A Fistful of Earth: Chronicles of Marsdenfel, #2

By Misti Wolanski

She has the magic to save her friends—but it’ll cost their trust to use it, if not her life…

Lallie Nonsire Cobbleson is no stranger to prejudice. Between her heritage and her childhood spent in an orphanage, she knows full well how most folks like people they find strange. So when her friend, the illegitimate Evonalé Yunan, gets a crown and a husband, it doesn't surprise Lallie that assassins soon follow.

Assassins that Lallie can kill, herself…if she dares admit what she's become.

But folks fear and hate what she is with good reason. People who use magic commonly go insane, and Lallie's magic is far stronger than most. Strong enough that it's taken control of her before, and done things she never would.

Protecting her friend the queen will force Lallie to stop playing human and to admit what she is, abandoning the only life she's known. And that's only if she survives the friends whose trust she'll shatter by admitting her lies—and the magic she'll have to use in doing it.
—
ALERT: Contains some mature themes, including violence.

Sequel to A Fistful of Fire.
Followed by A Fistful of Water.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Misti Wolanski
• Release date: Oct 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781502246264

Book preview

A FISTFUL OF EARTH

CHRONICLES OF MARSDENFEL: BOOK 2

MISTI WOLANSKI

http://mistiwolanski.com

Sign up for my newsletter!

D2D Edition

Copyright 2012

All Rights Reserved

She has the magic to save her friends—but it’ll cost their trust to use it, if not her life…

Lallie Nonsire Cobbleson is no stranger to prejudice. From the orphanage that kicked her out for not quite being human, to those who spurn and shun her because she’s different, she knows full well how most folk like people they find strange. So when her friend, the illegitimate Evonalé Yunan, gets a crown and a husband, it doesn’t surprise Lallie that assassins soon follow.

Assassins that Lallie can kill in return, if she wants to. If she dares admit what she’s become.

But folk fear and hate what Lallie is with good reason. Protecting her friend the queen will force her to stop playing human and to admit what she is, abandoning the only life she’s ever known. And that’s only if she survives those friends whose trust she’ll shred by admitting her lies—and the magic she’ll have to use in doing it.

Sometimes, knowing what you are isn’t such a good thing.

This is a work of fiction. People, places, and events are made up; any that aren’t made up have all been processed through the shredder of the author’s imagination and therefore at best bear only superficial resemblance to their originals. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or resemblance to actual events is purely coincidental.

This work is licensed in its original format for your personal enjoyment. It is not licensed for resale or sharing by e-mail, torrent, or other file-sharing method. You may quote or share up to 7,000 words of this book without requesting written permission from the author, as long as you give proper attribution and don’t plagiarize. If you have some reason to wish to quote or share more than 7,000 words, please seek written permission from the author; otherwise you could end up in violation of copyright law.

Cover Designed by Misti Wolanski

photo © Elnur on Kozzi.com

Author’s Note

This is the second book of the Chronicles of Marsdenfel. It can be read on its own, but I suggest you go back and start with book one.

The narrator of this book is Lallie, who you may remember from book one. Her grammar is…flexible, and there are reasons behind why she sometimes screws it up and sometimes is perfectly fine. If you’re a grammar lover, you might have fun puzzling out the rhyme and reason behind her speech patterns.

I hope you enjoy the story!

—Misti Wolanski

Year 514, New Calendar

THE KINGDOM OF SALLES

Winter, before Solstice

My kind of elf, the felves, are called many things by our telfin cousins: rare, royal, rich—

We are also called freaks, for due to our unique tie to the Crystal that binds the elves as a race, any change in what an elf is appears in the felves first—and any change to the felves will affect the following generations of telves, as well.

As a result, the felves cannot afford to mind someone who is odd, while the telves cannot afford not to mind such a person.

—Endellion Yunan,

former Queen of Marsdenfel

Her Majesty looks more the battered woman than the enslaved queen she is, though her captor hasn’t touched her in months. The violet-tinged light from the street’s faelanterns don’t do the dark circles and gullies in her features any favors, though she’s not nearly as haggard and worn-out as she was.

