Citadel of the Sky (Thrones of the Firstborn Book 1) Read online

  Citadel Of The Sky

  Chrysoula Tzavelas

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Note

  1. Tasteless

  2. Walk Under The World

  3. And Through The Stone

  4. Let It Spin

  5. The Geometry of Truth

  6. Love Me Not

  7. Courtroom Drama

  8. Stage Blood

  9. The Screaming Plague

  10. A Measure of Night

  11. Cookie Reception

  12. Enter Fiend

  13. Opening Doors

  14. Wildfire

  15. Plaguestruck

  16. Pretty Lies

  17. The Secret Voices

  18. Storm

  Interlude

  19. The Catalog of Nightmares

  20. Fiends and Biters

  21. A Hill With A View

  22. The Time For Prayers

  23. A Place Without Light

  24. The Time for Beer

  25. Where Bad Girls Go

  26. Politics Are Crazy

  27. Alone

  28. Deep and Away

  Interlude

  29. Blood Speaks Louder Than Words

  30. The Citadel of the Sky

  31. Meet Vassay

  32. The Dissolution Testament

  33. Purification

  34. All A Man Can Do

  35. Ohedreton

  36. Darkness

  Author’s Note

  Dramatis Personae

  Family Tree

  Map

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Chrysoula Tzavelas

  Copyright © 2015 by Chrysoula Tzavelas

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 978-1-943197-04-0

  Created with Vellum

  For those who can’t tie their own shoes: you can still manage to save the world.

  There is a map, a family tree and a character reference available via the Table of Contents.

  Chapter 1

  Tasteless

  Great-Uncle Jant’s Regent died of old age, and Cousin Cathay’s Regent was thrown from his horse, and Uncle Yithiere’s Regent had a heart attack, but it was all just bad luck until the King’s Regent died. It took more than bad luck to tear somebody’s arm off. It took a fiend, or a team of horses, or somebody really spiteful.

  “Perhaps an eidolon,” Princess Jerya observed to her companions. It was a rainy early morning two days after the tragedy, and the daughters of the King were waiting for the funeral procession to begin.

  “What a horrible thought,” Tiana, her younger sister, said. She looked critically at her lace gloves. “Do you think these are the proper gloves? The milliner swore they were ash-grey, but in this light, they look silver.”

  “Other people have suggested it already,” said Jerya. “You’ll hear it eventually. Best to be prepared.” The wind gusted rain under the umbrellas held by their Regents, and Jerya clapped a hand on her hat.

  Tiana frowned at her hand. “But eidolons are part of our magic. That’s ridiculous. We all loved Tomas.” As she considered, her expression grew more shocked, and she added, “How can you make accusations like that?”

  Lisette, her Regent, touched her arm soothingly. “It’s not an accusation.”

  Jerya said, “It’s a problem, though. The Court won’t let it go.” She paused, reflective. “And they shouldn’t. Look at Cathay.” She nodded at their cousin, a handsome young man their own age, as he walked into the yard.

  He was alone and soaked to the skin, oblivious to the rain. His hands were clenched into fists, and one of his cat eidolons prowled beside him, only half-real. “His Regent Sennic was an excellent rider, after all. Do you really believe his horse just threw him?”

  Tiana pulled off a glove and crumpled it. “No one talked about murder at Sennic’s funeral.” She shook her head. “It’s so tasteless, Jerya.”

  Jerya shrugged. “I’m just warning you. Others will bring it up. But as you wish. Look, here comes Father with Tomas now. Put your glove back on, it’s fine.”

  The cavernous funeral carriage was pulled by six grey horses. When the footman opened the door, the Niyhani priest emerged first and then the Chancellor. He gave the princesses a grim nod of greeting and turned to steady the King as he stepped down. The King’s six eidolons, all in his likeness, descended the stairs after him, more adroitly than their creator.

