Fantasy Uprising

By Cherie Reich, Catherine Stine, Gwen Gardner and 4 more

A collection of nine fantastic, spine-tingling stories. Magic. Mystery. Murder. Heartbreak and Hope. Defeat and Victory. The incredible and Horrific. Fantasy Uprising delivers a heaping serving of the best in fantasy.

Foxwick Rising by Cherie Reich: The fate of the Kingdom of Foxwick lies in their hands. Foxwick Rising includes five short stories from Reich's People of Foxwick and Their Neighbors.

Fireseed One by Catherine Stine: On a devastated Earth in 2089, the son of a famous marine biologist must travel to a lethal hotzone with his worst enemy who helped destroy the world's food source, to search for Fireseed One, a mythical hybrid plant that may not even exist.

Givin' up the Ghost by Gwen Gardner: In the haunted modern day medieval village of Sabrina Shores, Indigo Eady must help a ghost solve his murder before she and her gang become the next victims.

The Marquis by Christine Rains: A retired demon must become the beast he loathes to save the woman he loves.

The Alpha by Christine Rains: A werewolf hunted by her pack must find a way hide or fight a battle she believes she cannot win.

The Rifters by M. Pax: In a strange wilderness town, a misplaced city gal must deal with a secret organization, a man from 1888, and a head-stealing phantom to save her missing sister.

Neverlove by Angela Brown: A tormented suicide survivor must find the power in her pain or risk the Devourer robbing her of a second chance to live, a first chance at love, and her very soul.

The Fall of Shaylar by River Fairchild: Magic is real. So is betrayal. Rivalry, jealousy, a desperate attempt to grab the magic of Shaylar—all converge to bring about the end of the precarious balance between the Five Kingdoms.

Diamonds & Dust by River Fairchild: Magic is real. So is betrayal. Two heirs. A Kingdom of dust on a troubled world. One might resurrect it. One might destroy it all.

This second edition includes Foxwick Rising instead of Reborn by Cherie Reich. All other titles are the same as previously published.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Untethered Realms
• Release date: Sep 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781540172754

Cherie Reich

Cherie Reich has more books than she can ever read and more ideas than she can ever write, but that doesn’t stop this bookworm from trying, even if it means curbing her TV obsession. She is a speculative fiction writer and library assistant living in Virginia.

Book preview

Fantasy Uprising

An Untethered Realms Box Set

Cherie Reich | Catherine Stine | Gwen Gardner | Christine Rains | M. Pax | Angela Brown | River Fairchild

Fantasy Uprising

Featuring Stories by Angela Brown, River Fairchild, Gwen Gardner, M. Pax, Christine Rains, Cherie Reich, and Catherine Stine.

Copyright 2011-2015

Second Edition

All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events, or occurrences is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.

Cover Design: edhgraphics | Erin Dameron-Hill | edhgraphics.blogspot.com

An Untethered Realms Box Set | untetheredrealms.com

Table of Contents

Foxwick Rising by Cherie Reich

Fireseed One by Catherine Stine

Givin’ up the Ghost by Gwen Gardner

The Marquis by Christine Rains

The Alpha by Christine Rains

The Rifters by M. Pax

Neverlove by Angela Brown

The Fall of Shaylar by River Fairchild

Diamonds & Dust by River Fairchild

About Untethered Realms

Foxwick Rising

A Selection of Stories from People of Foxwick and Their Neighbors

Cherie Reich

Blind Scribe

Twenty-six, twenty-seven. Dallan counted his steps as his mama and he weaved through the busy streets of Foxwick. They’d passed the fruit stand and were now farther into town than he’d ever been in his fifteen summers. People, mere moving shadows, brushed against his shoulder. He scrunched toward Mama to make his lanky frame smaller. The odor of sweat and manure combated the more pleasant scents of flowers and baking bread. A bead of sweat trickled into his hairline. He longed for the familiarity of their small house.

Keep up, Dallan. Mama’s skirts brushed against his pants’ leg.

Where are you taking me? He clung to her arm and dragged his feet. They’d gone too far. The shadows darkened, as if the sun had slipped behind the horizon. He had no clue where he was now.

She halted mid-step and yanked him closer. I don’t wish to do this, but we have little choice.

Do what, Mama? He desired to dig his heels into the pavement and stop their progress. Had she decided he was more trouble than he was worth? Times were tough, and he was such little help. He tried to plow straight—despite counting his steps and placing one foot in front of the other—but he often tripped over the rocky soil. He attempted cooking, but he couldn’t boil water without scorching the bottom of the pot. Though he wasn’t too bad as a tailor because he could count stitches and feel where they went, he still needed guidance.

She pulled him closer. Rough stone rubbed against his arm through his thin shirt. A sob hitched in Mama’s throat as she emitted a mouse-like squeak. She embraced him tightly and smoothed his damp hair from his face. My sweet boy, I’m so, so sorry.

What’s wrong? His heart pounded like a horse galloping across an open field, each hoof beating the ground in a frantic rhythm.

We… we can’t afford to feed all of us, so I’m taking you to King Felix. I hope our great majesty will offer you a better life than I can give. She lifted his hand up and pressed her dry lips against it. Tears splattered upon his skin.

He swallowed and held his breath. After his papa had passed into the Shadowlands, Dallan had wondered if this day might come, but he thought Mama would wait until he was older. He trembled with the prospect of standing before the king. What if he doesn’t have any work for me?

He didn’t want to be a beggar for the rest of his life. Being among the throng along Foxwick’s pathways frightened him. How would he get food? Defend himself?

The king will have something for you, I’m sure. Don’t worry, Dallan. You’ll see this is for the best.

His soul hurt to know he’d caused her so much pain. She’d already lost her husband, and now he, her oldest child, had to leave the family. A fever had cursed him at an early age and plunged his world into shadows. He couldn’t find it within himself to blame her for turning him over to the mercy of Foxwick’s royalty.

I’m so sorry. She shivered against him.

Do not worry, Mama. King Felix will have some task for me. He took her arm again. Fear had squeezed his heart in its vicious grasp, but he wouldn’t give in. His family needed to believe he would be fine, even though he didn’t think he would be.

He followed her until they paused again. Could the journey to the castle be so short?

We need to see the king, Mama said to someone as she wrapped her arm around Dallan.

Not just anyone can see the king, ma’am. What’s your request? The man’s voice, although young sounding, was a low bass. Dallan imagined a large man stopping them. Was he a palace guard?

