House of Moye

By D. M. Arney

"Soon rocks sprang up from the ground and heaved themselves around her, upward, ever upward. That night a castle grew, its lowest depths the tomb of the bloody king and the daughter he sacrificed to give his people haven. And everywhere his blood was spilt, horrid, wretched trees sprang up. From his spoiled life, his people were hedged in, safe from all that might seek them from without.

But in the tomb, the little girl waits ... and soon she will be waking."

Deirdre is surviving. She survived her parents death and the ascension of her horrible Uncle to the family throne. She survived the death of her love, Dalton. But can she survive what is coming for her now?

A thousand year old pact is starting to unravel with a force beyond anything even her powerful magic abilities can handle. Her insular life, the princess in the tower, is fast coming to an end. She will have to fight to live another day, but first she'll have to face down family secrets, and the past she's tried so hard to survive already.

This paranormal thriller is based in the Xanatos Realm of books, but introduces a completely new character, the strong but insulated Princess Deirdre. Even if you've never read the other books, this is a fun and fast thrill ride through powerful evil forces and supernatural devices.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. M. Arney Books
• Release date: Jan 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781477579831

Book preview

prologue

1000 years ago

Daddy, please!!! screamed the young girl, barely eleven, as the rough acolytes drug her into the stoney maw, encircled by those ominous stones that had stood nearly un-aged since before there was time. Don't let them take me, please, Daddy!!!

A king, broken at his core, watched them take away his daughter, a wooden wand shaking in his frustrated fingers as her screams came up at him from the deep tunnel, circling lower and lower, perhaps to the pits of hell themselves.

Others stood by and watched. They watched him, knowing what a terrible price had been called for to raise the future. To keep them hedged about and safe from harm. Many who watched had paid the price with older children, some fully grown. A first born was all the ancient thing required, one from each lord or lady, one for each family come together for the first time since they could remember.

But the broken king had only one to give, and his grief was terrible. Her screams became even louder, god alone knew what happened deep inside the earth. He trembled as she repeated his name again and again and again.

Some raised their wands just a bit higher, ready to stop him, seeing perhaps their own desires written on every inch of his tortured face. Sweat dripping from his flaring nostrils, as the torture continued deep within the ancient cage.

Curse us all! he cried at the top of his lungs, rushing forward into the dark stone archway that lead down, down into the earth. Others flung out their wands, firing spells and curses intended to stop him. But something overtook him, made him invincible to their attempts, something so deep they had all searched for it, and at last, from the tortured screams of his only child, this broken king had attained enlightenment.

At the threshold he stopped, forced to hold by a steely grip none could see, but it ripped at his skin, bloodied and broke his bones. He cried out and then all sound was sucked from him as his little girl walked forth into the moonlight.

It is finished, she said, a cool, collected voice so much not her own. I see one of you lost faith.

She twisted and turned the now bloody king about, exsanguinating him upon the farthest reaches of the island that circled her. When he was withered and held to this world only by this unseen creatures horrid grip, the little girl laughed. She reached back her head and laughed, scattering all those who dared to look upon her.

Soon rocks sprang up from the ground and heaved themselves around her, upward, ever upward. That night a castle grew, its lowest depths the tomb of the bloody king and the daughter he sacrificed to give his people haven. And everywhere his blood was spilt, horrid, wretched trees sprang up. From his spoiled life, his people were hedged in, safe from all that might seek them from without.

But in the tomb, the little girl waits ... and soon she will be waking.

one

But in the tomb, the little girl waits, said Deirdre, her best, scariest voice coming from deep within her as she gazed at the terrified little children gathered near the castle's largest fire place. And soon she will be waking.

Ah! they screamed as she delivered the last line, crazed shock and glee from their favorite scary story.

When All Hallows Eve approaches, she warned them, a smile in her lips. The Bloody King returns to look for first borns to take. Beware, children, beware.

Tell it again, Lady Deirdre, said a little boy of seven, his wand held tightly to his chest.

Time for bed, she said, standing up and shooing the ruffians away. Now off to bed, and remember to honor the goddess, all of you, or I'll tell the Bloody King which of you were born first.

This terrified every last one of them, being orphans they had no idea whether they were first born or not. And they all believed that Lady Deirdre's weird powers could do anything their small minds might imagine. They scattered back down the long hallways leading to the dormitories and the Wardens' watchful eyes.

Filling their head with nonsense again, said a very handsome young man, some few years older than Deirdre, as he approached her from behind a tapestry, having exited one of the numerous secret passages the castle held. We humans are so amazing. We find a magical isle, we make our home here, one of safety and security, and invent crazed and horrid stories to explain it. What does that tell you about us?

That you, Peter, have no imagination, said Deirdre, slightly teasing, perhaps a little flirtatious. It's no wonder you haven't a drop of magical ability in you.

I prefer arms to wands, said Peter gallantly, his bow still strapped to his back. Beside, that dark ringing forest out there doesn't hold half as many dangers when you've nothing for the creatures to sniff out. While you all live your whole lives, trapped in little pockets, I'm free to roam about this rather large island.

And yet you still keep coming back here, said Deirdre, touching a tender point beneath Peter's brave facade. Surely it's not my dear Uncle's warm hospitality.

No, said Peter, a little more reserved now. I don't think it is.

He's away, she said quickly, not wishing to be alone with Peter too much longer. If you have business, you are welcome to stay in the stables. I know you care for your horse more than life itself. I'm afraid the guest rooms are being refitted for the gathering, or I'd offer you the smallest of them.

Ever so gracious, Milady, said Peter with a low bow. I think I'll look up an old mate or two, however. When does Lord Moye return?

