Conjuring Royals, Godly Games

By Jamie Magee

“Magee will steal your heart, imagination and breath with each engaging story she pens.”

The shadowy realm of Esterious has survived its fare share of dangers. The threat haunting the Blakeshire palace now is far from realized, and tragically lethal. A royal has fallen, and a princess is left to battle the dark gods laying claim to a mortal throne. Zander, Drake’s faithful regent, must face the impossible: his own past, to rectify the path of the war.

Gods, witches and soothsayers will bow to him before his last breath. He vows it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jamie Magee
• Release date: May 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370773992

Book preview

Chapter One

Liar...cheat...mercy...dungeon...execute. I fisted my hands as I swallowed the disgust I had for my current station. I wasn’t in the mood for this. Not now, not ever. I loathed being out in the open, standing at the side of the throne like this. I observed. I shouldn’t be observed.

I gotta get outta here, I thought glancing around the throne room, knowing my new position and rank stated I was trapped where I was until Drake Blakeshire said otherwise.

The rich and the poor all had their chance to present to Drake their grievances and gifts. Drake may’ve seemed solemn as he casually leaned his powerful shoulders to the side of his throne and his dark eyes peered at the man before him, but I knew Drake was happiest on days like this. He’d rather be in front of the people than stuffed in an office listening to a cabinet of nobles telling him what had to be done and how.

On the throne Drake’s word was final. No stuffed coat barking about traditions lost and the consequences of what reckless judgments would do to the ever failing Blakeshire era could override him. On the throne, Drake felt his true power swell within him—the power of the people, a place his fixation had always resided. They loved, feared, and hated him; it all depended on the weight of the specific day which emotion was the most dominant. The weight came from Drake’s never ending tests—either stretching the world into an unknown new age or receding into iron-clad tradition. Each notion was terrifying for the world.

Madison Marie, family, and the people were a trinity of loves wrapped around Drake’s obsession for turning his era into a golden one. Some would call Drake selfish for the way he thought and preceded, protecting his interests. Others would call him selfless. I tend to agree with the latter. I’d watched him endure far too much evil to think otherwise. I knew of no other being who would not have long ago given in to the beckon of easy supremacy the evil spirit Donalt offered freely.

I’d only brushed against the power that has haunted Drake. My being still shakes in terror at the thought of such a bitterly cold evil. It was an evil that had everything to gain and nothing to lose, a power that clearly reflected how blind we all are to the forces that lurk behind the veil of our awareness.

In recent days, neither Drake nor I had battled with the threats that scarcely gave us rest in our boyhood. At least, not in the same degree. Madison Marie was our cure. Her presence was a victory that had given the gods pause. I was wary of the plots they were conjuring in this seemly calm hiatus in the ageless war between good and evil. I was told as a child never to believe what I heard; only what I felt.

I’d forgotten more than I ever knew of my life before I met Drake. No matter what I did I couldn’t shake the feeling he was my charge, at the very least he was a marked moment in the sea of circumstance that would hold me steady on the path I was meant to live. I held great honor in this, who would not? I had the ear and confidence of a royal, a soul born to destroy the netherworld our home had become.

When it came to the people, I was Drake’s secret weapon—more now than ever. As a boy, I was among the people, hearing and seeing their woes. I knew what was behind their humbled, terrified stares, what was hidden behind the fear Donalt absorbed. I knew their fears as well as I knew what was behind the shuddering astonishment Xavier courted every time he twisted the politics of the throne and the people felt the brunt of a downhill slide that had no end.

Esterious was a hell whose people didn’t proclaim it could get darker. Instead they expected the next tragedy. Expectation, even when bracing for what was to come, is a siren’s call. The vim of the world does not understand good and bad. Its power only knows to create more of what is manifested in the beings that dwell there.

Such a simple concept to understand. Few understand, though. Those who know of this power and use it still fail to master it continuously. Slipping into the darkness within is natural, failing to arise from our fall is a human condition that has left us all in chains.