Still too thin, though. Always too thin.

She lets the curtain fall from her slender fingers, and the dark fabric blocks the street from view. Her hair loses its auburn tint in the dim firelight. The darkness don’t bother her sight much, thanks to her elfin mother.

Her Majesty waddles to her chair, her unborn child low in her womb. Even I know that means she’s soon to birth.

"Most think it best to be born something, someone special," she comments, a wry smile tugging her lips. Enslaved by her father—whose his legitimate son then murdered him to be free to get a child on her, his half-sister, and keep her realm enslaved—and Queen Endellion Yunan can still smile.

I don’t think I’d be the same, in her position.

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, with a wince that says her back be hurting her again. Her Majesty waves me off before I can try to fix it for her. She don’t want to lose all the pain, she’s said; she can’t afford to, not with it only a matter of time before her half-brother finds and tortures her, again.

Her Majesty keeps her gaze averted from me when she says quietly, Whereas those of us who are special often wish the Creator had gifted someone else.

Queen Endellion’s dark eyes shimmer in the low firelight as she studies me. We felves would have welcomed you in Marsdenfel, Nonsire—but don’t expect that of our telfin cousins. We have more differences than just our magic.

She’s the only person I’ve ever trusted with what I am, and she’s the only one who’s never terrified me with her knowledge. Want some tea?

Her Majesty shakes her head, brow furrowed, and draws a quick breath. Something shifts within me, warning me of foreign magic that be trying to enter the room.

I quickly shut the windows and toss a handful of seaweed on the fire to refuel the wards, which were set up by the building’s owner, a water elemental.

The sensation dissipates, and I somehow hear the rough caw of a frustrated gryphon looking for this queen. Or maybe that be the something in me that hears it. My magic don’t always listen to me.

Her Majesty’s eyelids droop. She hasn’t been sleeping well, as the nearly black crescents under her eyes admit. Felves need more sleep in winter, she’s said, and her mostly human child keeps her from getting it. Thank you.

I don’t acknowledge her thanks and return to my seat at her feet. The fire is loud tonight, in the small room. The below tavern is closed—presumably for ‘renovations’, to match the specifications of the new owner, but Barun be smart like that.

He doubtless wishes he were here, guarding against a human mage’s servants instead of having to protect Wight from his fellow ondine. Wight and I aren’t sure which of us be older, but she’s the only one of us that’s human.

I first met my father when I was about your age. Eleven?

Close enough.

She absently rubs her full womb. I hope to be among the dead, by the time my daughter is your age. Is that wicked of me?

The headmistress of my old orphanage would’ve said yes, but I’m not Headmistress Darra. No, Your Majesty. I bite my lip and stare at the floor. If I had a brother, an’ he tried to hurt me like that, I’d kill him or die trying.

Queen Endellion don’t take offense. Your kind is harder to kill than mine—and you’re better at fighting. She swallows and continues, voice hoarse: Humans are stronger than elves.

And despite being a girl of not quite eleven, I be stronger than most humans.

Year 532, New Calendar

THE KINGDOM OF SALLES

Late Summer

Every culture has its particular superstitions, things that are universally disliked, and Creator help anyone that differs.

Unfortunately, some types of people aren’t much liked by anyone.

—Endellion Yunan,

former Queen of Marsdenfel

My second month as a foreign queen’s lady-in-waiting and her first morning as a married woman, I approach her chambers in the northwest spire and smell smoke.

The ash-darkened door stands ajar. I frown, adjust the basket of laundry on my hip, and touch the stone wall with my free hand. The stone pulls the ache out of my shoulders and tells me the door’s still sound. Tells my magic, anyway. It’s ultimately the same thing, even when your magic’s apt to argue with you.

I nudge the door open with the basket.

Crown Prince Aidan of Salles, new husband to the queen I now serve, sits in the charred remains of their marriage bed. His face rests in his hands. How could she not know I’m a water? mage.

"Same way anyone can not know something that be staring them in the face, I reckon. Soggy ashes don’t make good clothing. I rummage in my basket and toss him the first thing large enough to cover him. His wife’s tan smock smacks him upside the head. I could’ve gone on not knowing what the Creator endowed you with, myself."