  “I’m glad the Chancellor made sure he dressed appropriately,” said Tiana, “but he should have a real escort. Poor Father. It breaks my heart.” She looked away, at her hands again.

  “He insisted,” Jerya said. The Chancellor guided the King around to the back of the carriage, where the coffin was mounted under twin lanterns. The King looked startled, as if he’d forgotten why he was there. Then his eidolons flowed past him to lift the polished box.

  He turned and looked at the three monolithic Royal mausoleums. His shoulders slumped. Then a seventh eidolon stepped out of him, and his face emptied of pain. The Chancellor took his arm again, and together they led the eidolons and their burden into the cemetery. Tiana and Jerya, along with their own human entourage, fell in behind him. Their other relatives followed after, and so Lord Tomas Ferya, King’s Regent, was escorted to his final rest.

  * * *

  It wasn’t like Sennic’s funeral at all. Tiana disapproved. For one thing, it was raining, and it was hot. It was far too hot for a proper autumn rain. People had grieved at Sennic’s funeral, not whispered and stared at the Royal Blood. She’d put a jade falcon into Sennic’s basket, and she hadn’t cared who watched her cry. But today, it was as if the sky was crying everyone’s tears, and there were only nervous rustles from under the umbrellas as the Niyhani priest performed the rituals that accompanied the closure of a life.

  As she passed by the casket, she put a painted porcelain mask into the funeral basket, next to Jerya’s golden chain and her father’s rosewood violin bow. Tomas had shared her affection for the theater, though he hadn’t the time to lavish on it as she did. When they had been at dinner together, she told him the gossip of the Small-light District. Not anymore, though. It was an obvious little thought, with a shocking punch she pushed away.

  She watched the crowd; better wandering eyes than looking at her father’s distant gaze and his empty face. Her extended family was spread among the mourners, most of them absorbed in their own grief. Her uncle Yithiere was reserved and distant. Her cousin Shanasee seemed more concerned about the state of the sky. But little Gisen, the youngest of the Royal Blood and her Regent Yevonne hugged each other, and behind them, Cathay looked angry.

  Other than the Blood, she only knew a small portion of those who gathered to bid the Crown Regent farewell: the Justiciars, her music teacher, a few of the nobles. The rest were strangers: nobles and bureaucrats, the less prominent members of the Regency and the Justiciar’s Court, all turned out for a full state funeral. They whispered to each other. She caught herself scowling at them and straightened her expression carefully. It was no concern of hers if they were there to see and be seen, instead of to say goodbye.

  Beyond the crowd, though, was someone she thought she should recognize: a woman with the distinctive dark coloring of the Blood. Although she resembled Tiana’s family, Tiana had no idea who she was. Her hair was very long
, nearly to her feet, and her face was as empty of emotion as the King’s.

  Tiana moved her head to catch the eye of Lisette, her Regent and best friend, but as she stared at the woman, the woman faded away, like spots on her eyes after she looked at the sun. Unease prickled at Tiana’s neck, and she was suddenly uncertain the woman had ever existed. Was she staring at empty space? She averted her gaze and realized she was rubbing her thumbs together. She smoothed her dress instead and took a deep breath.

  It was just the phantasmagory, another component of her family’s ancestral magic. If she wasn’t strong, the phantasmagory could pull her mind away, leave her standing there senseless, or worse, half-aware and very dangerous. That was why each member of the Royal Blood had a Regent to help them.

  The dreamlike phantasmagory offered unparalleled magical focus, private communication, and even escape from boredom and physical torment, but entry was not invisible. When a member of the Blood sent her soul to the phantasmagory, her eyes glowed with a pearly white sheen. She had to resist it; people were watching.

  Under her wrap, she fumbled for Lisette’s hand and Lisette squeezed her hand back reassuringly. She turned to her father at the foot of the bier. His eyes were black, not white. She had to be strong for him. Again, she rearranged her frown into something more pleasing. She was rewarded by her father’s gaze focusing. He gave her a faint, worried smile.