What I’d always thought of as an additional sense—the ability to read people’s intent, emotions, past and future—had recently enhanced. I knew more than I should. I couldn’t explain how I knew anything. Any witch worth the blood that made him would never try to understand or explain such a power. Some soothsayers and witches say the power we use, great or small, is from our ancestors. My wry question was always, Well, then, where did they find such a trinket? I knew where. We all knew. The mystic power came from the same cabalistic force of stardust that each and every one of us is made of.

It seems some of us were granted an extra speckle of said dust, at the very least, some of us are listening while others preach what they were told to believe, not what they know in their soul.

I no longer felt as if I were walking about with an extra serving of stardust, I felt like a glutton who had taken too much too quickly. My body was rejecting the invasion, scrambling to return to the balance it had acquired over my youth.

I’d swear there was no air, then I’d figure out I was holding my breath. I’d hear my heart thud faster with each second, then not at all. My mouth stayed parched. My gut rumbled despite a feast hours before.

These tribulations were hassling me now as I stood in the throne room. My eyes wandered to the procession of souls waiting to be heard by their soon to be King. The bulk of the privileged masses stretched to the expansive golden arched doorway opposite of the throne. Behind them, the impoverished were waiting their turn in the hall, all with heads bowed.

All but one at least.

The filthy boy with matted hair in his eyes was staring through the crowd. Not at Drake, or the beautifully ornamented room that would seem like a heaven to any soul who’d lived in the slums, not to the brash cold hearted privileged, but at me.

I kept telling myself he wasn’t there, but I could feel his stare, feel how much closer he came as I passed a sign to Drake that would help him lay down his rule on the matter presented to him.

I lifted my chin and settled with an ominous, stoic expression. I sensed the living, the dead, the damned, the angels of glory and hell, the fallen gods and the rising ones and all beings between each. At times, I only felt the gravity of their emotion, the most powerful way to display vim. Other moments I’d swear I could hear their whispers. I never knew if they were the echoes of the past, present, or future, only that we were all a perfect storm lurking, swelling.

I never believed my visions easily and thought twice before I spoke of what I’d seen. The mind is a tricky devil. Mine can be downright wicked, twisting insights with both reasonable and unreasonable assumptions of what lay ahead.

I remember my mother telling me I must control my runaway thoughts and no matter what I was to never give false words, because it would doom us all. She left me long before I ever conquered this lesson.

The boy in me died when my mother vanished before my eyes after Donalt cursed her. Through my grief and shock from losing my mother, I had to force my young mind to recount everything she said. I knew I lost some of her lessons. Perhaps more than some. I had little choice. Survival became my priority. The threat of death haunted me just as richly as the souls who had already crossed a threshold of the inky unknown.

I’m not morbid.

I simply knew there were many things a soothsayers could predict— like the stars above—but their death was not one of them. I lived in a lethal environment. I was a hidden threat that could be discovered at any moment. I was roaming the same palace halls as dark gods, hidden among the faceless, the nameless—a servant. If I could sense them, how could I doubt they could sense me? I couldn’t. Instead, I questioned why they ignored me, even when I boldly stood between their power and Drake. It was a mystery I’d yet to solve and feared the answer to more now than ever.

As the last summer came to its end, and the death of the earth began, I believed I was my true self when I was in protected rooms with my best friend, my brother in arms: Drake Blakeshire. I was calm. The calm that took the edge out of the hell we were walking through. I used to think I was a funny guy, charming.

I do not recognize myself any longer. As my memories magnify I find myself grieving for my mother and the life taken from us all over again. I grieved for what I didn’t know.

I didn’t know if what I was going through was normal, or a result of my recent choices. Either way, there was a void in my life where I’d once had complacency. The moment anyone acknowledges a void is present is when they begin to fill it. I didn’t want to begin any personal quest to fill a void, not now, not when Drake needed allies as fiercely as he needed to take in air.

It had been a half dozen fortnights since a single being from Chara had shown their face in Esterious. Drake asked me almost daily if I were sure they were simply going through their dimensions’ rituals and not imprisoned. I always shifted my stare at him and silently pushed him to answer his own question.

