Land of Blades

By Evelyn R. Jenkins

A tangled nest of lies and corruption lies at the heart of Castle Inness, threatening to drive the country into disaster, and it's up to three tragic young women- the assassin, the soldier, and the witch- to either put aside their differences and unite against the evil, or to be destroyed in the raging storm that is the war.

Jaded Bryony used to be a refugee from the country across the lake, but has since been molded into the perfect killer. Now those who hope for a different future have given her a dangerous task. Infiltrate the web of class wars and treachery at Castle Inness and assassinate the cruel rulers of Ithania. But the plan is not so clear-cut and something threatens to melt her icy heart.

Impulsive Copper comes from a torn home. Her parents are dead and her twin brother is bedridden with a debilitating illness. When this same brother is drafted to fight in the seemingly endless war, Copper enlists in his place disguised as a man. The horrors of battle and the dangers of a rebel group threaten to overwhelm her. But she discovers something that could change her life forever.

Timid Lydia is suffering from the recent death of her sister Naomi due to mysterious circumstances. In a coven of cutthroat witches, she is forced to take her sister's place as a leader, something she never asked for. But there is an unknown danger lurking nearby and she must confront her fears to fight it.

When these three vastly different characters are drawn together by outside forces, they hate each other with vehemence. But the country begins to crumble, sinister plots are revealed, and the women realize that not everything is as it seems. They have to work together for their lives, their love, and their freedom as depravity overtakes the Queendom.

Back of Book:

Three women are headed towards Castle Inness.

With a troubled past, the assassin stalks her prey down marble-floored halls and shadowed corridors.

Tried and true, the soldier is prepared to sacrifice everything for family, friends, and the future of her country.

Still grieving, the Witch hunts for the answers to a deadly mystery. Who killed her sister, and will she be next?

As their stories begin to intertwine and the trap of fate closes around them, these women must decide. Fight together. Or risk taking the plunge into the unknown alone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evelyn R. Jenkins
• Release date: May 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781981051540

Evelyn R. Jenkins

Evelyn R. Jenkins is almost a high school graduate at the time of this book's release. She will be attending the University of New Mexico in the fall and loves books, pasta, and sleeping in. 

Book preview

For Mom and Dad

THE PROLOGUE

A high stone ceiling etched with fine silver filigree arched above the cavernous throne room. Below this, dark marble floors were polished until their inky surfaces shone like glass. The walls were intersected by evenly spaced archways leading to doorways which, in turn, led to various other parts of the castle. A carpet of blood red velvet stretched the length of the hall, leading from the massive, ebony doors at one end to the high backed throne directly opposite.

Behind the throne, mirroring the entrance doors, were two doors made of glass that led to a balcony overlooking a rushing river. Arrayed around the throne was a group of young noblewomen, resplendent in silks and velvet and waving fans which, if viewed under the correct lighting, gave the impression that they were made of razor sharp metal. Each of them was haughty and looked exactly like the type of people that belonged in a throne room.

The person sitting on this throne, however, looked out of place. One would expect a regal figure with striking features, perhaps resplendent in intricate robes and a heavy crown wrought with gold and fine gems. Instead, Queen Cecily, a plain looking girl of fifteen, sat hunched in the straight-backed chair, not paying attention. The gleaming crown balanced on her head seemed to be weighing heavily on her head and neck.

The previous Queen, Hilde, her mother, had died when she was just a baby. Cecily had never known the exact circumstances of her death, but she imagined it was tragic. Perhaps she had died at sea or as the result of a dastardly plot. Queen Cecily, who had quite a morbid streak, spent a good deal of her time imagining exactly how her mother had died, no matter how cliche these scenarios were and no matter that the subject of the death of her mother was not something to think of as fun. It gave her something to do during the long, boring hours she spent in the throne room, presiding over this ceremony or that ritual.