On the morrow, said Deirdre, cringing ever so slightly at the title her Uncle had inherited from her own, beloved father. Just ahead of his guests, as always. I've no idea where he's gone or why, so please don't belabor your visit with more questions.

I think you'd like to be rid of me, Milady, said Peter playfully. You only have to speak your desire, and I will make it so.

Please leave, said Deirdre, growing intolerably flustered by the charming young man's presence. Go and revel, but make sure you are clean and sober before you seek an audience with my Uncle. He is growing less forgiving with each passing day.

I can't remember him ever forgiving anyone, said Peter thoughtfully.

Nor can I, said Deirdre, deciding that she would have to leave him. Good night.

Milady, he said, again with a deep bow as she left the warmth of the fire light and headed in the same direction as the children had gone. But she did not follow them through the great doors that opened into the cathedral size training room. Instead she slipped quietly past them, nodding to the Warden stationed by the door and took a sharp left turn down a very narrow passage that was carefully concealed behind a pillar so that you had to actually slip behind it to even know the passage existed.

She knew every single inch of this castle, at least she thought she did. Every few months though, something subtle would shift and change. Nobody talked about it, not even when the library had been lost for two weeks. But she knew the castle was alive. She knew the stories were not just poppycock as Peter believed. There was a truth in them, though probably not as bloody and horrid as the children liked to hear.

Quickly now, because she did not like the way the walls closed in on her, she scampered through the narrow passage and exited onto the wider, winding staircase that rose up into the higher levels of the castle, the now ancient House of Moye, as the rest of her fellow wizards called it. There were other castles, but none like this one. And none of them the seat of power for the council, at the head of which sat her Uncle.

When he'd ascended to take her father's place, he had taken over the royal apartment for himself, and Deirdre was left with the southwest tower, the oldest and seemingly stationary part of the castle. She'd found records, drawings of the castle over the hundreds of years her family had lived in it. It had grown larger with each generation, adding towers and even the training center for the orphans. But always the southwest tower remained, a fixed point from which the rest of the now massive structure grew.

Because it was so old, it was only accessible by dark passages, long forgotten by the servants and stewards, save those that waited on her. And it was always up to her to show those new to her service exactly how to navigate the maze that led in and out of her private chambers. Even the oldest and most faithful of her servants, dearest Roger, would sometimes find himself lost, though Deirdre suspected that was more the addling of age than anything else. He was slowly loosing his mind, and it saddened her greatly, as he was as close as her own father had been, and the last link to her parents she had left.

She exited the winding staircase and entered a broad hallway where portraits of all the Great Moye's stared out at her, captured as life like as they could have been, perhaps with bits of magic woven into the oils and pigments. She thought she could hear them sometimes, especially at the witching hour. And it was not uncommon for their spirits to roam the halls at night, this being the most likely place to see them, somehow tied to their pictures. Her Uncle had them moved here from the Royal Apartment close to ten years ago, and that seemed to have disturbed them greatly.

Keeping her eyes down, she passed them as quickly as her overlarge dress and uncomfortable shoes would let her. Many of her servants fled in terror after answering just one nightly call. So she was used to fetching things for herself once the sun went down. Truthfully, she liked to be in her tower by the setting of the sun if she could help it, but she loved the orphans more than she minded the bother of restless sprits.

Beside, they felt like family, and in a way they were her family. Though she secretly wished her mother or father might one night be waiting for her. To see their smiling faces again, to feel the touch of their hands on her shoulder, or the nape of her neck. Telling her that it would all be fine. Even telling her why they had taken her in all those years ago, and why they had not decreed she should succeed them when they died.

Not that the council would have stood for such a thing, the blood lines were to remain pure, especially the House of Moye, the strongest of them all. Of course, her Uncle was without heir, so the House was in danger of falling whenever he did. Though she suspected he was vile enough to live for at least another two hundred years. Roger had to be well beyond a hundred now, so it wasn't unheard of for wizards to prolong their lives simply because of their affinity with magic.

She passed a lonely looking ghost, a child that was too busy staring out the enormous floor to ceiling windows, her little eyes locked on the dark and often deadly forest of snarled trees. Deirdre saw her so often she imagined the girl might have been called Kirsten, and because she stared so often into the forest, it must be that she met her end among their entrapping arms.

Hello, Kirsten, she said, stopping for a moment, wondering if there was some way to break the poor child's earth bound spell. What do you see tonight.

The white beast comes, said the ghost, startling Deirdre nearly to death. The girl, turned and looked at her, then vanished from sight.

Deirdre was trembling now, and truly afraid. Shaking from head to foot she ran the rest of the way to the tower's main door, slamming it hard with the force of her mind and hurrying up the five flights to the very top where her room was. She bolted the door and then incanted several different magical locks, some the wizards taught, and others she discovered all on her own.

Not truly feeling safe, she at least felt secure enough to pour a glass of wine and sit nervously upon her chair. It was over-large and she curled herself into it, tucking her legs up under her and not caring how wrinkled her dress may be getting. Rocking slightly, she sipped the wine, the color of blood, but dark in taste like her brooding mood.

What troubles you my love, said the voice of a younger man, barely sixteen, but his presence was almost intoxicating.

Kirsten, that little ghost, said Deirdre, still trembling though she couldn't figure out why. She spoke to me. I don't know why it frightened me so, but I can't stop trembling.

Here, said the young man, offering his hand, this face hidden in the darkness of the room, only his lower body visible in the moon light from the window whose shade was drawn down low. He was naked, but she didn't seem to notice that. I'll make you feel better. I always do.

Deirdre took it, and like a spell she was enraptured into his arms. He moved his mouth like a song and seemed to undo her