You see, sir, my son has an impairment. We wanted to know if the king might have work for him within the palace. Surely not every position is filled. Mama’s fingers tightened around Dallan’s arm until he was certain she would leave bruises.

People’s voices filtered in and out as they passed by them. The guard paused so long Dallan wondered if he’d left.

The lad would have to come alone. It’s his request, ma’am, not yours. You up to it, boy? A different guard slapped him on the back and nearly knocked him to the ground.

But I must go with him. Her words quivered like a plucked lyre.

Dallan wished to protect his mother from further worries. He straightened and brushed his hands over his clothes—ones belonging to Papa and a bit too big for him. Don’t worry, Mama. I’ll be fine and will speak with the king.

Are you certain?

Dallan reached out, first touching her coarse hair and then her wet cheek. I’m sure, Mama. Go home.

She grabbed his hand and kissed it, yet he pulled away. She lingered beside him. He couldn’t let her see how terrified he was. He wanted her to know he was old enough to ask the king for a favor, despite fifteen summers seeming far too few at the moment. He smiled at her, even though the grin felt more like a grimace.

Please take me to the king, sirs. I wish to speak with him. Dallan hoped he was formal enough. Would the king have a position for him? What use was a blind man to a monarch? He shouldn’t think like that. If he found a job, he could help his family. Mama still had three children at home to feed and clothe. He would do this for her—for Papa.

Come along, lad. Let’s see if King Felix can help you. The guard who had slapped him on the back seized one arm.

Perhaps he’ll have some position for you. The bass-voiced guard took his other arm.

Oh, Dallan. A sob broke through his mama’s lips.

Dallan swallowed, but told himself not to turn toward her voice. He had to be brave so she would believe she had done her best for him. Her cries grew farther away as the guards led him into the castle’s grounds.

He crossed the cobblestone pathway of Foxwick’s streets to larger stone steps until he came upon a soft rug, which muffled his footsteps altogether.

Something clinked rhythmically beside him. Were the guards armed? Dallan supposed they would be. He tried counting steps, but he was too nervous. What if the guards didn’t take him to the king? What if the king had nothing for him? What if they laughed at him? These and many more questions clogged his head until the guards stopped.

Bow before your king, lad. The bass-voiced guard nudged him forward.

Dallan froze at first. What was a proper bow? He had to do something, so he bended forward, nearly tipping over in his haste. Your majesty.

What is your name, young man? King Felix’s voice resonated within the room, a large, spacious one by the sound of the soft echo.

Heavy incense—sandalwood, Dallan realized—tickled his nose.

I’m Dallan Lakewood, your majesty. He didn’t know whether he should rise completely, so he remained at a half-bow. I came to ask a favor if I may.

The king’s lengthy pause made Dallan’s throat go dry and his hands sweat. The king, or someone near him, tapped their fingers along wood. What is your request, Dallan Lakewood?

Dallan stared in what he thought was the direction of the king. King Felix, my family is in need, and I have not been much help to them because I can’t see beyond shadows, but I was hoping you could find a place… a position in your court for me. I could clean or something… be some use to you.

Stand up straight so I can see if we have work for you. Do you have any skills? The king shifted in his seat.

I can clean some, although I’m not too handy with a broom. Dusting is fairly easy for me since I have a great memory and am very thorough. I’m not much good with cooking. Before I lost most of my sight, I used to be able to read, and I know my letters. I have great hearing and a good sense of touch and smell. Dallan reached into his mind for something else to tell the king. His back lengthened as he was trying to look important, but he sounded pretty useless, even to himself.

Most people with your impairment become beggars. I’d rather put you to use, young Dallan, because a beggar isn’t a prospering subject. Master Corb is head of my household staff. He will find a position for you. King Felix snapped his fingers. A guard will take you to Master Corb. In three days’ time, we’ll see if we have a place for you.

Three days. Dallan gulped, not knowing if he could find something he was good at in such a short amount of time. But the king ordered it, and he would do his best. Dallan wanted his mama to be proud of him.

He needed to be proud of himself too.

◆

So you can’t see anything? At all? Master Corb, the head of the king’s household staff, stood before Dallan. His spittle brushed against the young man’s cheek, but Dallan resisted the urge to wipe it away.

I can sometimes tell bulky shapes by the lack of light around them, but everything is mostly dark with very few shades of gray. Dallan shifted and ran his fingers over the hem of his shirt. Each stitch brushed against his sensitive skin. The king says you may have a place for me. I’m not good with a broom or a mop, but I can dust. That was one of my chores at home, and I could always remember where everything was.

He had been slow and methodical, but his work pleased his mama.

The castle does have many rooms. Perhaps we can start you in one with less, shall we say, breakable items. Follow me. Corb’s shoes swished along the rug when he walked.

Dallan listened to the man’s footsteps as well as counted his own. Of course, he was already lost in the large castle, but he could locate his starting spot if nothing else. Then, something very solid stopped him.

Watch— Corb sighed. I should’ve told you we’re here.

Sorry, sir. Would you be so kind to show me around the room so I can get a feel where things are? Then I’ll get to work. Dallan cringed at asking for assistance, but he wanted to do a good job for the king. Besides the throne room, he’d been to the servants’ quarters, his own small room, and along several hallways. Those few rooms spanned three times larger than his entire home. He shuddered to think of the castle’s true size. If he couldn’t figure out where rooms were and the various items within them, he’d fail before his three days were up. King Felix was giving him a trial period. The young man had no illusions to the contrary.

Um, of course. Corb grasped Dallan’s arm and led him around the area. It’s our most spacious room. You’ll have to dust four tables and the trinkets on them. Watch out for the vase in this corner.

Here? Dallan eased his hand out, fingers spread wide.

Yes, right there. Corb stopped him before he hit it. No touching. It’s invaluable. Kirken the Magician owned this vase before the founding of Foxwick. It’s over a thousand years old.

Oh. Dallan didn’t know how anything could be that old, but he would be very careful around the antique.

Corb finished showing him around. Here’s your dust rag. Go over the tables and other items. I’ll check on your progress later.

The dwindling swish-swish noise let Dallan know Corb had left the room.

Dallan clutched the rag to his chest. His heart thumped almost painfully, and his own breathing sounded way too loud. He was alone in a room of the castle. The walls hovered around him. He already missed his mama and siblings, but they were counting on him. Mama wouldn’t see him as a beggar upon Foxwick’s streets.

