The Heir of Argetallams: Argetallam Saga, #7

By Elisabeth Wheatley

Janir and her people are now the world's last hope against Malkalar's sorcery. The battle for Staspin was won, but at great cost. Over the mountains, a remnant of elves has barely survived the plague sent by their former prince. Brevia is scattered and divided in the wake of losing their king. 

Even with the aid of the Argetallams, the allies fail to turn back Malkalar's witchcraft. Growing desperate, they are left to seek an ancient power none of them can control, none can withstand, and none can predict. Only one thing is for sure—ending Malkalar's life will cost Janir her own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elisabeth Wheatley
• Release date: Mar 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386005681

Elisabeth Wheatley

Elisabeth Wheatley is a fantasy author because warrior princess wasn’t an option. She loves tea and is always praying for her readers. 

Book preview

The Heir of Argetallams

By Elisabeth Wheatley

Copyright 2019 Elisabeth Wheatley

First Edition

All rights reserved

Published by Avowed Publishing and Media, LLC

To endings and beginnings

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Other works by the author

Chapter One

Are they gone? Saoven glanced down the hallway behind them.

One moment. Janir marched on, head held high in the proper fashion until the presence of the two Argetallam nobles faded behind them. Yes. She hooked her arm through his, resting her cheek on his shoulder.

Saoven kissed her temple. You were splendid.

Janir wrinkled her nose. But I can’t take your word for that.

Why not?

Because you love me.

Saoven chuckled, pulling her closer.

We have one hour before we have to be at the banquet, Kanicaid interjected. Not that I don’t enjoy watching the pair of you philander or anything.

We should get you back to your chambers quickly if you want to get out of that. Saoven gestured to Janir’s coronation dress.

According to tradition, one always wore black to coronations in Adasha out of respect for the previous presiding Argetallam. Janir’s gown shimmered like polished ebony, tight through the bust and waist, but flowing through the sleeves and skirt. The collar rose halfway up her neck in a narrow band, much more concealing than the usual Argetallam fashion.

It was a lovely dress and Saoven seemed to appreciate it, but Janir had been in it for hours. She had ridden out of the city at noon and begun a series of prayers and rites at the mausoleums of her father and brother.

Their permanent tombs were under construction, but for now they rested in the crypts in the necropolis not far from the royal cemetery. Janir fell silent.

Janir? Saoven peered at her with concern. Are you alright?

Yes, Janir quickly answered. There is just something I have to do before we go to the banquet.

You’d better be quick, Cyrilius muttered, waves of annoyance tainting his swelling pride. We don’t have much time.

Time—no, that was something they didn’t have much of at all.

♦♦♦

The stewards had expected Janir to give Saoven her brother’s rooms. They were relatively close to hers and spacious, but Janir had wanted Saoven to have a separate bed about as much as she wanted to evict Genvissa from Lucan’s rooms.

Janir slipped inside Lucan’s old apartment, her hair set loose beneath the silver crown. Her gown fluttered as she crossed the threshold, Cyrilius muttering how they would all be late. Saoven shot him a glare and went ahead, saying he would meet her there and would hopefully distract people from her absence for a while.

Thanking him, Janir shut the door of what had once been Lucan’s apartment, blocking out Cyrilius’ grumblings. Her brother’s rooms were unchanged from when he’d lived, aside from the black curtains and the incense burning before all the windows and doorways. Apparently, both were Tathansian tradition.

Osima, an elderly slave, bowed to Janir. Domina Argetallam. Lady Genvissa is in the bower with the little one.

Janir inclined her head. Thank you. She picked her way around the burning incense stand, letting the bondswoman pass.

The bower was an alcove halfway on the balcony and halfway inside. The latticework enclosed them in with tangled with jasmine vines.

Janir found Genvissa in the glow of an oil lamp on a cushioned couch. The young mother rocked a bundle against her breast, humming a lullaby. By all appearances, the tiny bundle was fast asleep.

Genvissa.

The other woman looked up. Domina Argetallam. She inclined her head.

Janir took a place across from Genvissa on the couch. I just wanted to come and see how you and the little one are. I know things have been...difficult. And I have been distracted.

You are the leader of an entire race now, Genvissa said. There is much to distract you.

All the same. Janir folded her hands in her lap. Are you well? Is there anything I can do?

Genvissa shook her head with a weariness too deep for words. Caring for her firstborn had fallen to her even as she mourned the baby’s father.

Janir exhaled. According to the laws of Staspin, Janir was now responsible for both Genvissa and Lucan’s daughter. Though even if she hadn’t been obligated, she would have seen them looked after.

I would like to call her Lucera, Genvissa said. If you would allow it.

You want to name her after Lucan. It was not a question.

Yes. Genvissa averted her gaze to the child. I want her to grow up with a part of him, however small. She pressed the tiny bundle just a little closer and took a sudden gulp of air.

I can think of nothing better. Janir rested a hand on the other girl’s arm. No matter what, you can be sure she’ll know he was a great man. Kinder than he could show and as brave a warrior there was.