  The priest paced around the bier, waving an amber-tipped wand at the heavens and the earth, to the east and the west, invoking the Firstborn to carry Tomas’s soul home. His assistant lit the incense, and the rising scents of sandalwood and jasmine overpowered the smell of the rain.

  “Why is everyone so tolerant?” a man cried out. It was a tall man in a pleated grey coat, with wild chestnut hair tied with an ornate black ribbon. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Tiana only knew his face, not his name.

  “Lord Brehain, drinking companion to the Justiciar Lord Warrane,” Lisette whispered to Tiana.

  Lord Brehain’s outburst continued. “Where are the honors due a Regent who died in execution of his highest duty? That was no peaceful death in bed, and yet he stands there unashamed.” An unsteady finger pointed at King Shonathan.

  Lord Warrane, nearby, snapped, “Be silent, you fool.”

  The Chancellor, maintaining his grip on the King, said, “We don’t know what happened. We’re investigating. At the moment, it looks like a terrible accident.”

  “An accident!” But Lord Warrane clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder and Brehain’s speech stumbled to a halt.

  The King spoke into the sudden silence, despite the Chancellor’s hold. “I don’t know myself,” he said thoughtfully. “It almost seemed like an eidolon. Almost like one of mine. I counted mine, though. And that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Daddy, no!” said Tiana. Lisette held her hand tightly.

  “What’s the use of covering it up? There’s never any punishment, never consequences.” It was Lord Brehain again, apparently drunk or suicidal. “Bring it out, so everybody can grieve for everything properly, for this mad world—” This time Lord Warrane pulled him away, into the crowd.

  Tiana called after him, “You don’t deserve to be here.”

  Sharply, Jerya said, “Tiana, enough. I’ll deal with this later.”

  The crowd murmured, but slowly settled back toward silence as the Niyhani priest gazed around expectantly. But just as quiet returned, and he raised his wand to provide the final benediction, someone shouted in alarm.

  Something formed in the sky. In one distinct area, the path of the rainfall changed, spiraling like a tiny storm. Shadows rushed together, and borrowed color from the mourning clothes and the graveyard. In a final splash of magic that Tiana could feel in the back of her head, a creature, blurred and ragged, unfolded colorful taloned wings.

  It descended, hovering over the bier. The strange, many-legged form had the washed-out unreality of an eidolon, but it was no shape Tiana was familiar with. It cried out, as if in response to the priest, a perfect clear note, and dived at the center of the crowd. Mourners scattered.

  Tiana stared at it, not even bothering to duck. The tingling at the back of her head grew stronger, and she shook her head in irritation. “It’s not ours,” she complained. “We wouldn’t do this!” She stomped her foot, staring at the creature. It couldn’t be from her family. She refused to believe it. “Who made you?”

  It dove a second time. Everyone was screaming and running. Rain fell through it, but its talons shredded umbrellas. The Chancellor and her uncle were urging the King under the cover of the Dawn Age mausoleum.

  “Tiana!” called Jerya. “Get over here, under—”

  A sparkling at the edge of her vision joined the tingling. She didn’t care enough to hear the rest of what Jerya had to say. She focused on the alien eidolon. “I don’t want you to exist.”

  It spiraled up into the sky again, and she was sure a rainbow eye was fixed on her, just as she was sure her own eyes were turning pearly white. Eidolons and the phantasmagory weren’t the only magic of the Blood.

  “Go away!” she shouted. She pushed her hand out, curved it into talons of her own, and slashed downwards. Gashes opened up within the shape, and she pulled her hand back, pushed it out again, then shook it like she was shaking rain off. The shape of the eidolon shook apart, until it was nothing but colors washing away in the rain.

  Sullenly, she said, “Why do things like this happen? I try so hard.” Then she sighed and let the phantasmagory take her before the embarrassment could.