Queen Cecily, despite the vast wealth surrounding her and the team of servants that helped her get ready in the mornings, was quite average looking. Her thin, pallid face was framed by limp, brown hair. Her eyes were brown, as were her freckles, and her nose protruded slightly. There was also a certain gleam in her eyes that made people not quite want to return her gaze. It was something wrong, something cruel and twisted.

On a throne next to her, a throne that was slightly less elevated but nonetheless extravagant, was seated a man who looked just as regal and royal as Queen Cecily did not. He had sleek black hair, skin like polished amber, and proud, yet handsome, features. Chancellor Artair was charming, witty, and had a knack for saying whatever he thought you wanted to hear. He was also in charge of this great country of Ithania, no matter who wore the crown.

Seeing as Queen Cecily had been a very small child when she had ascended the throne, the Chancellor, her cousin, had been tasked with directing the Queendom as Regent until she was older. He, of course, had no intention of handing over the role of supreme leader anytime soon and was planning on ruling for the rest of his life, using the Queen as a puppet to direct as he pleased.

Suddenly, the heavy doors across the room creaked open. A woman shrouded in an acid green cloak strode powerfully through the doors and towards the throne, another person who looked like she belonged in this decadent chamber far more than the Queen herself. She bowed before Cecily, then before the Chancellor.

The woman straightened, brushing her long, dark hair away from her face to reveal a smooth, alabaster complexion and a set of piercing green and gold eyes. Twining up her wrist to disappear into the hem of her sleeve was a tattoo of a string of magical symbols written in flowing script. She smiled, although the smile never touched her eyes. They remained cold and calculating, like the eyes of a predator. Indeed, they really were the eyes of a predator; the woman was a Witch, the most talented- and cold-blooded- Witch in the Queendom, third in power only to Queen Cecily and the Chancellor himself. Her coven, the Daughters of the Moon’s Dark, was the most powerful in the country, consisting of thirteen Witches trained as spies for the Crown.

Coven Mother Delphine, Artair drawled, smiling- really sneering- to show perfect, white teeth. It wasn’t a question, or some formal recognition, merely a prompt for the woman to begin talking and to stop wasting his time. She bristled, but took a deep breath and began to speak in a throaty voice.

I’ve come with news. The second-in-command in my coven, Naomi Barrow, is dead.

Really? That's disappointing, the Chancellor said, You trained her for so long. His voice carried a note of insincerity to it as if he’d rehearsed this response before.

Indeed, it's a tragedy, the Coven Mother agreed tonelessly, And such short notice, too. I replaced her, naturally, but I wanted to make sure that you approved of my choice. I’ve- She was cut off by Queen Cecily who, despite her usual boredom, was always alert at the mention of a death.

How did she die, Delphine? Was it bloody? she continued to bombard the Witch with questions, sitting on the edge of her seat. Coven Mother Delphine ground her teeth. If the throne room had not been charmed to prevent magic from being used within it’s walls, undoubtedly the woman would have snapped by now, unleashing a wave of agony on those who dared test her patience. That was not the case, however, and so the Witch stayed silent.

She fell from a great height, your majesty. There really isn't more that I can tell you, the Witch replied dismissively, "Now as I was saying, I've decided to replace her with her younger sister. She doesn't have Naomi's flair for leadership, but I suppose it’s better than nothing."

Excellent. But did you really need to travel all this way just to tell us that? Chancellor Artair made it clear by his tone that he thought his time really was being wasted. Coven Mother Delphine drew herself up to her full height, ready to retort when Queen Cecily butted in once again.

It bores me when you argue. The Chancellor, sensing that she was on the verge of a temper tantrum, smiled dotingly at her. One of the main reasons that the Queen was content to be a puppet ruler was that he lavished her with praise, gifts, and smiles, knowing that she loved being the center of attention.

Yes, of course, dearest cousin. We’ll stop it at once. The Chancellor's tone was syrupy, immediately consoling the bratty monarch.

The Witch nodded her agreement tersely.

"Did you really think I came just to tell you about my successor? I could have written a letter if I wanted you to know that much. Obviously, I have news about the war as well," she informed the room at large.