A few deep breaths calmed his nerves. He shuffled toward the first object, a table by the feel of it. His fingers danced over the smooth surface until he found an item. It felt cool to the touch. He noted its placement by placing three fingers on the table and counting how many three-fingered widths it took to get to the object from the bottom and left side of the table. Then, he removed the first item and felt all around it. The item reminded him of a statue of some animal—perhaps a fox. He placed it against the wall and slowly repeated his process until the table was bare. After he dusted the surface, he ran the cloth over the items—last to first—and set them back on the table by memory. Oh, he hoped he was right.

One table down, more to go.

His work was slow and methodical. Would Master Corb return before he was finished? His muscles twitched to go faster, but he knew he would make mistakes. He couldn’t afford to break something.

A muffled tap-tap crossed toward Dallan, much unlike Corb’s swish-swish. He cocked his head toward the noise.

Hello?

Hello. The voice sounded male and young, not yet changed. Are you Father’s new servant?

Father? Did the king’s son stand before him? He dropped into a hasty bow. His back bumped into something as he bent over.

Crash!

Dallan stiffened, but it was too late to stop the disaster at his feet. Ceramic shards bounced against his legs. The blood drained away from his face as a wave of dizziness threatened to overtake him. He knew what he’d broken. The irreplaceable and invaluable vase. Would they throw him into the dungeons for his error?

Swish-swish footsteps raced into the room. Oh, no, no, no, no. Prince Javen, pleased to see you, but I must punish this clumsy fool.

Hands boxed Dallan’s ears.

Dallan cried out, losing his balance and sense of direction. His palm scraped across the stone wall. I’m sorry, sir. So, so sorry.

You stupid boy! I knew it was a mistake when King—

My father doesn’t make mistakes. Prince Javen’s tone froze both Corb and Dallan in place. I, however, do. It is my fault the vase broke. I wasn’t paying attention and bumped into it.

Is this true, Dallan?

Well, sir, I—

Do you dare question me, Master Corb? Shall I take this matter up with my father? The mistake was mine and mine alone. I suggest you fetch a broom. A kinder hand touched Dallan’s arm. Are you all right? Dallan, is it?

Yes, Prince Javen. Thank you. Dallan didn’t know what else to say. The prince had saved him from a terrible punishment.

Corb sighed. I’ll see if there is another occupation for you, Dallan. If you would excuse us, Prince Javen.

Of course. And take care, Dallan. The prince drew away.

Thank you. Dallan gave a half-bow, much more careful this time with where he was.

Come along. I’ll have to speak to the other masters. Perhaps there is a place for you. Maybe one in a room with less breakable items. Master Corb didn’t sound completely convinced the prince had broken the vase. Dallan didn’t blame him, but perhaps his new task would be the perfect fit.

◆

Dallan had spent the night in the servants’ quarters, and today he would begin a new position at the castle. Although he wasn’t certain where Corb led him, he regretted his mistake with the vase. The reek of manure wrinkled his nose. Why hadn’t the fever taken his sense of smell along with his sight? His boots shuffled against what felt like straw.

Where are we? A stable?

Precisely, lad. Corb grabbed his arm and stopped him. Let me introduce you to Master Walther, our equestrian head. He needs a bit of assistance cleaning out the stables.

Cleaning the stables? Dallan’s heart dropped and then sped up. Were the horses in there? Although he liked animals, horses—well, a horse’s hooves—made him as skittish as an injured lamb standing before a dragon. A horse had trampled him not long after he’d lost most of his sight, and he hadn’t forgotten the experience.

Thank you for this opportunity, sir. At least nothing was breakable in a stable, right?

Walther didn’t say anything.

Corb released Dallan’s arm and stepped away.

The air cooled around Dallan. Walther and Corb whispered, but Dallan only picked up a word here and there. He understood his abilities concerned Walther. Dallan had his reservations as well.

Fine. King Felix wants to give the boy a chance. Come along. Let me tell you how to muck out the stables. Walther stomped farther inside. His boots sounded like boulders against the dirt-strewn floor, and the man towered over Dallan, Walther’s form black against lighter gray.

Corb patted Dallan on the shoulder. I’ll be back later, lad. Be glad it’s just the horses and not the rocs.

Walther tapped his heavy shoe. Have you cleaned out stables before?

No, sir, but I’ll do my best. Dallan listened, but to his relief, he heard no horses in the stables. Where are the horses?

In the field. We don’t keep them here when we clean. Walther grabbed Dallan’s hand and put something wooden in it. A shovel? A pitchfork? Dallan couldn’t tell.

The shovel’s to scoop out the horse shit. You’ll put it in the wheel barrel. We’ve already cleaned out most of the stalls, so there’s not much for you to do. Then, you’ll add some shavings to the floor. Once we get the horses back inside, I’ll show you how to help feed them. Get to work. Walther’s retreating steps echoed.

Not knowing where to start, Dallan stood still. His free hand darted out, and he touched the wooden wheel barrel near him. The wood felt smooth, as if someone had sanded it. He slowly entered the stall and used the shovel to search out the manure. The stronger odor seeped into his pores and coated his tongue. Were the rocs really worse? Dallan tried not to breathe deeply as he piled the manure against the wall and shifted it to the wheel barrel. He had no clue how much he was missing, and his shoes felt squishy, as if he’d stepped into horse poop.

He repeated the task with each stall, eight in all.

By the time he finished cleaning out the rest of the manure, sweat coated his body. The reek rolled around him. Could he burn his clothes after this?

He searched out the shavings and found what felt like small wooden pieces. They pricked against his flesh but didn’t break it. How would the horses find these things comfortable? He shrugged and spread them inside the stalls.

As he was doing this, Walther stomped back in.

Not bad, not bad. Walther exited.

Dallan leaned against the wall and wiped his arm across his forehead. Not bad? He’d accept the compliment. Working in the stables wasn’t his ideal job, but his mama would be so proud of him. He’d secured a place in the king’s castle. What little bit of money he’d receive, he would send to his family. Maybe Mama wouldn’t have to work so hard.

Horses’ hooves clip-clopped into their stalls, and Dallan scurried backward. One’s tail brushed against him. Dallan pressed against the wood.

Walk behind me. Walther shoved a bucket into his hands.