He blinks blankly before flushing and arranging the dress over his lap. My apologies, Lady Nonsire.

Cobbleson, not Nonsire. I give him a bland look and set the basket on the table. Evonalé forgot she was married? I straighten my leather belt and smooth my linen overdress. The charcoal color’s getting lighter than I like. But it’s not yet season for walnut husks, and oak galls cost too much, so re-dying will have to wait.

He sighs. She promptly remembered I’m her husband and would’ve killed the fire, but I pulled my own magic about the same time, and she…

"Panicked again and ran." You can take the royal bastard away from the abuse, but you can’t take the fear out of the royal bastard. Evonalé’s paranoia did develop for a reason. It’s still annoying. Want me to fetch her?

His Highness sighs again. I’ll do it. He turns away from me to get up so I see no more than his bare backside. He goes and rummages through his wardrobe. Ever wish for a street urchin’s garb, so you could move about in peace?

Spoken by someone who’s never been a street urchin. I’m harassed by the guardsmen enough, thank you.

And—leaving the laundry for him to put away—I promptly remove myself from the prince’s nude presence before he can pry.

Mayhaps I should look for Evonalé, anyway. She has a way of ending up sorely injured even when she’s where she’s supposed to be.

Hmm, but she’s doubtless outside, wrapped up in a bush, and therefore as safe as the clumsy quarter-elf girl can be. I can afford a detour before I find her.

I meander away from the northwest spire to check on yesterday’s other bride before I track down my queen. I enter the highborn halls, which have the usual flurry of servants, so I have to dodge the misbehaving items and limbs that their bearers ‘accidentally’ shove my way.

I meet the housemaid Geddis Feyim at the entrance to her sister’s suite as Prophetess for the King. We share a wry look. My queen and Geddis’s sister had a double wedding yesterday, so I slip between Geddis and the door, relieving her of the heavy breakfast tray as I knock. Twenty-eight-year-old widows have far less innocence to lose than teenage maidens.

Silva opens her door, spots me, and slams it shut. The wooden door muffles the voices of my friend and her new husband enough that I can avoid eavesdropping.

Geddis sighs loudly behind me. What’d you do?

I dinnit do anything.

She scowls disbelief as she fixes her hair, which she’s lately taken to tying up in braids, per giant custom.

By the Creator, I dinnit. And Sil wouldn’t be so calm if she found the spider I didn’t kill when cleaning out her wardrobe.

My oath makes Geddis pause and believe me. I don’t let her take the breakfast tray back. Part giant or not, she’s still weaker than I am.

But though I didn’t do anything myself, I do know who did. It was Trelanna.

Geddis snorts. What did Aunt do?

Silva opens her door again and tosses something at my face. I drop to my knees as the kitten hisses and spits and flies over my head to land in the hallway. The breakfast tray’s still straight in my arms, but the milk has made a mess of the tray, floor, and me.

More than a decade of friendship means neither of us say anything. Geddis blinks at her elder sister’s scowl and the milk dripping off me, then takes off after the kitten.

Sil and I study each other.

I don’t like cats, she says first.

That bites. But they make such sweet stew.

Sil shuts the door firmly in my face. Someone’s in a mood.

Before I can call a question about why the groom be letting his bride get so crabby, Faed Nirmoh opens the door, himself. He sees me and rubs his temples. Even after his wedding night, his blue-black hair is impeccable like his rumpled clothing isn’t. By the Creator, Nonsire, harass someone else.

My grin vanishes as he shuts the door. Nobody remembers that my Peyton was a Cobbleson. It weren’t me.

But they don’t want to hear that, right now.

I turn away and stop, face-to-face with His Majesty Liathen II of Marsdenfel, the kingdom of felves—which are the elfin nobility, sort of. They’re the rare elf variant, with magic that focuses on plants instead of animals, with some special magical-political things tied in.

King Liathen II is my queen’s legitimate half-brother by their mother, and the reason Evonalé didn’t become queen of two realms when the rest of her family…died. (My friend Silva and my queen’s new husband, Prince Aidan, helped with that.)

