Canellian Eye: Chosen: Canellian Eye, #3

By Caroline Noe

Survive the impossible in the stunning conclusion to the Canellian Eye saga.

Fleeing into the desert to escape the wrath of his brother, the once prince ekes out a harsh existence, forever hiding his true skin.

The new king takes his throne, embodying everything he vowed never to be, crushed beneath his own rage.

Canellian slavery grinds ever onward, despite the mounting death toll of the Rebellion. Its Great Prophecy has burned to ash, along with those believed to be the Eye.

But, deep in the Unknown, something moves. The concealed past is about to rise. A Power beyond words will finally make the choice and…

Skies will fall.

 

268 pages

 

Praise for Canellian Eye: Chosen

The best sci fi story I have had the pleasure to read. Ever.

A shock ending that had me gaping with astonishment.

The end was mouth dropping stunning and done with unforgettable flair.

Gripping and intriguing.

 

About the Author

Caroline Noe lives in London, juggling the writing of fantasy and science fiction novels with her other great love: photography. When she's not scratching holes in notebooks, she can be found standing on her head, straining for the best shot.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Caroline Noe
• Release date: Jul 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223336105

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The ancient dungeon welcomed the creaking and grinding of bones. Worn out muscles and joints groaned in harmony with shrieking hinges as the corroded iron door crawled open.

I’m too old for this, thought Ilvaas, rubbing his aching shoulder and straining to recall where all the years had fled. He should be dancing in the sand that lined the corridor, twirling instruments of agony and laughing maniacally, like a villain of old. Instead, he felt tired and defeated, despite having been vindicated in his paranoia.

He had already kicked and punched the traitorous changer, the false Healer Cal, expecting to feel relief or, at least, a modicum of entertainment, but all he had achieved was a strained knee and screaming shoulder muscles. He could leave it to his accompanying guards, let someone younger do further leg work, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe that torturing the Canellian and Princess Drel wouldn’t deliver the satisfaction he craved. After all, Drel had been an irritating thorn in his side for decades.

The squeal of rusty hinges made him shiver, even though it was still as hot as a furnace down here. Locked into a darkened cell in his mind, lay a skinny, terrified boy, his back lacerated by a leather belt, the edge of the buckle tattooed into his thigh.

Caring is weak and weakness gets you dead, his father’s voice boomed across death’s void. He had silenced that voice with a knife to the back. That crime hadn’t given him much satisfaction, either.

The door finally ground open far enough for Ilvaas and his two guards to squeeze through and enter the cell. The flame from a solitary candle cast weak shadows on crumbling walls, engulfing what little starlight penetrated through the skylight. Even so, it barely provided enough illumination to see the occupants. The hanging silence fled at the crunch of footsteps, but neither stirred as he approached.

Ilvaas leaned closer, examining the faces of the ageing Canellian and his still beautiful ebony Princess, her head resting on his chest, eyelids shutting out the night.

How can they sleep? thought Ilvaas. They must know what I’m about to do to them.

Their peaceful faces carried no tension, as though carved from moss covered wood by the hand of a benevolent artist. There was even a trace of a smile lurking on the Canellian’s lips.

Why does he look so familiar?

A flash of memory shot through Ilvaas’s mind and he snapped bolt upright, vaguely recalling a face, standing beside his Leader. The long dead friend of Quaylan was clearly not so dead, after all. What was his name? Frace, Frate?

Frayn. He’s been hiding behind Cal for a long time, no doubt blocking every test, protecting his fellow changers.

Ilvaas stared at their hands, fingers intertwined as though merging their bodies.

So, Drel has more than one Canellian lover.

Wake up, traitors, he snarled, expecting a sudden show of fear.

Neither victim moved, or even twitched. He kicked Drel in the thigh. Her head slipped forward on the Canellian’s chest, but still she didn’t wake. Ilvaas placed his palm over her mouth and nose. Nothing. No warmth or passing breath. Refusing to believe what he knew to be true, he shook her shoulders, jumping back as her body slumped face down on the filthy floor.

Grasping Frayn’s wispy hair, Ilvaas jerked the head back and pulled up an eyelid. The jade iris was almost invisible, engulfed by the dilated pupil. His own reflection stared back at him, distorted within the dead eye.

Rage mixed with revulsion cascaded through his body. Before his brain could process the action, Ilvaas smashed Frayn’s head against the wall, over and over; the need to despoil the body and erase his smile consuming every rational thought. When no recognisable features remained, the waiting guards decided they had let this go on long enough and prised open his fist.