Dallan hesitated to leave his safe place, but he couldn’t disobey Master Walther. He followed behind the large man.

Ping, ping, the grain bounced against the metal bucket. The horses neighed and blew their breath against him. They smelled of the outdoors, and Dallan could imagine the warm air and rolling fields. He tentatively reached up and touched a horse’s velvety muzzle.

Perhaps the creatures weren’t so bad.

Walther and Dallan continued horse to horse.

Dallan ran his free hand against the horses and the wooden doors. His sleeve caught on something. He yanked his clothing free and moved to the last stall. His shirt had a tear in it, but perhaps he could find someone to mend it. If he could get the terrible odor out of these clothes!

Walther led Dallan outside. A solid hand landed on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

Dallan jerked in surprise.

Perhaps we’ll keep you on.

Thank you, sir. Dallan puffed his chest out.

Bow before the prince. Walther nudged Dallan down.

I came to see the horses, Master Walther. Prince Javen’s arm brushed against Dallan’s. Unlike Dallan’s foul odor, the prince smelled of leather and fresh linen.

Of course, my prince. Walther opened the stable doors. They slid open with a minor squeak and jolted at the end.

Wild galloping flew past him a moment later.

Stop him! The prince’s lighter footsteps raced after the horse.

Walther’s heavier ones followed behind.

Dallan remained in place since he was unable to do anything to help. Had one of the horses escaped?

I got him, Master Walther.

The horse stomped the ground and snorted. The hooves drew closer and then passed by Dallan as Walther put the horse back into the stable. Someone—the prince, Dallan guessed—hovered beside him and breathed quickly.

Walther marched over and seized Dallan’s arm. You! You useless boy!

Dallan’s heart leapt to his throat, and he trembled. The bigger man shook him. What had he done? The stable master had been so pleased with him before. How had he screwed up this time?

You unlocked the damn door. We could’ve lost our prize horse, the king’s favorite. Walther released him, but Dallan tensed, waiting for a strike that never came.

Stop! Prince Javen pulled him close. It’s my fault. I released the latch and the horse bolted. Dallan had nothing to do with this.

Someone else jogged up. What’s going on here?

Dallan recognized Corb’s all-too-familiar voice.

Walther sputtered and spurted. A horse got loose, but we got it back. Master Corb, he’s not right for the stables.

The world’s weight draped over Dallan’s shoulders. He could barely stand under its pressure. He’d been doing so well, and now he lost another position. What else could they give him? He would become a beggar if he couldn’t find a job in the king’s castle. Either that or be a perpetual burden on his family. May I have another chance?

Not in my stables. Walther left, his heavy steps sounding like a nail being pounded in Dallan’s coffin.

Isn’t there another place for him, Master Corb? A pleading tone edged into Javen’s voice. Why did the prince care if he found a position here or not? They were close in age—the prince a little younger—but they were worlds apart.

Corb paused.

Each breath made Dallan feel as if he would die from trepidation. He cursed his inadequate sight and inability to be of any use to anyone.

There’s one open position left, but I don’t know how he’ll do the job. Corb shifted.

Please, sir, let me try. Dallan clasped his hands together. He wasn’t beneath begging, which was good. It might be the only occupation he could do well.

Yes, Master Corb. My father has given Dallan three days to find a position in our court.

Very well. We’ll see on the ’morrow if Dallan can accomplish this last task. If not, I will have to tell King Felix there is no place for him.

I understand. Dallan’s mouth dried out. He smelled like a latrine and wanted a dip in a river with some of his mama’s homemade soap. Perhaps it was a good thing the stables didn’t work out, but he understood he had one last chance. He would make the best of it.

He had no other choice.

◆

Today could be Dallan’s last day in the castle. He trailed behind Corb to his final possible position. Worry churned his stomach, as if he had dragons warring in his innards. Dallan hadn’t the heart to ask Corb where he was taking him. If he opened his mouth, he thought last night’s dinner would spew out, and he’d been unable to eat breakfast that morning.

Each step down to the bowels of the castle chilled Dallan’s bones. Was he going to the dungeons? Did the castle have dungeons? He ran his fingers along the stone walls. His foot searched for each stair. The air pressed cool and damp against him. Dallan swallowed the lump forming in his throat.

Corb shuffled along the staircase. Last step, lad.

Thank you, sir. Dallan found it and entered a hallway. His shoulder brushed against the wall as he pursued Corb’s swish-swish steps.

A door creaked open, and Corb nudged him into the room.

Master Jax, I have a potential apprentice for you.

Thank you. Please leave us. Jax’s voice sounded elderly to Dallan. His dark shape huddled close to the corner of the room.

Good luck, lad. I will return when the king summons you. Corb patted Dallan on the shoulder and left. The door shut with a resounding thump.

Come closer, Dallan, so I can see you better.

Dallan remained frozen in place for a moment. His heart thudded in his ears, the sound nearly drowning out the crackling fire. This place felt warmer and drier than the stairs and hallway. Perhaps they hadn’t thrown him in the dungeons.

Come on, boy. Follow my voice.

Dallan spread his hands out at his sides. His hip bumped into a table, and he sucked in air through his teeth. Slowly he found Master Jax. I’m here, sir.

Good. Jax scooted a chair closer to him. Have a seat. Right here. Now, let me see you.

The edge of the seat pressed against the back of his knees, and he sank into the chair. The young man remained still while Jax touched his arm… and then his face? Realization struck him, as if a swollen river had washed over him.

Sir, are you blind?

Jax gently ran his fingers along Dallan’s face before he tapped the boy’s nose. Aye, I am, for the most part. My vision includes shapes and shadows, but my advanced age has relinquished most of my sight. I hear you have the same problem.

Yes, sir. Dallan paused and chewed on his lower lip. Sir, what is your position in the castle?

I’m the histories master, also known as King Felix’s scribe. Jax chuckled. Although I don’t scribe very often. My hands are too gnarled.

A blind scribe! Who would’ve guessed it? Dallan reached out and grasped Jax’s hand. The tips of Jax’s thumb, index, and middle fingers felt callused. The knuckles were too big, swollen. How much pain was the man in?

The king has informed me you know how to write. Reading will be a challenge, but perhaps the prince will assist you. I trained him to read and write, and now the lad reads to me from the histories. Jax took Dallan’s hand and led it over various scrolls. I have a system to teach you based on touch and smell.