Everyone's eyes flicked up to rest on the Witch, shining with hope. Their nation of Ithania was located on one side of a massive lake. Lake Carver to be precise. When Ithania began to slope upwards into mountainous terrain, the lake was made possible by a basin that halted the upwards climb of the land. Water, especially snow melt, pooled there before the land inclined once more into steep mountains. On the other side lay the Absal Empire. For years, a bloody war had been waged over where the border between the two countries truly fell, and who had control over the lake’s resources. Everyone was eager for its end. Any news at all about the war’s progress was much anticipated. But unfortunately, it was the kind of thing that had to be kept from the general public.

Very well, the Chancellor said, If we could discuss somewhere private?

There was a flurry of noise as the room emptied of people. Shoes clicked on the inky marble and hushed voices anxiously contemplated what Coven Mother Delphine’s news could be.

Queen Cecily was the last to leave, trailing like a shadow behind her magnanimous cousin. He and the Witch walked side by side, each poised at any moment to stab the other in the back.

Lights flicked out in the empty room, leaving the massive thrones alone in the dark. It was deathly quiet.

Chapter One

Bryony

––––––––

I don’t think I’ve ever had a quiet moment in my life.

When I was younger, I remember my sister Russet and how every inch of her infinite mind was jam packed with thoughts. She was ten and I six and her boundless energy and creativity and noise made me want to shove my fingers in my ears to drown it out, despite there being no audible noise, just the endless information clamoring for attention in my already crowded mind.

Ever since I was little, I’ve had the strange ability to view the contents of a person’s mind- laid out like a map before me- just by making eye contact with them. Mama used to say that it was a gift, that my great-grandmother Maeve had been able to read minds too, and that I should be proud of it. She used to make me practice each day at sorting relevant thoughts from the irrelevant until I had a splitting headache.

My mother is dead now, and I don’t practice anymore. When the alien thoughts that wriggle and squirm through my head become too much, I simply avoid making eye contact until I’ve regained my composure. With my eyes closed, there’s only me inside of my head. As it should be.

Castle Inness will be deafening; I can already tell. Every nook and cranny, from the lofty towers to the rank and festering dungeons, is packed to bursting with people. Laundresses and noblemen, stable boys and the high priestesses of various temples. They scurry like moles through the underbelly of the castle, blind to everything but their own goals and selfish motives, I imagine. Even though I’m still riding through the outskirts of the city, I can hear a tumult coming from the castle and the city that surrounds it. Wagon wheels creak, people shout, banners flap in the slight wind.

That din pales in comparison to the internal racket that I’m about to experience.

I’ve spent a week traveling, sleeping under the stars and enduring endless rain and sleet. The entire time, all I’ve thought about was staying indoors and sleeping in a warm bed; I’ve dreamt wistfully of food and blazing fires, of reading by the hearth and rest. And now that all these things are within my grasp, now that I can see the castle in the distance, I want for nothing more than to turn around and head back home to the desert. Grimly, I remind myself that there’s a task at hand.

Perhaps it’s because the worst part of a castle isn’t the amenities, it’s the people. If Inness were completely empty, if I were let loose to roam deserted hallways and dance alone in grand ballrooms and feast by myself at the head of a twenty-foot table, I think I would be quite content. But it isn’t empty, and I shall have to smile and nod and curtsy.

It’s terrifying, the way that the hulking castle looms on the horizon. Flanked on either side by gargantuan stone statues, one of a stoic-faced man whose eyes are filled with fiery vengeance and another of a crafty looking woman who is in the middle of notching granite arrow to granite bow, Castle Inness is intimidating, to say the least. It dwarfs even the largest buildings of the surrounding city and the ancient evergreen trees nearby appear to be barely saplings next to it.

The ground underneath my horse’s feet changes from dirt to gravel to cobblestone as I near the capital city of Ithania, and I hear the guards at the crossroads before I see them. They’re talking rather loudly to each other.