Ilvaas wasn’t prone to critical self reflection, but his prey’s easy deaths made him hate with a level of venom previously reserved for his foul parents. He told himself it was because they had escaped justice but, in the far recesses of his soul, where that lonely child shivered, the sight of their clasped hands had cracked open a frozen heart and leaked a long forgotten emotion:

Fear.

*  *  *

Somewhere between the gruesome cell and the Council Room, rationality returned to the mind of the snake. Wiping blood and congealed brain matter on the uniform of the nearest guard, Ilvaas considered how best to deliver bad news to the young king and, more importantly, the populace, many of whom already quivered with uncertainty, following rumours of King Brewan’s assassination and the inexplicable actions of Prince Gwel. The sudden death of another member of the Royal Family would hardly inspire confidence. Still, there were ways of spinning that to their advantage. Blame it on the Canellians, perhaps? A double murder of the Princess and the Chief Physician laid at the door of the rebels might evoke sympathy. A few guards knew the truth, but he could easily impress upon them the importance of keeping quiet, for the sake of their health.

Ilvaas sighed as he oiled his way along the corridor. The most interesting question could not be answered, now the conspirators were dead.

Who is Gwel and what was he doing in the Palace?

Wait. Who was that man?

Ilvaas stalled so suddenly that a guard nearly crashed into the back of him, before shuffling sideways like a terrified crab.

Ilvaas pointed at the mortified guard. You.

Sorry sir. You stopped...

The night of the Palace assault, who was that man who wanted to go after Princess Drel? Bald. Beard. Tattoo of a snake down his arm.

He’s her driver, sir, the guard flapped, desperate to redeem himself. I don’t know his name. I can find out.

A malevolent smile leaked from Ilvaas’s gaze and dribbled down to his mouth.

Find him.

*  *  *

It was too quiet to sleep. An eerie, doom laden silence hung over the entire city, even this packed, haphazard, festering corner of it. Ever since the shots rang out and the stampede started, terror had gripped the Elyacian people, rich and poor alike, most of whom now cowered in their mansions and hovels. The continued silence from the Palace had the effect of broadcasting the people’s worst fears; Brewan was dead and his teenage son, now king.

Not that this restless non sleeper particularly cared about the king, whoever that might be. His fears were reserved for a certain princess, hidden from sight behind the sandstone wall. The Palace remained in total lockdown, cut off from its guards and staff, abandoning the people to rumour.

Pilot sat up and swung his legs over the side of his rickety wooden bed.

Pilot. That’s all I answer to since Drel barrelled her way into my life. I barely remember my real name.

The day’s events had been extraordinary, even by his standard. When the terrified Canellian girl was dragged in front of the crowd, only to be rescued by none other than Prince Gwel, the outcome confused and shocked everyone, including himself. Anger at the boy’s reckless actions soon cooled to the piercing ache of worry. He waited, hoping Gwel would come to him for help, but there was no sign of him, or the girl. For all he knew, the prince had returned to the Palace and his family.

Pilot paced the boundaries of the tiny room, round and round, his body mirroring the chaotic churning within. He remembered leaving Canellia as an orphan, barely mourning the passing of a generation, left behind to their fate. He had liked and cared for his shipmates, but they were never family. It took an ebony skinned alien and a golden eyed boy to teach him the meaning of that word. He had hidden it, of course, his silence allowing Drel and Frayn to find their passion and peace in each other’s hearts, but she always knew the truth. If she called, he would give his life to protect her and Gwel.

But where are they?

A sudden scrape cut through the silence, magnified by the tension in his nerves. He tipped his head, straining to locate the sound, but could hear nothing. Strange bangs and rattles were hardly rare inside these houses; wrecks cobbled together with wood, stone and bits of refuse; walls leaning on one another like drunken revellers.

Slipping into his shoes and a linen shirt, he peeped out of the sand blasted window. Seepage from the screens in the Market Square cast flickering colours over the narrow street below, revealing nothing but a stray rat, digging for scraps. He was turning away, annoyed at his own jittery nerves, when a shadow flitted past the corner of his eye. Standing back, beyond the edge of the window, he made out the silhouette of a man, hiding in the shadows. Another scrape came from behind him, sounding closer, inside the house.

Pilot tiptoed over to the bed, dropped to his knees and peered beneath the warped frame. Reaching between wooden slats, he pulled a long blade from its hiding place and tucked it into the waistband of his trousers. A creak and whisper betrayed the presence of intruders, creeping up the stairs.