How will I write? I do know the alphabet and a few words, but I haven’t written anything since I lost my sight. The scent of ink and paper mixed pleasantly with the warm air. Dallan ran his fingers over a series of raised lines etched into the parchment. Although he didn’t know what they meant, he figured Jax would teach him.

Here. Jax placed Dallan’s hand on something metal. The object had slots within it, and Dallan touched the smooth, cottony texture of an unfurled scroll between those spaces. The scribe released Dallan’s hand. This grid will assist you in writing in a straight line. I’ll teach you, if you wish to be my apprentice.

Do you believe I can do this? Dallan didn’t want to get his hopes up.

Let me be honest.

Of course, sir. Oh no, here it goes.

When I could no longer write for long periods of time, King Felix assigned a boy to me. He had no memory for anything. As my sight went, the king sent down various apprentices. They wanted to rearrange my scrolls and books. They had their own ways, and while I appreciated their initiative, it disrupted my methods. Jax sighed. I need a lad with a good memory and one who can work within my system. You can do as you wish when I die, but until then, I’m still the histories master. Understood?

Yes, sir. Dallan knew every master had his ways.

Being blind brings the other senses to light. True, my hearing may be going as well, but I still have touch, smell, and an incredible memory. The stories I could tell you! Excitement bubbled over in Jax’s voice. Do I think you can become a scribe? Yes, but only if you believe in working hard. Do you?

Yes, sir. Dallan smiled. Master Jax gave a riveting speech, and he had the same issue as Dallan with his sight. Mama always marveled at his memory too, so he believed he was ready and willing.

Let’s get to work.

◆

Hours had gone by while Dallan learned from Master Jax. He thought everything had gone well, but now Master Jax, Master Corb, and he stood in front of King Felix and Prince Javen in the throne room. Had he done well enough to earn his place in the castle? Three days didn’t seem like enough time. He’d made so many mistakes too.

Dallan, my staff spoke to me about your abilities. Master Corb, please tell me how well the lad has done? King Felix sounded kind and interested.

Dallan trailed his booted toe over the soft rug. What would Corb say about him?

Your majesty, young Dallan first worked as a duster. Although there was an incident with a vase, he proved to be a thorough worker. Corb paused. Unfortunately, I didn’t believe he would do well to continue such a task.

Dallan lowered his head. Dusting had been a disaster, especially when he had broken the vase. Even though the prince had covered for him, he doubted Corb—or even the king—believed he hadn’t been the cause.

And the next task? How did he do, Master Walther?

Dallan jerked at the mention of Walther. He didn’t know the stable master had come since he hadn’t heard his pounding boots upon the rug.

Dallan cleaned the stables and fed the horses, King Felix. He was doing all right… only a few places missed. The horses liked him, but one escaped. We got the animal back, sire. Walther blew air from his nose. But he isn’t fit to be a good stable boy.

I see. And, Master Jax, how did Dallan perform as your apprentice? The king’s voice boomed in the room.

Dallan clutched his hands together to keep them from trembling.

Jax left Dallan’s right side. Young Dallan displays promise. His writing needs improvement, but he has a sharp mind. We went over some scrolls, and he mislabeled only one. With time, he will be a fine scribe and historian, sire.

Dallan, will you come forward?

Dallan could barely breathe as he walked toward the throne. Although he’d gotten a much better reception than he thought he would have, his body quivered. Had he done enough to earn a position within the castle?

The king and prince rose from their thrones and strolled over to him. The king’s footsteps sounded firm upon the floor; the prince’s were softer. I am pleased with the reports, Dallan Lakewood, and I wish to offer you the scribe apprenticeship. You’ll have housing, food, and clothes provided for you as well as a monthly wage. I’m sure you’ll wish to visit your family too, and we can arrange that. Will you accept the position?

Dallan released the breath he was holding. The king had offered him a job. He would have money to send his family as well as be able to visit them. The work would be difficult, but he would learn. I accept, your majesty.

Very well. The king patted his shoulder, Felix’s ringed fingers knocking against Dallan. Master Corb, have Dallan’s belongings moved to a room near Master Jax’s. Also, Master Jax, assist Dallan in writing a letter to his family so they know about his new position.

Of course, sire, Corb and Jax said together.

King Felix left Dallan’s side.

I knew you could do it, Prince Javen whispered to him before following his father.

Once the king and prince returned to their thrones, Dallan bowed lowly in gratitude. He was jittery with excitement, as if he’d eaten an entire cake. He couldn’t wait to write his mama and tell her about living in the castle. She would be so pleased. And Dallan was proud of himself for the first time since he’d lost most of his sight.

He had found his place, his path, in life.

Lady Bard

A shadow fell over Lyrica. The lady bard paused mid-strum to listen to the forest sounds. Birds no longer chirped along with her music. The gentle babbling brook that flowed through the grove in Greymist Forest had become her only accompaniment. Not even a breeze rustled the leaves as Lyrica breathed in the floral scent of budding fruit trees.

I must be imagining things. Her fingers danced along the lute’s taut strings. The melody bubbled with joyful laughter and matched the brook’s speech, note for note. The bard hummed to the cheerful tune. Could she lure the birds back out to sing with her?

A high-pitched screech startled her off the log she perched upon. Lute in hand, she scrambled to her feet. Men crashed through the forest’s undergrowth and surrounded her. She clutched her instrument to her body as if wood and string could protect her against their swords. They bore the insignia of the fox upon their chests, but knowing they were the king’s guards did little to ease the fear strangling her.

Who are you? Her voice trembled.

One guard stepped forward and produced a scroll. By order of King Felix of Foxwick, all musicians are to report to the castle posthaste. State your name and instrument.

Her eyes narrowed and Lyrica lowered the lute to her side. What did the king want with her? I’m Lyrica, a lady bard. I play the lute and sing.

The men closed around her.

Then you are to come with us. The same man rolled up the parchment and whistled.

Two rocs—the largest birds she’d ever seen—rose over the trees and set their travel baskets upon the ground. Their foot-long talons curled over the top, and cold eyes pierced her soul. Lyrica started to back away from the beasts, but the guards held her firm.

What does the king want with me? Her voice rose in pitch. She glanced around the grove for something to help her, but she saw nothing. She’d lived in seclusion for so long in her safe little forest. How could she have been foolish enough to go without a weapon?

Your king has summoned you. A guard shoved her into a basket.