Voices, which at first seem joking, turn cruel. The rattle of chains meets my ears and, when I round the bend of the wide city street, I see a group of people in chains being escorted. Prisoners of war, no-doubt, and all guilty of the same crime. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The guards, as they wave the group through the checkpoint and into the castle grounds, mock the prisoners mercilessly.  Defenseless against the taunting, the chained men and women stare blankly ahead.

A feeling of disgust begins to boil in my stomach, and I feel the impulse to rush forward and free them from their chains. To teach the guards a lesson. Something.

But that would blow my cover and I’ve already risked so much to get here, so I feign disinterest.

As I approach, the guards show no signs of having noticed me. Resisting the urge to run my fingernails down their faces, I clear my throat gently. I’m determined to play my part well, even if it kills me. Immediately the sentries straighten and are transformed into the very picture of gentlemanly conduct. Only the barest tinge of red on their upper cheeks indicate that they are embarrassed in the slightest at my having witnessed their horrendous actions. Oh, if only I could make them feel sorry for what they’ve done.

As I walk past the prisoners, I’m unable to meet their eyes. Keeping my back straight and my hands daintily folded, I inhale deeply and remind myself that in the long run I’ll help them more than they will ever know. I’m doing the right thing, so I can’t focus on them right now no matter how much I may want to.

The guards quickly search my saddlebags and wave me through. Neither of them finds anything remotely dangerous or interesting, exactly as I planned. One of the guards smiles at me politely, if not sheepishly, running fingers through dirty, straw colored hair nervously. As I make eye contact with him, his thoughts briefly flash through my head. He finds me pretty but has already dismissed me as a threat.

Security checkpoints and guardhouses are never much of an issue for me, I’m rarely stopped, never personally searched, asked probing questions only very infrequently. One of the perks of being a dainty looking woman.

I have fine, frosty-blonde hair that reaches to my shoulders when loose, but that I arrange on my head with jeweled hair pins or delicate bands across my forehead. I’m of a rather short stature, petite, and with a delicate bone structure- my wrists are so thin as to be fragile looking. My eyes are wide, innocent, and deep blue; my smile is disarming when I want it to be. No one ever gives me a second look.

Inwardly I smile. They’re letting the biggest threat of all stroll right through the castle’s front gate.

***

I curtsy deeply, my heavy dark brown silk skirts rustling around me. The dress I’m wearing is for traveling, much sturdier and infinitely plainer than most of the ones I’ve brought in my luggage, but it’s still far more gorgeous than anything I would normally choose to- or could afford to- wear. Sylvain's really outdone himself this time.

A high, Queen Anne neckline rises above my shoulders to where my hair is gathered at the nape of my neck. The skirt of the dress drops straight down from the waist, which is accented by a strip of forest green ribbon- the frock’s only hint of color. A burgundy woolen cloak is draped over my shoulders, fastened around the neck with a utilitarian bronze clasp. Rather than the delicate silk slippers considered fashionable by the court ladies, my feet are clad in sturdy, steel toed boots that are caked with dust from my journey. All of this is glaring evidence that I arrived by horse, rather than carriage as a proper noblewoman would. I can feel the scrutiny that radiates from the people surrounding me.

Chancellor Artair, one of the few people in the world that I hate more than I hate myself, views me with a calculating gaze. I feel exposed like he can see through my skull into my brain. Is this what it feels like to others when I read their minds?

Artair’s own thoughts betray nothing when I finally dare look into his cold, black eyes. For whatever reason, he’s guarding his mind carefully, like a dragon protecting its hoard, and I can barely catch glimpses of malice, greed, and other fleeting thoughts.

On the ornate throne behind him, the young Queen Cecily is perched. Her fist is clenched so tightly around the end of a thick steel chain that her knuckles are bleached bone white. My gaze trails along the chain, finally coming to a halt at the foot of the throne where it ends at the throat of a pitiful looking greyhound. Its ribs show beneath its patchy coat and there are obvious chafe marks around its neck from the chain. I can’t help but think that an animal in the care of royalty should be treated better than a mongrel in the alleys of the slums, but it appears half-starved.