Drake had linked with several of the rising gods during a clandestine meeting just before the last major battle of the gods. Like the curse it was, Drake tended to sense Landen more than the others. I don’t think Drake has any true animosity toward Landen or that he favors him more than future kings like Draven. I believe they all sense Landen the easiest because he is a rising God of Fear, an emotion each soul clings to.

Some souls can go through an entire lifetime without feeling the burn of obsession, an emotion Drake drinks in with every thought. Souls could only graze by delivering the pain—perhaps the glory—of shock, like Draven and company does. Grief, exaltation, bliss, and so on—souls touch them, but they never invite them in as easily or let them linger as long as fear. Not in my world, at least.

It’s been too quiet, too normal. The upsets of last fall, the ruler Donalt falling, the mystical tree of color in the front courtyard, the beings thought to be angels (Chara members), roaming the streets, bringing forth light and hope were all memories. Tall tales that were whispered about by the few, believed by even fewer as the marks of the present is covered by the forever gray and dim world.

The world simply knew that their new king would be officially crowned soon, and a queen of great power and mysticism had been chosen for him. They feared him, and they feared her. Each had heard this story before, told by the generations that bore them, only their king was Donalt, and their queen was Perodine. The people knew from their ancestor’s assurance, the myth that their world was heading for greatness under the rule of a powerful young couple had been shredded, and had no reason to believe their fate would be any different.

This turmoil would only simmer as the long winter days crept forward. It would be spring before any formal wedding could possibly commence. To join in winter would be a bad omen, nothing new is created in the season of death.

Considering the lengths Drake would go to avoid granting his mother’s wishes and speak with his dead father, it could be even longer. Beth’s consent, a necessary step for Drake to take the crown, only added to the shaky ground we were all standing on.

Beth not only had to submit to an ancient spell, but she also had to proclaim before the priest that though she and Livingston bore Drake, he was the spiritual child of the royal essence Donalt and Perodine were made of. A lie. A falsehood that would bring more glory than harm, one untruth that had the power to cease eras of manipulation.

I despised Beth for her stubbornness. She may have a lesson she needs to teach, she may be putting family before the world. No matter what her reason was, she should’ve found a different way to convey her point. There were enough obstacles, laws and spells, to overcome without the prince’s mother aiding the opposition.

Drake felt it would be easier to replace his court and the laws in his way than to approach anything to do with his parents. It was his truth, his stubborn, obsessive truth.

The darkly amusing part is that it has not been easy to overturn anything in this world. The Chara departures have only added to this dilemma. There were seats Drake had appointed to Chrispin and men he chose. As for now, the current court believes their replacements are on hiatus. Privately worshipping the death of the world, winter, in their homeland as should be now.

Drake was content to bide his time. No matter how many obstacles there were between him and the official crown, the cold hard truth was no one was closer than he was. The evil in this world could delay an official sitting that would be impossible to overturn, but they couldn’t seat anyone else. At least, not until the death of Drake and Preston—the boys Donalt had protected with his royal seal. He’d claimed them, so had Perodine.

Donalt’s seal was more than melted wax on a scroll. It was a curse. If any soul took the life of either boy for the sake of the crown, they’d be damned. Worse than damned. Their soul would be branded, never clean. In short, only someone who could overpower a god would be foolish enough to strike Drake or Preston. In any other world, this knowledge might allow us all to sleep soundly. In this world, evil gods lurked at every turn.

This, Drake knew but he did not heed. At times, I was sure he was obsessed with the thrill of straddling the beast of chance—pushing boundaries that were better left alone.

For Drake, to leave circumstances to chance was the ultimate test. He knew if he obsessed about anything or anyone long enough the universe would bend and give him every opportunity he could ask for, as it had when he was enamored with Willow Haywood. Drake also knew if he captured his desires and acted on them, right or wrong, it would lead to where he should be. Willow Haywood proved this too. She led him right to Madison Marie.