His Majesty smiles slightly as the milk still drips from my clothes and face. I’m not tall for a woman, and he’s only slightly above my height. He has the strong tea-brown curls of Evonalé and the bright green eyes of his human cousin, Evonalé’s half-sister by her father.

Evonalé can pass as a petite human. Liathen II has a svelte frailty that can’t be anything but elfin, since he isn’t starving to death.

May I assist? King Liathen II asks me, lady-in-waiting to his bastard half-sister.

I raise my eyebrows. He has more felf in his blood than anything else, though there’s also a bit of human and faery in there. I scan the hallway. Don’t see any plants in here. Not sure what felven magic could do for this mess, anyway.

His slight smile gains a dimple on the cheek and a twinkle in the eye, but both restrained enough to make a body sorry for the poor boy. Evonalé found him chained up in a cell that could only be reached by blood relatives. Considering how little socialization he’s had heretofore in his twenty years, he be coping remarkably well. I lost my Peyton and the baby by his age.

His Majesty hesitates, studying me as if he caught that thought. I curtsy. My apologies, Your Majesty. Your father left you the gift of Hearing? It’s a faery magic, less a gift of being able to read others’ thoughts at certain times of month and more a curse to eventually go insane. Sil has that one.

No. My father left me little. He still studies me with that odd smile.

His stare’s unnerving, but I’m hardly one to protest a little discomfort when I so often inflict it on others. My milk-sodden dress sticks to my skin. You offered to assist me? I remind him. Have you some water, for me to rinse myself off?

He assesses me with a swift glance that leaves no doubt to his familiarity with what a woman looks like, but quick enough that I suspect he means the leer as a compliment.

I try not to think about what woman he would’ve had opportunity to bed, since he’s spent his life magically imprisoned, relatives his only company.

Better than water, my lady.

Crisp fresh magic surrounds me with a brisk breeze that pulls all the milk off my skin and out of my clothing. The milk floats in the air before my eyes before flowing into a nearby rubbish bucket.

You’re an air. That be human magic, and he’s only a quarter.

It’s one of a few gifts I received from my mother.

A few? I raise my own thin eyebrows, but it isn’t my business. I curtsy. Thank you, Your Majesty.

I trust I’ll see you often.

I don’t stiffen. "Pardon, Majesty, but I didn’t become your half-sister’s lady because I bandy my favors about."

Something flickers through his expression fast enough that I can’t identify it, other than it being some form of downcast. He steps back with a minimum of movement, reminiscent of the chains that have bound his motions for much of his life. I’m relieved to hear it.

I study him with a direct furrowed-brow stare. Have you met the prophetess’s new husband?

He frowns, glancing around the hallway. Faed Nirmoh?

You may want to. He’s a verifier. Recommending a sanity test to a foreign king is foolish, but I’ve done stupider things. Though I can’t think of any examples at the moment.

At my offensiveness, an outright smile brightens King Liathen II’s expression, making him look almost handsome, if he would gain some weight. Evonalé says elves can add enough flesh to their bones to pass as humans, but theyn’t hungry enough to naturally do so. I’ll do that. Thank you, Lady…?

I curtsy and head out to find my queen. If he honestly wants my name, he can easily ask someone else for it.

Evonalé’s predictable in her panic, so I meander toward the maze courtyard on the west of the palace grounds. It’s her favorite.

I quickly sniff the air, and sure enough, I catch her scent: a unique mix of fresh moss and smoldering hay.

But Essere Carraway stands at the maze’s main entrance, speaking quietly to someone in the shadows, someone who smells…odd.

The back of my neck prickles. Essere Carraway don’t like my queen for the usual reasons—and because even when Evonalé was a mere servant, Prince Aidan used her as an example to humiliate Essere Carraway’s foolish daughter.

Essere Carraway runs hands through his hair, worsening the usual grey tufts, and his tailor cheated him on the fitting, again. I hide my smile as I call, Essere Carraway! Fine morn to you!

He shuffles to block the maze entrance so I can’t enter to see to whom he were speaking. Housemaid Nonsire?

