The Seventy-Ninth Prince

By Patricia White

The seventy-eight princes who've gone before Kendal failed miserably. Now he has been crowned the seventy-ninth prince, and must find the River Monster's daughter before the grieving mother completely poisons the land with her unending tears. “Patricia White rewards the fantasy fan with unsurpassed tales of depth and strength of characterization . . . White has the ability to create a masterful, though disliked character, with the same flair that she creates her remarkable heroes. I took great pleasure in the foolishness of the prince who was victim of his own weaknesses, even to the point of foolish blindness and childishness. White’s voice reveals power and magic with a stately flair seldom matched, and must not be missed. — Cindy Penn, Senior Editor wordweaving.com.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TheFictionWorks
• Release date: Jul 20, 2010
• ISBN: 9781581245653

Book preview

Author

Foreword

A magic dwells as near as your imagination and as far as it will lift you into the vast, uncharted realms of fantasy. Magic is a quest, a journey, one that carries the reader into distant lands, lands of wonder, might, wizards, witches, dragons, heroes, and enchantments. But, in the land where magic dwells, things are not always exactly as they seem, some are spells to deceive, glamours to ensnare, beguilements for the unwary. Enter in and accept the flagon of guest welcome, explore this small bit of the fabulous land of magic and mystery.

Join Prince Kendal on his unpleasant trip to rescue the River Monster’s Daughter. The seventy-eight princes who’ve gone before him failed miserably. Now Kendal has been crowned the seventy-ninth prince, and must find the River Monster’s daughter before the grieving mother completely poisons the land with her unending tears.

Narration is well-articulated and well-paced. Sound effects are chilling.– School Library Journal

Hugely entertaining! The High Sierra Players are fantastic.

— Buzz Review News

"With her classic storytelling grace, Patricia White rewards the fantasy fan with unsurpassed tales of depth and strength of characterization . . . White has the ability to create a masterful, though disliked character, with the same flair that she creates her remarkable heroes. I took great pleasure in the foolishness of the prince who was victim of his own weaknesses, even to the point of foolish blindness and childishness. White’s voice reveals power and magic with a stately flair seldom matched, and must not be missed.

— Cindy Penn, Senior Editor wordweaving.com

Chapter 1

Lopsided and distant, moving toward the snow-glittered mountain peaks to the west, the waxing moon was more white than silver. Its pale light entwined with trailing veils of shifting mist, giving them some pallid semblance of life, but the long abandoned cowshed, only inches above the rising waters, held no flicker or gleam of light. It was filled with the rank odor of moldy hay and the danker smell of vermin-crawled darkness.

More disgusted than afraid, Molly paused for a moment to adjust her ill-fitting clothes—parting gifts from the Lady Marcella. The torn shift, skirt, and over-large tunic had been pulled from the servants’ rag bag and were, although the words weren’t said, obviously meant to replace Molly’s own dungeon-tainted wear.

Feet nearly touching the damp earth, the girl slipped, as silently as the air that bore her, into the fetid darkness and waited. It was only seconds before the first rustle came. It was slight, but it betrayed him.

"You ignorant twit, I ought to leave you here and let the wereweazels drink your blood and gnaw you bones, but I can’t. The Death Bells tolled again yesterday. Whether or no, you are the next prince. You might as well come out now because you can’t even hide from me, let alone from him, she said. Even a great gawk of a would-be scholar like you must have nearly enough sense to know that."

There was no answer.

Her smile was grim, but beneath the grimness was just a hint of amusement. The hint became a soundless chuckle when a breeze, obeying a curious twisting gesture of her left forefinger, began to twirl in a tight circle. It moved more and more rapidly, jerking hay out of the stack and pulling it up and around, into a widening gyre.

He sneezed. Sneezed again. Swore at her and all witches, wizards, warlocks, and each and everyone of their unwed, unworthy forebears. Came coughing and sneezing out of the shed and stalked off in a clatter of turning stones, cursing boy, and scurrying night creatures.

Saying nothing, Molly followed after him for another silent hour. The moon was only a glow beyond the mountains when he halted in a small hollow, struck a spark from his firestone, and ineptly brought a small, starved-looking flame into being, feeding it with damp sticks, producing far more smoke than actual warmth.

She floated closer.

Go away, he said, his hand scrabbling around on the ground, searching for the fist-sized stone he shied at her. It wasn’t a very successful throw. The wind, at Molly’s unvoiced command, shielded her. The hard-flung rock dropped earthward long before it was any threat to her physical well-being. Get away from me, you filthy, lice-ridden hedge witch!

No, she said. That’s not possible. I’m going with you on your quest to rescue the Daughter.

The girl’s implacable tone held the hiss and growl of hurricane-force winds, but the boy, Kendal, only hunched a little closer to the tiny campfire, rubbed the numeral engraved on the iron band that prisoned his left wrist, and muttered sullenly, No matter what my dear mother hired you to do, you can just forget it. No matter what you or anyone else says, I’m not chasing off after some misbegotten wizard’s pipe dream, and that’s all there is to it.

Oh? She tucked her grimy feet under the hem of her bedraggled dun-colored skirt, wiggled to a more comfortable position, bobbed closer to the boy, riding the capricious breeze with greater grace and skill than that of any titled lady on a fat, plodding palfrey. Then why is Dynki Wyrde following you with the Royal Proclamation in one hand, the Hereditary Crown of Dur in the . . .

He isn’t, and you jolly well know it! The whole prophecy is a crock! A knave’s trick to gouge more taxes out of . . .

Well, as for that. Molly drifted down until she was almost at his side. Her voice was only a zephyr at dusk, barely audible over the lap and gurgle of the rising flood that had already reached the base of the steep, rock-strewn slope of the Kitchee Mountains, the sharp-toothed barrier between the Kingdom of Dur and the lifeless Desert of Morden, when she said, Dynki Wyrde is here, Prince Kendal. I hear his mule.

Pulling a reasonably clean rag from the pocket of her skirt, she dropped it in his lap and added, Your face is dirty. It isn’t seemly to go to your own coronation with . . .

Seemly! He practically choked on the word. Thin face scarlet, blue eyes bulging, Kendal scrambled to his feet, unfolded his lank, loose-joined body until he towered over her. Seemly? he roared. Is it seemly for King Wiley the Coward and that snaky, tame wizard of his to conscript hapless youths and send them out as . . .

Ah, hah! Me thinks, yon churl is a bit testy. The low-pitched voice, coming out of the misty darkness beyond the flicker of firelight, was dry and somehow sad. And so was the man who followed it, making a brief pass with his silver-and-ebony wand, sending the fire high. No longer weak, it became a surging pillar of mage-light that illuminated the scene with lurid and royal brilliance that swirled and moved like the damp, bitter-tanged fog that eddied around them.

"Dynki