The lute pressing against her chest, Lyrica collapsed in the corner. She closed her eyes. The mighty rocs flew the guards and her to the castle, her heart beating in time with their wings.

◆

Lyrica hadn’t entered the castle before, and she wished she never had. The king’s guards gripped her arms so tight she was sure to have handprints on her flesh. She struggled to shift away from the king, the executioner, and the poor, sniveling xylophonist, but one of the men pressed on her skull and forced her to watch. She vaguely remembered crossing paths with this musician. His name started with the same letter as his instrument. Xavier, maybe?

The ax swung through the air and landed with a meaty thwack. The xylophonist’s head bounced once and rolled to Lyrica’s feet. A scream stuck in her throat and nearly choked her. Blood pooled upon the marble floor and crept toward his abandoned instrument. Was there some blood upon the tapestry? Crimson liquid marred the prancing unicorn and looked too dry to be from the xylophonist.

King Felix waved a bejeweled hand toward the executioner. Graying hairs sprang from around the king’s crown. If Lyrica wasn’t so terrified, his frazzled appearance might have amused her.

The executioner settled the ax over his shoulder, bowed to the ruler, and left the room.

You are a bard, correct? Felix’s hardened gaze focused upon her.

Aye, your majesty. She gulped. Despite the guards’ grasp, she tried to curtsey. Her lute bounced against her back.

The king scratched the stubble on his chin and sank against the throne. Prince Javen, my son, is cursed, and you may have the remedy.

Me? Tingles flowed over her scalp. But I have no magic, just music.

You have until sundown to cure him. I assume I do not have to tell you what will happen if you fail. He motioned toward the dead man and his xylophone.

If the xylophonist had failed, then what made the king think she could save the prince? She was just a bard, a singer of songs and teller of stories. The injustice of the king’s demands brought tears to her eyes. Her fingers tightened around the lute’s neck. Perhaps she should smash her beloved instrument in defiance, but she didn’t want to lose her head. My king, I have no magic. I can’t save him.

Take her to my son’s room. King Felix sighed. You have until sundown.

The guards dragged her between them.

Please, your majesty, release me. Her words went unheeded as she twisted in the guards’ grasp. Lyrica caught a fleeting glimpse of the king before she exited the room. His head was in his hands, and she could’ve sworn he was weeping. Was it for his son’s fate? Or his own?

Each step the guards took brought her closer to the prince’s room. What ailed the prince and why did the king think a musician could cure him? The guards’ faces betrayed no emotions. They would follow their king, even if he ordered their own deaths, but Lyrica wouldn’t give up.

I feel for the royal family’s plight, I do, but I cannot help them. Release me. I’m willing to do anything. You can have all my coins. She had very little money, but she would give it all to them.

They didn’t acknowledge her.

The king must be mad. He’ll kill me for nothing. She struggled, but their fingers tightened painfully upon her arms.

They stopped at an ornate wooden door. One of the guards opened it, and the other tossed her inside like a tavern keeper discarding a drunkard. Heat engulfed her, and she half-expected fire to surround her. The first guard, who had kind, sad eyes like a hunting dog, finally met her gaze. I’m sorry, Lady Bard.

The door closed with a resounding thud.

Lyrica removed her lute and set it upon the floor. Tears prickled her eyes. The overwhelming temperature from the roaring fire put her over the edge. She flung herself at the closed door.

Let me out! Don’t do this. Please let me go. She scratched at the door. Her nails left grooves in the soft wood, and a couple ripped and bled. After several minutes, she switched to pounding upon the door and continued to cry out, but the room’s warmth tired her too quickly. She rested her forehead against the boards. Please.

I am sorry my father has trapped you here, the prince called to her.

My prince, if I could save you, I would, but I don’t— She turned as she spoke, but when she saw him upon the bed, coherent speech fled.

Ice crystals coated his eyelashes and sealed his eyelids shut. Mist spurted from his mouth with each breath. The prince appeared like a fallen ice statue, despite the hearth’s roaring flames and blankets and furs draped over him. She shrieked until the yell sapped her remaining energy. Darkness collapsed around her as she drifted to the floor like a leaf in autumn.

◆

Lyrica was squashed between fire and ice. Perspiration dotted her brow, and she wiped it away with a shaking hand. She sat up, gasping at her near nakedness. Only her thin shift covered her, and it clung to her curves. Who had undressed her? Certainly not the prince! Perhaps a servant. If her face could get any warmer from her embarrassment, it would have. She turned toward the coolness exuding from her right side and noticed Javen again. She scurried away and stumbled off the bed.

Are you all right? His voice was barely above a whisper.

Yes. No! Lyrica pulled herself up and winced at her aching rump. Her fingers stroked the blankets. If it wasn’t so hot, she would cover herself. But what did it matter? The prince’s eyes were sealed. He couldn’t see her, and she relaxed. What happened to you?

Tell me your name. His icy breath sizzled in the heated air.

Lyrica. She nudged sweaty hair from her forehead.

A beautiful name. What do you play?

Lyrica glanced at her abandoned lute. It remained upon the floor where she’d left it, but she didn’t see her clothes.

Are you still there?

Yes, um, I sing and play the lute. She sank upon the edge of the bed. His gentle coolness seeped toward her, and she longed to soak it in. She would melt in this inferno. I can’t cure you.

No one can, except the one who cursed me. His sad tone plucked her heartstrings like a funeral song. The cold seizes me further. Can you bring me some soup?

Of course, my prince. She walked toward the flames like a bird flying into a windstorm. A broth boiled in a cauldron over the fire, and she scooped the liquid into a bowl. When she returned to the prince’s side, she paused. What shall I do?

Help me drink the broth. Don’t worry about it being too hot. Ice crystals sparkled upon his upper lip.

Lyrica hesitated, but then she slowly tilted the soup into his mouth. Steam clouded her vision. She waited to hear him scream, but it never happened. When he’d eaten the last drop, she set the bowl aside. The blue cold crept back and replaced the momentarily crimson lips.

Sit beside me, Lyrica. You must be too hot in this room.

She was. Perspiration trickled down her body, and she felt lightheaded. She crawled upon the bed. Her thigh brushed against his body, and his coldness relieved the heat.

May I tell you a story?

You are the prince. Although Lyrica couldn’t save him with her music, she would listen to him. Besides, she had until sundown before she would die. Her throat tightened with that thought. She didn’t want to die, but she couldn’t see a way around her inevitable fate.