Genvissa clenched her eyes shut.

Janir hesitated. You know that I can read Argetallams now. She hesitated just a moment. I had the chance to read Lucan that night and... Janir blinked quickly. ...he wasn’t afraid of death or even failing the race of Argetallam. He thought only of protecting you.

Genvissa offered a smile through her tears. Thank you.

Janir squeezed the other girl’s shoulder one last time, making to rise.

You are leaving for Brevia in two days?

Janir nodded, standing as she kept her gaze upon the incense burners. I hope that they will be more conducive to an alliance now that...there has been a change in our leadership.

With a heavy sigh, she smeared a hand over her face. In truth, she didn’t know if Armandius would listen to her or not. He couldn’t seem to grasp the depth at which she was bound to the race of Argetallam. She wondered if it was wishful thinking, hoping that he would listen to her just because her father was dead.

Janir bit her lip. She mourned her father just as she mourned Lucan. It had been nine days since their deaths had sent her reeling to the ground. Nine days to grieve in accordance with Argetallam tradition before a coronation.

If he is not?

Then I will find another way.

Do not misunderstand me, Domina.

Janir winced at the title. She no longer had a name to the race of Argetallam, only in the lineages, records of bloodlines, and histories of events before her coronation would she be listed as Janir. From now on, she was the Domina and the Thirty-Second Presiding Argetallam.

But it is my wish that your power never passes to my daughter.

Janir watched the small bundle slumbering in the cradle of Genvissa’s arms. An ache wound its way through her chest, the yearning for something she’d desired since she’d been old enough to know what it was.

This mantle isn’t something I would cast on any child. Certainly not her own, but if she should be blessed with them, there would be no other option. Good night, Genvissa. If you or Lucera requires anything, you need only ask.

Thank you, Domina.

Janir inclined her head, wishing that Genvissa would address her by her name. But the stewards and Janir had already had a good long argument over this. As one under Janir’s protection and part of her household, Genvissa was expected to show the proper respect.

Some changes needed to be handled by degrees.

As quietly as she could manage, Janir made her way out of the apartment, trying not to wake the baby. Outside, she found Cyrilius and Kanicaid waiting for her along with the rest of her Honor Guard. Several men and women who had served her father were now to accompany her whenever she ventured through the palace.

It was with heavy feet and drooping eyelids that Janir made her way to the banquet hall. She had been awake since dawn and hardly had a moment’s rest since. Tomorrow, the servants had orders not to disturb her before noon.

Janir reached the banquet hall, stopping by a side gallery as had been the plan. Fumbling servants appeared to drape chains of silver around her neck and waist. Bracelets, rings, and a moonstone-studded ear cuff were slipped into place as they checked her hair one last time. Cyrilius remained with her while the others waited outside.

All the nobles have been summoned for the meeting tomorrow?

As you commanded, my domina.

Janir managed not to flinch at the title this time.

All is ready for our departure as well.

Janir pursed her mouth into a hard line. She hated leaving so soon. There was still so much to be sorted out here and she wasn’t sure it was wise. At the back of her mind, there was still the matter of what would happen if she were killed. Not only would all chances of a Brevian alliance be ended, but Saoven would be alone, Lucera would be presiding Argetallam, and as an infant, she would require a regent. That alone could start a civil war.

The fact remained, a Brevian alliance was the only chance either the Argetallams or the Brevians had. Not to mention she was the only one who could hope to secure that alliance.

When Janir stepped out of the dressing room, she glittered. Cyrilius and the others fell in around her as she approached the doors. Cyrilius signaled to the waiting herald.

Was it her imagination, or did the herald appear to be sweating? She was probably late, but she wasn’t allowed to apologize—for appearance’s sake.

The trumpets sounded and on the other side, the booming voice of the herald rang through. Make way for the Domina Argetallam, mistress of the Staspin Waste, chatelaine of Adasha, and ruler of the mighty race of Argetallam!

The way parted before her as the massive oaken doors swung back, revealing a room filled with splendor and precious stones. The banquet hall overflowed with light, glinting jewelry, fine silks, sweet wines, and sumptuous foods. Not as sumptuous as it might have been, because Janir had ordered the rationing to continue.

Janir strode into the room, moving as she had once seen her father do. She came to a halt on the jade tiles, the silver of her ornaments catching the light.

As one, the whole of the room fell to their knees. Not a one hesitated.

Janir could feel their emotions lapping against her—the hope, the faith, that sliver of doubt that ran in the undercurrents. Who could blame them? Janir was young, untried, and already had a reputation for holding Brevian ideals. It was only expected that they had their doubts.

Rise, Janir said after a few moments. Carry on. She motioned to the flute players and harpists at the back of the hall. Continue.