They’ll be armed. I can’t go that way. The window.

Pilot peered down at the guard keeping watch from street level. If he climbed out of the window and dropped, the man would have enough time to raise the alarm, or fire. The roof was the better choice, as long as he scrambled out of sniper angle before the guard reacted.

Throwing open the window, Pilot stuck his head through the gap, just as the door burst open and three guards hurtled into the room, one after another. He grabbed the upper ledge and hauled himself onto the roof, dragging his legs clear as the guards opened fire. Glass shattered and sprayed into the street. The sniper was lining up the fleeing prey in his gunsight, when the jagged shower landed and he crouched, shielding his face.

Slipping and sliding on crumbling tiles, Pilot staggered over the roof and flung himself across the gap to a neighbouring terrace. Landing with a painful crunch on sandstone blocks, he glanced behind him. Unwilling to follow in his precarious footsteps, the guards raced down the stairs and hurtled back onto the street, finding the sniper shaking glass from his hair. Lights popped on all over the neighbourhood as gunfire and shouting woke the nervous and curious faces swam in and out of view behind quivering curtains.

Pilot took off across the terrace, jumping from balcony to roof in a well rehearsed, if dangerous route. He always knew they would come for him, one day, and had planned his hazardous escape across the night sky. Tiles slipped, stone crumbled and wood creaked, throwing him off balance and threatening to toss him over the edge, but still he fled.

Somewhere between the maze of back alleys and the Market Square, Pilot slipped the noose and lost his disappointed hunters, leaving them wandering around abandoned stalls, wondering how to explain this outcome to an already seething Ilvaas. The successful fugitive silently dropped to street level and doubled back on his route, disappearing into comforting darkness to gather his breath and thoughts.

Crouching behind piles of rotting rubbish, he willed the change, feeling the snake tattoo writhe and dissolve into forest green skin. His bald head grew waves of hair, as though seaweed invaded his skull, and rough features smoothed into a softer face. He was no longer quite as tall or muscular as his Elyacian alter ego, but it wasn’t the loss of familiar strength that twisted his two hearts with grief. There was no returning to the identity he inhabited for decades; an identity so well-worn, he barely knew how to function outside of it; barely remembered what it was to walk in daylight in his own skin. Would Drel peer into these jade eyes and still see her loyal friend?

It makes no difference, he announced to his own mind. Something has changed; I can feel it. I should return to the camp and my own kind. I will return. But first, I must know what happened to her, and Gwel. I can’t just abandon them. I need to know they’re safe... and to do that, I need a new face.

*  *  *

Pilot hid in the shadows, watching a guard relieving himself, watering some poor Elyacian’s canvas and wood hovel with foul smelling urine. Pilot glanced up and down the alley, searching for his friends, but the guard was alone. He knew he should hurry; there was no guarantee the guard would remain isolated. Still, he hesitated to commit another abomination.

Decades before, he murdered the owner of the snake tattoo at the behest of a teenage Prophet, who barely outlived that order. The harridan who threatened to betray Gwel went the way of poison. Now he must steal another face from an unsuspecting soul.

An enemy. One who thinks nothing of the slaves beneath his boot.

Pilot clamped a hand over the guard’s mouth and smashed his head against the wall, cracking his skull, before thrusting a knife into his heart. When the body crumpled, he pulled up the sleeve of his uniform and laid a hand against sticky skin, embracing the genetic markers. The stench of alcohol and stale sweat made him gag as the revolting transformation spread across his body. Green skin morphed into patches of brown, like an ailing tree, and matted hair sprouted on his body and inside his nose. His height shrank and width spread as he unbuttoned and removed the reeking uniform from his dying victim.

I look and smell like a drunken yamii, he thought, pulling up stained trousers with a grimace.

Transformation complete, he piled rubbish over the body and left the alley. The teeth of hungry vermin plunged into their feast as his footsteps faded away.

*  *  *

Where have you been? a rat-faced guard asked him, as he squelched back to his two waiting colleagues. The feral questioner leant against the Palace wall, picking the rot out a of week old sandwich.

Not well, Pilot whimpered.

None of us feel well drinking this swill, his razor thin friend laughed, holding up two mugs, his spiky hair standing so straight he resembled a pitchfork. He thrust a mug into Pilot’s hands. Here, get that down you.

So as to prevent suspicion, Pilot took a sip of the mouldy yellow liquid. The smell alone should have warned him the wine wasn’t fit for consumption, but the rancid burning as it passed down his throat proved it. He spluttered and vomited, enduring another round of throat searing on its way out.

