at my legs with a trunk-like arm and whisks them out from under me so fast that only the two guards holding my arms keep me from falling to the ground.

  A startled gasp works its way out of me, cutting off my current scream.

  "Put her on the ground," a voice growls.

  Fear trembles through me. I kick, catching something that grunts in irritation. A long, piercing scream leaves me, only to be cut off by a gloved hand slapping itself over my mouth and nose.

  "You finished?" One of the guards is sprawled on the floor beside me, half on, half off me. His eyes, blue and pale, all but beg me to stop fighting. "Quiet down, stop fighting, and it will be easier."

  For whom? I want to cry out at him, but unable to breathe, I give him my best glare.

  The captain barks directions at his men, and when they lift me from the ground, I can do nothing but let them hold me above the ground.

  The captain's hand goes around the back of my neck.

  "Did you laugh at me?" Anger flushes his face except for the jagged scar rushing down from his ear to his chin. "Do you dare to scoff at me?"

  I try to shake my head, but he holds me tight. "No," I manage through the pressure of his fingers against my cheeks. "No, I—"

  His mouth slams into mine, crushing the tender insides of my lips against my teeth. It is hot and tastes of the beer he had for dinner, along with the sharpness of onion mingling with my own blood.

  The soldiers are laughing. Someone's hand gropes my thigh, shocking me into action. With the upper hand of unexpected movement, I jerk my head back from the captain's lips and spit in his face before anyone can react.

  The soldiers go silent. I hear the drip-drip of a melting icicle on the window frame, and absently I realize that my fire must have gone out.

  The captain's hand lifts; he wipes his face with the back of it, but it only smears my blood across his skin.

  My heart thumps in my chest, uneven, the frantic heartbeat of a captured animal. Then his hand slams across my cheek, and I slump to the floor.

  2: RUS

  PURSUIT

  A waft of warm air buffets my tunic hem around my hips as I crouch over a set of hoofprints. It's been three miles since we found the gypsies' wagons, burned and abandoned, but no sight of Elaina or any other being—living or dead. Thank the Creator. Even with no evidence of her death, it's still as if a bear has pawed out my heart and left a gaping wound behind.

  I stand and brush dirt from my knees. Cursed gypsies know we're after them. They won't get away with this.

  "What do you see, Your Highness?" asks a guard mounted upon his horse behind me.

  "They're continuing east." With my eyes, I follow their path along the mixture of hard dirt and crushed rock toward the border of Ostium ten miles distant.

  "Why?" another guard asks. "Why east?"

  Rubbing a tickle of dust from my nose, I shake my head and chew on the inside of my cheek.

  "They're gypsies. They go where they think they'll be safe," Cito Fati's voice says from my left shoulder. "They know they have the future King of Heia after them. They made a mistake in taking Princess Elaina."

  Glancing up, I find my advisor watching me while the guards stare eastward. We exchange a knowing look. They're gypsies. They steal whatever and whomever they want and do whatever they want whenever they want. That's the life of a gypsy—no respect for anyone but themselves.

  Bitterness burns in my gut, and I shove myself to my feet. "We must follow."

  "Sire?" the nearest guard, captain of my protection detail, says as if he hasn't heard me correctly. "We don't have the authority to enter Ostium."

  Needing his agreement, I position a careful smile on my lips. "Then we must catch them before they enter."

  There's a pregnant pause where Captain Praeter's men stare at us both.

  "Of course, Sire," the captain finally agrees. He inventories his men, almost all of whom are already mounted. A quick glare at the two dismounted makes them swing into their saddles almost as quickly as I swing into mine. "Ride on," he tells them.

  An hour of riding passes with frequent stops to confirm the gypsies' trail. They need my eyes, the best tracking eyes on this side of the Seven Kingdoms. Once again, I'm grateful for all my practice hunting and tracking game across the Heian lands. Though once we hit the border, I'll be painfully at a disadvantage. My last visit to the middle country was six years prior, before the plague that eradicated much of the Ostium population. I was a mere eighteen. A child under his father's tutelage. What I wouldn't give for those days again. Now the weight of the crown looms heavy before me.

  Captain Praeter pulls up his broad-chested warhorse beside me. "Sire, we can't enter Ostium."

  "So you've said," I mutter, inspecting the ground before us. The path through the trees is easy enough to follow, but the gypsies might have stepped off the path at any time, for the trees are sparse enough to allow single-file passage on light horses such as theirs.

  "What are your plans at the border then?"

  I turn my attention to my captain. "I will find her."

  The captain's cheek twitches, but he must see something in my expression to hold his tongue from wagging needless advice.

  Spurring my horse ahead, I crest the hill atop my stallion before any other man. Sprawling below is the border between Heia and Ostium. We've long had a peaceful history, but the Ostium plague put rifts between our two countries. My father had to turn away immigrants, close the borders to protect our people. He tried to make amends, risking his own goodwill tour to visit King Leve of Ostium and offer his belated help. His risks failed. Now, my father is dead from plague; although we've had no other reports of outbreaks, he played a dangerous game and lost. Dangerous for all of Heia, including my sister and me. Elaina, so inspired by our father's actions, decided to follow in his footsteps.

  My chest still burns when I recall the letter I found when I went to find her.

  "My dearest Rus, I know you'll hate me for what I'm doing, but I cannot sit by and allow people—any people—to suffer like Father suffered.

  "So I go to Ostium in secret, with the help of my lady's maids. Please don't be angry with them—I swore them to secrecy. And don't be angry at Cito. He tried valiantly to talk me out of this, but it will not be done. I convinced him that he had convinced me. But I go now to help where I might help. If I am to be a queen one day, even queen of another country, I must help wherever and whenever I can.

  "I know you agree with me but not with my methods. I am sorry to leave you like this. Remember, whatever happens, I love you and I will return to you. With all my love, Elaina."

  My hands ache from how hard I hold the reins, and Umbra dances underneath me. Loosen your grip, idiot. You'll have Umbra bolting across the border before you can stop him, riding like you are.

  I take a deep breath, loosen my fingers and my legs. The stallion calms under me, but his ears flick back, ready for my instructions as I squint at the landscape.

  "There!" The cry breaks, not from my lips but from Cito's.

  I follow his finger with my gaze, and my heart stills. "She got what she wanted," I murmur. "She's in Ostium."

  The dozen guards shift almost as one in their saddles.

  "Sire, she's across the border," the captain points out.

  I bite back my retort, instead putting my thought into the path ahead. The trees are thin here, and the border station lies unmanned now, the guard's house at the bottom of the hill with its door and windows boarded up. I still. Then without another word to my guards, I spur Umbra down the hill.

  His head up, haunches down, he skids halfway down the hill, kicking up a pile of dust at the bottom. I give him little chance to recover himself and slap the reins
upon his shoulder, urging him toward the house. A dozen feet before it, I tug the reins and he slides to a halt, snorting as I tumble from the saddle and dive for the figure lying underneath the window.