Queen Cecily appears to be oblivious to the neglected state of the animal. She views me with distaste, as does the array of young noblewomen standing around her, bedecked in jewel-bright clothing. The Queen’s Handmaidens.

At first glance, they seem delicate and petty, just like the hundreds of noblewomen in the hundreds of courts across the continent, but a quick assessment of their stances and the outlines of razor sharp daggers hidden in the folds of their chiffon skirts tells a different story.

A brunette with piercing blue-eyes and hair pulled back tight against her scalp trails her fingers lightly along the honed edge of the hatchet affixed to her belt.

Another woman with intense hooded eyes and a wire-thin necklace that looks suspiciously like a garrote twirls a strand of kinky, midnight-black hair around an index finger.

All of them are radiant in their finery, outfitted in shimmering fabrics. Dresses that flare out into wide trains shimmer with intricate beading and fine embroidery; delicate lace fans that conceal tiny blades flutter seductively in front of dewy eyes. They look like a legion of powerful, murderous goddesses, and I- with my mud caked skirts and sweaty, limp hair- feel like a duck that’s somehow waddled its way into the midst of swans.

The Handmaidens are renowned as a lethal group of what basically amounts to bodyguards. They form a practically impenetrable shield around the Queen, protecting her and doing her bidding. An inner circle of ruthless women that I somehow have to infiltrate. Not necessarily ideal.

What is your name? the Chancellor asks, his eyes glittering. For a moment I panic, convinced he knows who I really am, but I quickly realize that he is simply relishing in watching me squirm. I keep my face like a bland mask as I respond.

Aria of Sydell, your lordship. There’s a slight tremor in my voice. One corner of his mouth quirks upwards into a smirk at this and I can hear the Handmaidens snickering in the background. In the folds of my skirt, my left hand clenches into an angry fist, but I force my expression to be blank and unreadable.

Hmmm, Chancellor Artair replies with a smug look on his face. Hopefully he has bought the lie that I am the daughter of the Duke of Sydell, And why are you here, Lady Aria?

I would like to join the Queen’s Handmaidens if you please, I struggle for a moment to keep the servile tone in my voice from turning mocking as I state my false name, reminding myself what’s at stake. The Handmaidens titter. No doubt they think I’m weak and silly; they’re blind to the fact that I could take every single one of them in a fight. They see only my slight build, not the muscles concealed under the draping fabrics. You would think that an organization used to taking advantage of the fact that most people will overlook a woman's strength would be able to tell when the trick is being used right back at them.

Joining the Handmaidens requires proving your speed, cunning, and agility by fighting an existing member. If you win, you become one of them, but it requires incredible talent. The Ithanians wouldn’t trust any but the best with the Queen’s safety.

You’re welcome to try, Queen Cecily pipes up from where she’s seated. Then she turns to the woman standing nearest to her.

Perhaps her defeat will provide us with some entertainment, she says in a faux whisper, obviously meaning for me to hear. I keep my back ramrod straight, refusing to let the comment get to me.

An old, blue-gray sparring mat is pulled into the center of the throne room, looking out of place amidst the rich tapestries and gold fixtures. I move to stand silently in the center, unclasping my cloak and letting it drop with a muffled thump to the marble floor, then kicking off my boots. I survey the Handmaidens, wondering who will be my opponent. My question is answered soon enough.

Linette, you'll fight her, the Queen commands and a curvaceous woman steps forward. She’s drop dead gorgeous, emphasis on the drop dead part. If looks could kill, I’d be done for. Her hair is pin-straight and braided around the crown of her head and her eyes are an unsettling shade of ice green. The dress she wears has a voluminous dress in a deep blood red, but with a flourish, she unties the sash and the skirt comes undone, settling heavily around her legs and leaving her standing in just the dress’ bodice and a pair of flexible