Pitchfork jumped back to avoid the spray and spilled his own cup down his uniform. Great. Now I’ve got to spend all night wearing it.

You’d better pray Ilvaas doesn’t come out here to check up on you, Ratface remarked, spitting a piece of curled up meat past Pilot’s ear.

Pitchfork glared at him. No-one’s coming out the Palace. Least of all Ilvaas. Too busy crawling to the new king. And figuring out how to kill Canellians, slowly.

Anyone seen any Royals? Pilot ventured.

Not since Brewan croaked, Pitchfork replied.

You don’t know that, for sure, muttered Ratface.

Rendo’s sister was there, cleaning, before they threw everyone out, Pitchfork announced. "She said the balcony was swimming in blood. Veltoc’s now king, for sure.

Pilot’s borrowed heart speeded up. Is anyone watching them? The queen, Princess Drel?

Drel? What for? Ratface answered. They ain’t leaving the cell anytime soon. Only feet first.

They? Please, not Gwel; not my boy.

Pitchfork peered at Pilot’s face. You alright?

I’m fine, Pilot snapped. Just tired.

You hardly done anything, Ratface sneered. Spend more time drinking and peeing than working. We should be out with the others. Never hunted a prince before.

A guard poked his head around the corner and waved at them.

Rendo? Pitchfork said, lobbing his cup into the dirt. What’s he want?

Rendo scowled and beckoned them over. Ratface and Pitchfork exchanged a look, sighed and headed in his direction, leaving Pilot no choice but to follow. As he rounded the wall and caught sight of the Palace, terror screamed at him to turn tail and run. Standing in the Palace doorway, hands clasped behind his back, was Ilvaas.

*  *  *

Glass shattered against the wall, followed by squelching fruit, a dented metal tray, three pieces of crockery and a framed photograph. The thrower was on the short side and stocky, but his arm and range were enhanced by white hot rage.

You let this happen, the new king hollered. You left them alone.

I did, Your Majesty. I underestimated them, which was my mistake. Ilvaas feigned contrition, but stood his ground, even when Veltoc loomed up in his face.

We’ll never get the truth now, you idiot.

He’ll be found without them. Your brother is the most recognisable Elyacian on the planet. Next to yourself, of course. It’s only a matter of time before he’s located.

Assuming he’s not Canellian, Veltoc shouted. Why save that child if he’s one of us? Why run?

He ran because you tried to kill him, ventured a soft, feminine voice with the quality of iron. Queen Tooyla stood at the threshold, surveying the breakage before staring at her red faced son. Perhaps he saved the child as a matter of conscience.

Conscience? Veltoc shrieked. My father is dead.

I’m aware of that, Tooyla replied, the slightest waver in her voice betraying the maelstrom of emotion within. You are now king. Act like it.

Pardon me if I’m a little put out, Veltoc snarled and stamped on the fallen photo frame, grinding his parents’ wedding picture into the glass. My so called brother betrayed us, most likely with my aunt’s approval. She decided to die with her lover rather than face us.

What?

Drel and Cal are dead. That clear enough for you?

Tooyla rounded on Ilvaas, the rage springing into her face mirroring her son’s.

You murdered them already? What did you do?

He didn’t have time, Veltoc told her, throwing himself into a chair and thumping his boots onto the table. He let them escape justice by committing suicide. Cowards and traitors.

Healer Cal reverted to his Canellian form, Ilvaas interjected. I recognised him as the one called Frayn. He was the adviser to Quaylan, when they first arrived.

Wasn’t he supposed to have died? Veltoc asked, leaning down to grab a rolling fruit. He bit into it as though ripping flesh from his enemies.

Apparently not.

Veltoc glared at his First Minister. Hunt them all down, Ilvaas. Find who killed my father. Get my brother back here. Test everyone.

In the Palace?

Everyone. Every guard, worker and council member. Then test them again, over and over. No-one gets to me unless they’ve been tested first, including you. Understand?

I do, Majesty, Ilvaas said, bowing his head. As his gaze returned to eye level, he caught a look crossing the face of the dowager queen.

Was that terror?

Her expression returned to neutral anger so swiftly that the change was almost indiscernible, but Ilvaas had spent a lifetime in poisonous intrigue. He filed it away for future reference and turned his attention back to the monarch.