Once upon a time—

Surely you don’t want to spend our last hours with a fairy tale. She scooted closer. The ice burned her, but she didn’t move away.

Don’t you believe in happy endings?

She used to, but now she wasn’t so certain. Go ahead and tell your tale.

Very well. Once upon a time, a princess fell in love with a kingdom not her own. She vowed her kingdom and the prince’s would be one, but the prince wasn’t persuaded by her charms, spells, or even a love potion. He thought he could fall in love with her because it was his duty to love his future queen. A breath stuttered through his hardening lips.

Perhaps you shouldn’t keep talking. She started to touch his cheek but stopped. Pitying him wouldn’t help her situation, and she needed to close off her heart to his plight. If she didn’t, she might go as mad as his father.

No, you need to understand why you will die at sundown. Javen’s words sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with his closeness.

Go on.

When he learned her plans to make his kingdom her own, he rejected her. The princess wouldn’t leave empty-handed, for she thought she could love him as much as his land. That spark of love turned to hatred most pure and dreadful. She cursed the prince and vowed only a magical tune may save him. He coughed. The prince had three days. Either his father would find someone to break the spell or give the kingdom to the princess and her mother.

How terrible! His three days and magical tune explained why the king’s guards had found her, why they took her to the castle upon the kingdom’s rocs. She leaned closer to him. How could this princess torture Prince Javen so cruelly? Do you believe she will let you—I mean, the prince—die?

Yes.

Lyrica bowed her head, and unshed tears burned her eyes. If I thought—

Worst of all, the prince could not truly love the princess, even if he desired to.

Why not?

His lips hardened into a sad smile. He loved another. Do you believe in love at first sight?

No. A lump formed in her throat.

I don’t either, but this prince fell in love with a lady bard’s voice several years ago. He only saw a flash of her golden hair before she disappeared, but he never forgot her. He— His lips froze shut.

Oh dear, let me help you. She hopped off the bed and braved the fire for another cup of broth. Her mind swirled with his last words. How many other blond-haired bards were in the kingdom? Did he speak of her? She used to play around the castle before settling in her quiet life in Greymist Forest. Her cheeks burned, and she shook away the wonder of his statement. She brushed the hot bowl against his lips until he was able to sip the liquid.

Thank you. He drank some more before he continued the story. He couldn’t love another until he learned what had happened to the musician. The princess knows. It’s probably why she cursed him so.

Prince Javen, do you remember anything else about this woman you love? She held her breath.

Like you, she played the lute. I could’ve sworn she was a siren or some forest nymph. He chuckled. But I think she was just a bard.

Lyrica couldn’t believe she was his fair bard but feared she would give him false hope. I can’t help you.

I understand.

She breathed in, and the fiery air singed her lungs. A cough overtook her until she nearly pressed her lips against the prince’s chest. His frozen form quenched her cough. She peered at him through her eyelashes. He must’ve been handsome before the curse and seemed kind-hearted, unlike his father, but perhaps the king grieved too fiercely over his son and his kingdom. Where is this princess from?

She is Princess Eirwyn from Wintermill. As soon as the sun departs for the Shadowlands, Foxwick will be part of that devastating land. Frost crystallized over his lips again.

She couldn’t move as she, too, felt frozen. Wintermill. The kingdom was more than devastating. In her travels, she had come across Wintermill’s border. The queen and princess would destroy them. Lyrica closed her eyes. Tears dripped upon the prince’s blankets, and she sniffled and wiped her damp cheeks. She rose from the bed and grabbed her lute from the floor. She would sing for the prince, even though it wouldn’t cure him. A song could do no more harm.

She padded across the hot floor and paused a moment at the lone window. The sun neared the horizon, her life’s end looming closer. Where had these last few hours gone? She shoved away a fresh onslaught of tears. Pull yourself together, Lyrica. Her fingers danced over the lute’s strings as she tuned the instrument. She sank upon the bed beside the prince.

It’s almost sundown, but you have graced me with a story, so I will sing you a song. She dampened her lips, and with a deep breath, she sang:

"A young man once lost his love.

She disappeared without any trace

And entered the Shadowlands

Lost to him for all time.

O, he was cursed in love,

Dying day by day.

This young man journeyed to find

His lost love

In the one place no mortal dared to tread.

O, he was cursed in love,

Dying day by day.

That young man entered the Shadowlands

And found his love divine.

But Death was too proud to return what he stole.

O, he was cursed in love,

Dying day by day.

So the man seized his sword and fought for love.

Death died that day.

The young man reached immortality

With his love by his side.

O, he was cursed no longer,

And as Death, he lives with his love…

Forever."

Her voice drifted on the last note. She set the lute against the wall by the window. Her head tilted toward the prince. The sun is gone, and we both shall follow.

She moved to his bedside. No longer did misty breath push from his lips. She’d failed. Her hand darted out, and she brushed her fingertips against his cold cheek.

I’m so sorry, Prince Javen. She leaned over and pressed a kiss against his forehead.

Bang!

Lyrica jerked away from him as guards entered the room. Her gaze darted around for a chance to escape, but she saw none. They seized her. While they dragged her away to the throne room and her impending death, she cried out, Prince Javen, I’m sorry.

◆

The guards shoved Lyrica to the floor. The stone bit into her knees, and she glared at the mica patterns within the marble. Princess Eirwyn towered over her and grabbed Lyrica’s chin. To her left, the executioner wielded his ax, now clean of blood. Lyrica hoped it was sharp. The bard met the princess’s gaze. She could imagine how Prince Javen must’ve felt when the young princess cursed him.

So you are the peasant who captured the prince’s heart? A pity you both will die. Eirwyn’s voice lilted in cruel musicality. Her dagger-like nails broke Lyrica’s skin, and Lyrica sucked in a breath as the wound burned. Warm blood trickled down her neck.

Princess Eirwyn, free my son and keep your word. I have the documents drawn to give you and your mother control over Foxwick. The king sighed, as if the world had crashed upon him. Lyrica supposed it had, but she couldn’t let the king think his son still lived.

Your majesty, the prince is—

Silence, Bard. Magic flashed from Eirwyn’s fingertips, and Lyrica jerked back in pain. The princess laughed. You’re mistaken, King Felix. Foxwick is just mine. Vereina is no longer queen.