She braced herself as an influx of well wishers crowded around her, bowing, complimenting, asking after the rebuilding of the northern wall or the Weaver’s District. After greeting the first few subjects, she began to search the room for Saoven. He was nowhere in sight, lost to the crowd as best she could gather. She thought he might be across the room or caught in the throng of Argetallams, but as she finished with the requisite well wishing and moved to take her place at the high table, she found his throne at her left empty.

Janir settled into her own throne with as much coolness as she could muster. She sat through dances, one very long poem recitation, and more brief conversations with various nobles and notables.

After offering her condolences to yet another grieving father—his son had been killed in the collapse of the northwestern wall—Janir turned to Cyrilius. Where is Saoven?

The mortahn shook his head. I was wondering as much, my lady.

Send someone to find him.

As you wish. Cyrilius whirled on a lower ranking member of the Guard and clipped a short string of instructions.

He returned to his post at her side just as she finished receiving the gift of a jeweled pair of bracers, the precious stones set into an elaborate mosaic depicting her victory over the Stlavish—a version of it, anyway. The handiwork was exquisite and would have to have been completed in less than a week, but Janir couldn’t stand the sight of it. The glorified images of dying Stlavish men and crushed corpses, her own figure glorified in a beam of light, almost deified, was so contrary to how she remembered that day.

I’m sure it is nothing to concern yourself with, my lady, Cyrilius said.

Saoven? Janir couldn’t help another furtive glance around the room.

I have no doubts he had his reasons, Cyrilius replied. His emotions were for the most part in keeping with his words, but a vein of annoyance pulsed beneath the surface.

Janir wondered if that annoyance was meant for her or her husband. It would only take a little for her to reach into Cyrilius’ mind and—no. Not only was that a violation of the man’s privacy, but once she pulled one Argetallam’s thoughts into her head, the rest had a way of flooding in.

Janir greeted a wealthy merchant woman from the Lower District. Despite her advancing years, the mortana had never experienced the Riangar before the night Janir called her and every other Argetallam into it. Like so many others, she was in a state of awe and amazement. People already seemed to consider Janir a walking legend.

Out of the corner of her eye, Janir spotted a messenger returning. He delivered his news to the lesser Guard who in turn carried it to Cyrilius.

The merchant finished detailing how she had been more powerful than she could have possibly imagined and Janir was a thing to strike fear in the mightiest warrior. At last, she finished, moving away.

Motioning for Kanicaid to wait before allowing the next man to pass, Janir twisted around to Cyrilius. Well?

The mortahn stooped, speaking into her ear. Camlann is fine. He is seeing to a messenger that arrived for him and will explain himself tonight. Cyrilius straightened. At least he had better.

What was that?

Nothing, Cyrilius answered. I’m just irked he’s missing your coronation feast, is all.

The list of possible reasons Saoven would skip her coronation festivities was rather short. The list of things not requiring her immediate attention was even shorter.

For now, all she could do was carry on with greeting her subjects and hope her worst imaginings weren’t true.

Chapter Two

Janir didn’t return to her chambers until well after midnight but found her apartment empty. She dismissed her guards, even Cyrilius, telling them to get some rest. Aside from the first shift chosen to guard outside her door, the others stumbled off to their respective beds. Janir bid them goodnight and settled in the sitting room to wait for Saoven.

She must have fallen asleep, because she woke when he scooped her up off the couch, carrying her to bed. Her addled mind couldn’t remember just why she had been on the couch to begin with and she fell back into an exhausted sleep.

The rattling of china woke her to daylight. Janir laid still with her eyes closed, the toll of the past two days holding her down like a brick.

An arm slid around her waist, pulling her back against a solid chest. I’m sorry, my love, but there are a few thousand people who need you.

Janir twisted partway, blinking away the last hints of sleep. Saoven. She shifted, forcing herself onto her elbows.

Through the open door, she could see the servants were already setting up her breakfast, scurrying about like mice. The fully risen sun filtered through the curtains, so Saoven had waited at least until midmorning to wake her.

Where were you last night?

She flicked her gaze over him. There were dark crescents beneath his eyes—the more time went by, the more mortal he became.

Saoven sighed. Get dressed, he said. There’s someone here to see you before you meet with the nobles.

Janir frowned. Who?

Luana.

Luana? Janir scrambled out of the bed, stumbling across the room to her garderobe. Why didn’t you tell me last night?

There was nothing that you could have done last night. We both agreed on that. We wanted to let you rest.

Saoven’s excuses only annoyed her. It was one thing to deny an explanation for an absence, quite another to have a poor explanation.

He followed her into the garderobe, bracing a palm against the top of the doorframe as she tore out of her halter dress and searched for something fresh. Janir, you have been burning the candle at both ends. You needed your rest. There was nothing you could have done last night.

Janir huffed.

I wanted to tell you straight away, but I knew you wouldn’t be sleeping after you heard why she came.

Janir hesitated as she secured the ties of a fresh halter dress. What news?

Saoven smeared a hand over his face. You remember the plague that killed Guindol?

Janir didn’t think she would ever forget. Of course.

"I think