Drake’s last challenge was replacing Alamos’ position as Regent. The real Alamos that is, the evil lurking about hasn’t tried to put a foe in his image since we overpowered their last attempt the day they tried to slay Madison Marie. The fools who decided to play Alamos against Drake and Madison Marie last fall inspired Drake’s master plan to seat me as Monarch Regent.

Drake asking me to come out of the shadows and serve in the Royal Guard months back didn’t surprise me. The shift in my station didn’t break any customs. Many of the poor and forsaken sought the position of a warrior. Asking me to become a Regent broke every rule there was.

The poor were to stay poor. Your birth dictated your station in life.

If anyone could remember a time—they couldn’t remember one—that Alamos hadn’t served as Regent, they’d know that all Regents should be aged. A Regent should be wise and old, skilled in all politics, gifted in the mystics. And a Noble.

Appointing me, like everything else Drake had in the past, was a test. He was testing the power of influence Alamos had. As well as the tolerance of the dark gods lurking. The openness of his public was tested too, and above all me.

Drake wasn’t testing our friendship or my loyalty; he was testing my gifts. Pushing them to expand so he could use them to identify threats before they ever knew they were valid.

To pull this ploy off Alamos and I had to combine our magic and cast a spell of influence. The majority of the masses had to believe I was an awakened reincarnate and that I had spent my entire life as Alamos’ pupil. This would never fool Xavier, but he could do nothing to change the order. People are the power, and when the masses believe something to be true, then it is. In time, Xavier could sway them, point out my failures but all in all, we had managed to pull one over on him, one over on the entire world.

My problems began with this spell. At least, the problems I was forced to focus on—swelling insights that altered my perception of reality.

The spell took place in the highest, oldest, tower of the palace. The same open room Aliyanna and Guardian had vanished from at the beginning of time. The residual power of their experience was soaked into the stones of the floor and walls that surrounded us. Most of my lessons came from rooms like the tower, rooms that told me the stories of all they’d seen, so clearly that I felt as if I were standing between time, not here or there, but watching how the pieces of our souls weave together into a breathtaking masterpiece.

The only three present in the tower that night were Alamos, Drake, and me. The location wasn’t chosen because of its sacred history, but because it held the water reserve that supplied the city. The water they would take into their bodies, the water in their dwellings. One way or another, the intent of our spell would find a way to root itself among the population.

I remember thanking my stars it was a warm fall night in the tower when I crept into the pool of rainwater. Alamos would cast the heaviest part of the spell, all I had to do was watch for the first bit, and be open to the magic he was stirring. I may’ve had a boyish glint in my eyes, a relaxed expression, but I wasn’t at ease.

Trusting Alamos had always been hard for me. The witch in me saw what he had done to Drake. He had cast spells for Willow and Drake to meet in their dreams, at the request of Donalt because it was the ultimate sin. A sin that would forever taint his magic marking him as a doorway to evil. A bought witch.

Beyond my disdain, I wasn’t so sure Drake had made the right choice. When I was a faceless soul roaming the servant’s wings, I could see the royals and the twists and turns in their life easily. The closer I’d gotten to notoriety, the less I saw of Drake’s fate. I’d warned him about this, but he didn’t care. He was willing to see less of the dangers in his future if it meant he’d have a tool at his side that could read threats as they occurred. Stopping threats in real time would give him a powerful reputation that clearly stated he was prepared to defend as needed.

There was no convincing Drake otherwise. I’d tried.

When the first drop of my blood, from a mystical dagger slicing my palm, fell into the water I was sure my life had changed. In the silence, I heard and felt crashing thunder rush through me. I felt the world I built around me shatter and a life I wasn’t ready to comprehend crept closer, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Alamos looked as he whispered chants for the spell and for the first time he saw me. I’d seen this odd expression in others before, a sudden awareness, but never to this degree. Alamos sensed the expanse of knowledge that was exploding within me, the pressure that I tried to hide behind a placid expression. I’d swear the old man was terrified for a moment. When a man who has lived as long as Alamos courts fear from the energy he senses in you, it’s best you follow his lead. Even if he was a crooked witch.