Lyrica gasped along with the king and the guards. Only the executioner didn’t react to the news. He cleaned his dirty fingernails with the ax’s tip.

You have my sympathies over your mother’s passing. The king bowed his head. Please save my son and the kingdom is yours.

Eirwyn released Lyrica. A sneer ruined what could’ve been a lovely face. The princess—now queen—twisted a blue strand of hair around her finger. I want to see this wench’s pretty head parted from her body first. Kill the bard, and I’ll save your son.

The king hesitated. Very well. Executioner, do what you must.

As you wish, your majesty. The man seized Lyrica’s hair and twisted it roughly into a knot upon her head. Elongate your neck, dearie.

Lyrica’s breath caught in her chest. This was it. Would she see her parents in the Shadowlands? Her life was forfeit in a power struggle not her own. The king would do anything to save his son, including killing her and destroying his kingdom. Lyrica stretched her neck. Would her head bounce like the xylophonist’s had? The poor man.

She was next.

Hold still. The executioner touched the blade to her neck before he lifted the ax high above his head.

Eirwyn rubbed her hands with glee.

Lyrica closed her eyes. Please let his aim be true. The blade whooshed toward her.

Stop!

The ax struck the stone floor, sparks flying from the collision.

How could this be! Eirwyn shrieked.

Lyrica opened her eyes and saw Prince Javen—completely cured from his frozen predicament—standing in the doorway.

Guards, seize her. King Felix pointed a bony finger at Eirwyn.

The guards moved in, including the executioner.

Eirwyn backed away. This isn’t over. Foxwick will be mine.

The executioner swung his ax toward the woman, and she dodged the weapon. With a clap of her hands, Queen Eirwyn disappeared from the castle in a puff of icy mist.

Lyrica bowed her head. Her body shook, but strong arms wrapped around her.

You’re safe now. The prince embraced her, and Lyrica melted against him.

You’re alive. Her voice came out in the barest whisper. How the prince had survived she didn’t know. Had she saved him? Did the spell wear off? Tell me the ending to your story, Prince Javen.

His lips brushed against her ear, and her breath hitched. He took her hands in his and said, Oh, it’s a happy ending. The lady bard sang a song, played her lute, and saved the prince. He was cursed no longer, and he lived happy with his love… forever.

Sword Master

Fallon had never seen so much blood. It splattered the walls of the ladies’ embroidery room and seeped into the rugs. He skirted around an overturned chair. A handkerchief caught his attention, and he picked it up. Princess Umbria’s delicate touch had crafted the fox upon the fabric, the creature now blood-drenched. He tiptoed around the chaos as best he could to the cloth-draped bodies.

Four corpses lay prone upon the floor, but they were a small number of the ones killed in the attack. He’d already seen King Javen’s body. While Fallon had hunted in Greymist Forest, Wintermill’s assassins had murdered the elderly king in the throne room along with three guards before they continued their rampage throughout the castle.

Why had Wintermill attacked now? Fallon dug his nails into his palms. Five years had passed since Queen Eirwyn had tried to use dragons to threaten Foxwick. As far as Fallon knew, no one had heard from the sorceress queen since then.

He clenched his jaw as he knelt beside the first corpse and peeked under the cloth. The woman had once been a blonde, but now red coated her strands. He’d barely known the lady-in-waiting assigned to nine-year-old Princess Umbria. The fabric slipped from his fingers and covered her. He stood and moved to the next body, but this woman was a lady-in-waiting assigned to Umbria’s mother, Princess Kalinda.

The other two bodies had to be Princess Kalinda herself and Prince Tristan. Fallon’s hand hovered over the cloth. He breathed in to quell the shaking, but his fingers still trembled. If only he hadn’t been away from the castle, he could’ve stopped these assassinations. As sword master, it was his duty to keep the royal family safe. With both cloths in hand, he revealed the corpses of the prince and princess at the same time.

Prince Tristan’s crown had fallen off. His face appeared lax in death, almost as if he slept. Although Fallon didn’t move the sheet lower, he had heard the prince’s wounds were in his abdomen and back. He’d been trying to protect his wife and daughter. If Fallon had been there, would the prince have succeeded?

Princess Kalinda’s black hair had come loose from her extravagant braid. Her eyes remained open, unseeing, and Fallon reached down and closed the lids. She appeared so pale, even her normal ruby red lips had drained of color. He swallowed his grief. Those lips reminded Fallon of his wife’s when she died in childbirth last year along with their son.

He covered the royals and stood too quickly. The room spun in his vision, and he gripped a nearby chair to steady himself. What good was a sword master who had never fought in a battle? Fallon needed to pull himself together and be strong. Foxwick had been on the edge of war many times. The kingdom would find a way to thrive under Prince—no, now King—Leon’s reign.

Fallon would have to help the nineteen-year-old king. Although Fallon had failed the majority of the royal family, two royals remained. King Leon and Princess Umbria were his main priority. War was brewing, but Fallon wouldn’t stand by and watch Foxwick fall.

◆

Servants had moved the bodies and scrubbed the last traces of the attack from the throne room. Thorne, head of the household staff for as long as Fallon had been in the castle, and Fallon stood before King Leon. Except for the king’s scribe who wasn’t present, the rest of the advisors hadn’t survived the assault. The throne looked grander than the young man sitting in it. Fallon couldn’t imagine everything the kingdom needed.

Have the citizens been notified to journey to the castle? King Leon shifted in the chair, his grandfather’s crown sliding over his brow.

Yes, King Leon. Thorne bowed like a hinged board. We are also setting up facilities for our citizens upon the grounds so they’ll be comfortable behind the castle walls in the event of a siege.

Thank you, Master Thorne. The new king pushed up the crown. Sweat beaded upon his forehead and shimmered in the candlelight. See that we requisition supplies from the townspeople. Let them make note of what we take. We’ll reimburse them.

Yes, my king. Master Thorne waited until King Leon waved him away to his tasks.

Fallon’s heart pounded now he was left alone with his former pupil. His failure to protect the royal family suffocated him. Would Leon blame him as he did himself?

Master Fallon, come closer. Leon beckoned him.

Your majesty, how may I serve you? Fallon took a few steps and lowered his head in respect.

Where were you, Master Fallon, when Wintermill’s assassins slaughtered my family? Leon rose and gripped the hilt of his sword.

King Javen had given me leave to hunt and enjoy a day’s rest. Shame rose fierce within him. Hours