"Cobbleson. I am widowed." My tone—polite, brisk—hides my annoyance.

He stares at me in appalled shock that a lowborn foundling would dare correct a highborn essere. I beg your pardon?!

My smile don’t reach my eyes. I suspect I like him about as much as he likes me. I’m Cobbleson, not Nonsire. My husband may be dead, but he still left me his name. And my title as Queen Evonalé’s lady-in-waiting is ‘lady’, not ‘housemaid’.

Essere Carraway’s expression twists up like someone sucking vinegar. Lady. I apologize.

I study him coolly. No, you don’t. And his astonishment that I dare call him on his insincerity lets me slip past him and enter the maze.

He recovers in time to grab my arm. No! You can’t go in there!

I look directly at his hand. Essere Carraway, I am lady-in-waiting to Queen Evonalé of Grehafen, the rightful wife of your own crown prince. You have no right to dictate my actions. Release me. Now.

His brown eyes are wide and white-rimmed, so my feral side must be acting up. I soften my tone with a sour smile. "I’m a widow, Essere Carraway, not a maiden. I doubt your shadow-fond friend can be engaged in any activity that I’m not already familiar with."

I yank my arm from his grip and hurry off while Essere Carraway sputters at my assumption that his ‘friend’ was a prosti.

Once I’m out of his line of sight, I crouch and stick a finger in the dirt between the cobblestones. What walks nearby? I ask the earth, and it tells me.

My Peyton dinnit mind my quirks, even when I picked up habits from the ‘-san’ Plains heiress, Kitra. He made Plains boots for me special, soft-soled and silent, and taught me how to replace worn-out soles, myself.

Those boots are sure nice now, quieter than anything hard-soled would be. I follow the maze’s turns to follow after the unknown person nearby.

I turn a corner to find a notched arrow pointed at me. I freeze, like any normal woman would.

I’m harder to kill than this.

The wire-haired man scowls at me, pointed ears sticking out of his greasy grey hair, and he’s dressed in unrelieved black. He asks me something. I can’t understand a word of elvish, much less recognize which dialect he’s using.

I bite the tip of my tongue. Nobody can see us, and I’d have to scream mighty loud for anyone other than Essere Carraway to hear us. I could manage it.

But then folk would come running and find me shot with that arrow, which would make for some mighty uncomfortable questions. I slowly spread my hands, palm-up in surrender. I be sorry. I don’t speak elvish. Do you speak mountaineer?

He continues in elvish, so evidently not.

"Do you at least understand mountaineer?" Mayhaps he merely be lost in the maze and not some assassin after Her Majesty.

Or not.

He looses his arrow in my arm.

I stumble and land hard. Holy Creator!

My magic lurches to use the earth I touch to heal me—I forbid it, which brings more pain than the arrow.

He has another arrow notched at me before I can try to stand back up. I’m sitting, he’s standing with an arrow aimed at me, and traditional combat would call him the definite victor.

We study each other through slitted eyes. I use the pause to force the arrow through my arm, breaking off the head and pulling the shaft back out, muttering Ow all the while.

I hiss from the pain. My magic don’t let me faint.

I press hard on the wound, to ostensibly staunch the bleeding that my magic has already clotted. That hurt, I tell him unnecessarily, since he can’t understand me.

His expression darkens, and he twitches. I feint to one side and roll to the other to dodge this arrow. Clancestors and earth! I shove myself to slide through the cobblestones towards him, ignoring the scrapes. I lash out with a soft-soled boot and strike him in the ankle with my heel.

The elfin archer doesn’t dodge and falls beside me with a cry, gaping. "Useni!"

I take a moment to realize that ‘useni’ wasn’t meant as any form of elvish.

I grab his bow and rap him on the head hard enough to cause a bit of amnesia, if it don’t kill him. I’m not letting someone loose who guesses me to be seni—a clanless montai woman—and may or may not be wanting to kill my queen. I’m odd, not stupid. The montai were all but exterminated for a reason.

Once he’s unconscious, I touch the dirt and let my magic heal my arm and scrapes. My magic makes the injuries hurt worse for a few seconds