Afraid or not, neither one of us could move or stop the spell, my blood meeting the water had locked us in, the only choice was to charge forward and battle the consequences.

The water around us began to swirl as it grew warmer. The call of the wind began to hum along the stone walls, drawing out the ancient power hidden in them.

Alamos tried to step away, but Drake ordered him to finish the spell.

Regretfully, Alamos’ chant grew louder. The wind picked up. The water spun so fast it rose into a massive funnel that stretched into the night sky, roaring from the wind it had gathered. Thunder shook the sky, and then a bolt of lightning struck the space between Alamos and me.

I don’t remember much after that. When I woke days later, after endless hours of vivid, tormented dreams, Madison Marie was hovering over me. I wasn’t fond of how wide her eyes were, or the sharp intake of breath she took. Drake appeared in my line of sight before I had the chance to pull myself up. His dark eyes shifted over me, as Madison Marie demanded to know what they’d done to me.

Nothing, Drake said in a clever tone. This is who he is. It can’t be hidden anymore.

I squinted my eyes closed and cursed. I knew what had frightened Madison Marie then. My eyes had returned to their natural violet shade. After I’d calmed myself, they would rest in varying degrees of blue. Either shade was a curse in Esterious, a land where every eye color was dark.

As a child, my mother taught me to hide my eye color with glamor magic coupled with influence. I was horrible at it. My first day in the palace there was no controlling my emotions, no way for me to hide my oddities behind spells I’d deemed useless. After all, magic did nothing to save my mother. To my shock and surprise, Perodine had heard me crying and came to find me. When she lifted my chin and turned my head side to side, I was sure I was about to vanish the way my mother had.

Instead, she took me to her quarters and cast her magic. Before she sent me on my way never to openly acknowledge me again, she said, My spell will hold until you are freed by your awakening. She eyed me coolly. Do not seek me for answers once this time arrives. I have none to give you. I’ve fulfilled my promise to your mother, nothing more.

Drake didn’t know my eyes were odd until years later when I was sure I could trust him. We both stole as many books as we could from her library. We interviewed the older residents in the palace that were alive and active when my mother was the resident oracle. No one had much to say. It was as if she had been erased from their memories. They remembered stories of an oracle like my mother from another era, none from their generation.

For years, I’d stare them down in the palace, the visitors who came. I was looking for a single male that shared a feature with me, another being with color in their eyes. A being that had even the vaguest strand of light connecting me to them. There had been no one.

I was sure before this wild plan of Drake’s to make me Regent I knew who I was. I knew how to take life seriously; I knew when I didn’t have to. I could see the invisible threads connecting the souls about and found them vastly intriguing and amusing. I was at a place in life where I enjoyed waking up to the wonder of a new day. I had a handle on life, could wager what paths would appear, when, and which ones to take.

I take everything seriously now. Deep inside, I still feel the joy of balance, and the desire to help, to learn. On the outside, I’ve become downright stoic. Hard and unapproachable. Life is different now, everything is or can become a threat. There is no straight path to maneuver down because life is cyclic. I know this, but I cannot say how I know this. Which births doubt. Doubt is a deadly game to play in the world I live in. Now I understand why Drake asked me about the future so often. Why he despised it when I would not tell him possibilities, only committed paths he was on.

Life was freaking terrifying when you couldn’t see the next steps, the next bend. I’d wished for this at one time, wished to be surprised when I was meant to be and not days or months before an occurrence. I could kick myself in the arse for every time I thought such foolish things—I brought this on myself. No thought is powerless, one way or another, it makes its way back around to fulfill the emotion or desire you’re reflecting. Most often, when you least expect it.

Beyond unmasking the true color of my eyes, the spell had sparked a growth spurt of sorts. I gained a few inches in height, my shoulders and arms had filled out, all my muscles had. My boyish visage faded a bit as my jawline sharpened becoming more evident. My dark hair and golden skin were the only parts of me that had not been changed across a few days of being knocked on my arse by a spell.

The situation was