  Chapter 2

  Walk Under The World

  The retreat into the phantasmagory was a slow, familiar descent. Detachment came first. Tiana watched incuriously as her Regent Lisette shoved the umbrella at her cousin Kiar and took her hand. Let’s walk, she said. Let’s move our feet. That’ll help.

  Tiana moved her feet. The colors of the world were melting around her, but that was hardly a bother. The rain against the umbrella was the sound of a heartbeat, until that faded away as well, and she was cocooned in a comfortable world of silent, grey cotton, only perceiving the phantasmagory.

  Somewhere far away, her feet were moving. That was all right. Somewhere out there was Lisette, too. She trusted Lisette, just like Father trusted Tomas. That was what Regents were for. But Father didn’t have Tomas anymore, so who was helping him walk?

  One step after another, Tiana. We’ll sit here, shh, shh, it’s just me now. Lisette. Can I join you?

  The soothing murmur continued as the grey veil parted, and pink hills under a yellow sky appeared. Her place. She was walking in a storm of blue and orange flowers. Somewhere far away, her feet weren’t moving, but here, a butterfly floated beside her and she caught the petals in her hand. Pretty, don’t you think?

  A silver fish swam by, familiar and far away — a cousin. Don’t worry about her, the butterfly said. She’s calm, too. There are no threats now.

  The grass became paving stones, became the tiles of the Palace. The storm of flowers became a salty rain. Who would Father trust? Who would kill Father’s Regent? Was Father here, all alone, lost? But Lisette was the one she could trust, and the butterfly flapped its wings and flowers drifted out. Let’s go see, the butterfly said. If you’re worried, let’s see. I’m here.

  She could smell the flowers as she drifted down stone corridors, up stone steps, to where they’d found Tomas. It was near Father’s rooms, very near. But no one could say Father hurt Tomas. That was ridiculous. Yet there Tomas was, his eyes wide and staring as they’d never been in life, and his body was so terrible, so twisted. She tried to pull the greyness back, tried to wash the colors away, but the phantasmagory was not kind.

  The disappearing woman from the funeral, the woman Tiana thought she should know but didn’t, knelt beside Tomas and closed his eyes. There were white flowers woven into her endless midnight hair, and her eyelids and lips were painted silver. Her gaze blank, she spread her hands, and a white lamb s
tumbled out of her. Then she and her lamb were no more, lost in the walls closing around Tiana.

  She heard a heartbeat. Was it Tomas, alive again? But no, his body was twisted and broken. What had happened to his screams? Did they echo still in the walls, trapped by the mystery?

  A heartbeat. It came from under her feet, loud and insistent.

  The walls closing around her slid apart to reveal a staircase down. She descended, but the butterfly could not follow. It called after her, the perfume from its wings lingering in her nose, but there was a heartbeat and it called louder. She descended past the place where the kitchens stored the meat, past the old catacombs, into the ancient tunnels where only the foolhardy went. At each landing on the calling stair, a door closed behind her.

  That was scary. There were stories of ancestors lost in the phantasmagory, their bodies left behind to die slowly. Would that be her? Further down she went, into dungeons she didn’t know existed and a prison where nightmares writhed in stone.

  She missed the butterfly, then.

  She could no longer sense the faraway place where her body dwelled. Under the forgotten dungeon, the stairs ended at a door that was already closed. Behind it, something lived; something breathed and longed for escape. She reached out to open it.

  But behind it was nothing at all.

  * * *

  Tiana opened her eyes. She was lying on the chaise longue beside the fireplace in her parlor. Someone had kindled a small fire and her cousin Kiar was adjusting a lamp on the west wall. The wan, grey light streaming in from the diamond-paned window told her it was past midday. A light blanket had been arranged over her, and she was still in the gown she’d worn to the funeral, though it had been loosened.

  She sat up, kicking off the blanket. “What happened? Where’s Lisette? I need her. And you.”