We should dispose of the bodies as quickly as possible, Majesty. Before questions can be asked. The people will have to be told of your father’s death and Prince Gwel’s flight, but knowledge of Drel and Cal’s betrayal might strip the Palace of all credibility.

Dump the bodies in the desert, Veltoc snapped.

I agree, but you must give an ascension speech soon. Tell the people Princess Drel and Chief Physician Cal were shot by rebels.

Tooyla rested her hands on the back of a chair to steady herself. Drel should be cremated in the same ceremony as the king.

Never, Veltoc snarled, his feet flying off the table and crunching onto the debris strewn floor. Throw her to the sand snakes.

We can keep the cremation of King Brewan private, Ilvaas suggested, and tell the people that a public ceremony for the king and Princess Drel would be unsafe for them at present.

The guards?

Will do as they’re told and keep their mouths shut.

Do it now, Veltoc ordered. I want them gone. Mother, go back and sit with father ‘til morning. It’s all the time you have.

Won’t you come with me? Tooyla asked, holding out her hand.

No. The past is over and done. Veltoc swept from the room, pausing only to fling back, And find my... Gwel.

As the king’s footsteps echoed down the corridor, Ilvaas bowed to Tooyla, but his gaze never left her face.

Is there something you want, Minister? she braved, raising her chin in defiance.

Only to express my deepest sympathy, he replied, surprising her. He almost sounded sincere. Brewan became a good king. Life may now be rather more chaotic... I wouldn’t have killed Drel, you know. She was far more use to me alive. My queen.

Ilvaas bowed and left the room, leaving behind a shaken woman.

Does he know? Does he suspect she was my mother?

*  *  *

Ilvaas marched down the corridor and pointed a finger at the nearest guard. He didn’t have many to choose from, most having been expelled in the wake of betrayal; at least until mass testing could begin in earnest.

You. Come with me, he ordered. Find some help from the guards outside.

Rendo jumped to attention and scarpered out of the main door without the customary genuflecting or delivery of Yes, sir. He was beyond nervous after this evening’s events, having already seen too much for his comfort or safety. Observant guards had a habit of disappearing around Ilvaas.

The First Minister clasped his hands behind his back and utilised the waiting time with thoughts of Queen Tooyla. She was scared and it was more than the recent loss of family, traumatic as that may be. He suspected another layer of secrets lay buried beneath the nauseating romance of Frayn and Drel and the intrigue of the young prince, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It was as though he had all the components for the equation, but they were not yet in the right order.

He unclasped his hands as the jittery guard returned, towing three revolting specimens, one of whom resembled a walking yamii and smelt like a distillery. Mentally filing a note that discipline amongst the guards was to be dramatically tightened, Ilvaas looked them up and down and watched them squirm.

You’re going down to the cells to dispose of two bodies. You’ll wrap them, drive for an hour exactly and dump them in the sand dunes. You will not speak at any time during this operation and will never again refer to it. Failure to comply in the slightest detail will result in your occupation of that cell for the remainder of your life. Am I understood?

Pitchfork opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. Ratface was already frantically nodding his head like a dashboard ornament.

Pilot peered at his despised enemy through narrowing eyes and wondered how quickly he could break the First Minister’s neck with his bare hands.

How you feel about this scum doesn’t matter, he reminded himself. I’m here to find Drel. He said two bodies in the cell. It can’t be her. She’s royalty. He’d never dare. It’s not her. It’s not.

The mantra repeated inside his brain, over and over, as they traversed the corridor and headed down stone steps to the gothic gloom of subterranean cells. He could barely breathe from the stench of evil permeating the walls. Too many of his people had died here.

Too many of my people have died on this forsaken, foul planet. Please, not Drel.

She is not your people, whispered the spectres of Istran and Quaylan.

But you both loved her, he reminded them.

And we are dead. Do not join us.

The door to the cell had been left wide open, delivering a clear message: anyone inside was no longer capable of escape. Pilot felt a grinding ache grasp his heart and spread through every sinew, as he prepared for the worst. Dying inside, he turned the corner and entered the cell.

Her body lay face down in the dirt, but he knew it was her. He knew every line of her body and streak of grey in her hair. The mutilated face of the male Canellian, slumped beside her, meant the body could only be identified by his clothes. Pilot knew it must be Frayn.

Tragedy swamped reason and threatened to break out in a rage that would kill everyone around him, but he heard her voice, gently caressing his thoughts.

I’m dead, Pilot. You can’t help me. Protect our boy.

Memories floated to the surface on waves of the past: a flight on a dark, dangerous night; a