The 24-Karat King: Royal Pains, #7

By Roberta Olsen Major

A flick of the wrist, an unlucky roll of the dice, and Wren's mother loses a gamble that changes the course of the kingdom forever. Can one small, lame girl soften the hard heart of the king of Nimblick, or will his greed destroy her?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597053679

Book preview

What They Are Saying About Rising Star

Roberta Olsen Major

T he Prince In The Flower Bed is smart, hip and hysterical.

—Rob. Lauer,

award-winning playwright

...filled with real personalities, interesting twists, imaginative details—and just the right touch of magic.

—Rosemarie Howard,

Storyteller

With wit and humor that will appeal to every kid and every one who ever was a kid, including those of us wishing we could be kids again, Roberta Major has woven another tale in her fairy tale series...that will leave you begging: WHERE’S THE NEXT ONE???

—Sara V. Olds,

author of Hanne’s Farewell To Juarez

"For ‘kids’ of all ages, The Seventh Dwarf is a delightful tale that kept me smiling from cover to cover. Not unlike the immensely popular and entertaining Shrek, Dwarf takes ‘happily ever after’ a hop, skip and a jump farther, leading the child in us all on a merry romp through ‘what if’."

—Pam Ripling,

author of LOCKER SHOCK!

Royal Pains:  Book 7

The 24-Karat King

Roberta Olsen Major

A Wings ePress, Inc.

Young Adult Novel

Editor: Christie Kraemer

Copy Editor: Leslie Hodges

Senior Editor: Robbin Major

Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

Cover Artist: Pat Evans

All rights reserved

NAMES, CHARACTERS AND incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Wings ePress Books

Copyright © 2008 by Roberta Olsen Major

ISBN:  978-1-59705-367-9

Published In the United States Of America

Wings ePress Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS  67114

Dedication

For all the musicians who have provided the musical score for my life’s journey

For choir and musical theatre directors, like Dulles Diva Jennifer Hutson and the late Mark Ogden

For voice teachers with hearts of gold and nerves of steel, like Matt Bean, God bless you!

For all the singers who fill my iPod, including but not limited to: Donny Osmond, Elton John, John Denver, Jim Henson, and the casts of The Scarlet Pimpernel, Carnival, Jane Eyre, Godspell, Joseph & the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and Aida.

For Geordan, percussionist, who rattles the roof and with whom there is never a dull moment

For Annie, pianist/guitarist/vocalist/composer, and light of the world

And, always, for Joe, who accompanied me while I washed the dishes, and taught the dog to play Scrabble

One

My mother was what you might call a betting woman.

Before I was born, she bet the dark-skinned stranger would take her with him if she gave him everything she had worth giving.

She lost.

When I was a baby, she bet the color of my skin would fade and I would look pale as cream like all the other villagers’ children by the time I was toddling.

Lost again.

She bet the tunes I hummed before I could even speak would disappear when I found my words.

She lost that one, too.

She bet the lamed leg, broken as the village midwife yanked me sideways from the womb, would grow straight and strong.

Nope.

She bet that, sooner or later, people would stop staring at me, other children would play with me, I would grow up happily enough in the village where I was born, that I would marry, and raise children of my own.

She lost everything on that one.

But it wasn’t just the big things she laid wager on. No, if I dropped my bread, she’d bet on which side would hit the dirt, and if I’d be able to rescue it before it was stolen by a stray cat or starving cur. If I skinned a knee, she’d wager on how long it would take to heal. She’d bet on whether the baker was going to extend us credit today, on how many potatoes we were going to have dug up from the garden by the end of the week, on when it would rain, or when the first spring flowers would push through the soil of the garden.

She lost all those bets—but it was of no consequence, because she was only betting with me, and I never pressed her to pay.

And if that was as far as it went, what was the harm?

But no, she had to bet with the biddies about whether So-and-So was going to give birth to a boy or girl. And that cost her a bundle, because there was always somebody about to give birth in our village, and Mam always got it wrong.

She stopped in at the tavern from time to time, and hovered around the dice-throwers and the card-players, though I tugged on her hand and begged her to come home. But her itch for wagering got the better of her there, and many times, she lost every last copper we’d scrabbled so hard to earn, and we had to go hungry for the week.

Still, it was only coppers. There were always more to be earned by hard work and long hours—and Mam was a hard worker when the betting sickness wasn’t on her.

But then there was the time that she’d already lost her coppers, so she ran home and gathered up what trinkets she could find and ran back. She lost them all in less than a quarter of an hour—even the ivory comb and looking glass no bigger than the palm of a baby’s hand, the only things (aside from me) she’d got from that dark stranger in exchange for the only true treasure she had to give him.

It was like a fever then, the wagering, and like a fever, it made those close to her sick as well.

I’ve nothing left to wager, she would cry when the dice fell against her, as they always did.

One of your little Wren’s songs then, a villager would suggest from time to time. For don’t they fall like gold from such a little basket as she?

And so she would bet, and so she would lose, and so I would sing, my voice far bigger than my body. The betting lust would cool in my mam’s eyes as the song wove around her, the villagers’ faces would soften, someone might even press a piece of bread into my hand, or an apple, or a copper coin. Limping on my crooked leg, I would tug my mam’s hand, leading her home in the hush of silence that fell after the last golden note stilled.

No good would come of this. I knew it, even as a child, and even more so as I ripened to that all-knowing age of young womanhood.

A stranger came to our village when I was half-past twelve. He wore rich fabrics that looked soft to the touch, though his face was sharp as the cliffs of far off Matrinko Mountain.

Did I mention Mam’s weakness for strangers?

One moment I was singing a funny little tune about what we would eat for supper, Mam’s hand swinging mine, humming affection like a warming spell between us, and the next moment she was tugging me into the tavern, fondling the dice like they were housecats, and putting everything she had on the table.

Which, of course, she promptly lost.

But her eyes were over-bright with the fever and throw again she must.

But what will you wager? the stranger asked, his own eyes glowing with an unholy light, though his voice was calm.

Myself, Mam said, bold as you please, as if her work-worn body and fever-bright eyes were worth the ransom of kings.

The stranger shook his head.

I breathed my relief.

But, My girl child, Mam said next, desperation in her eyes and voice.

I shrank back into the shadows, the hum dying in my throat. I drew my cloak around me as if I could hide, but it was too late. The stranger’s pale gaze was upon me, his eyes narrowing.

Mam, I whispered. I tried to summon a song, but my throat froze, tried to hum, but no sound would rise up from the small cold lump that was once my heart.

Done, said the stranger to my mother as he took up the dice.

One dot and three he threw, and I breathed a little easier. Almost could I feel a note of relief rise from my expanding heart. Even Mam, with her miserable luck, ought to be able to throw higher than four.

Her hand trembling, her eyes aglow with the betting sickness, she caught up the dice and threw them on the wooden table, where they skittered for what seemed like an hour.

At last, they stopped.

One dot and two.

The note of hope slunk back down my throat and hid its face in a shadowed corner of my heart.

Mam had lost again.

And the stranger reached into the shadows and plucked me forward into the light.

There was a stillness in the tavern.

Mam shook her head as if to clear it of some fog, and opened her mouth—to protest, I like to think, or to make some cry of remorse—but it was too late. The stranger was on his feet, bowing his thanks to my mother and the tavern keeper, and dragging me out with him into the star-spangled night.

He jerked me to him and, even at half-twelve, I knew enough of the ways of men and strangers to fear what was next.

My fear strengthened me. I curved my fingers into claws, prepared to scratch his face with them—but he only tossed me up onto his horse and mounted after, his arms around me as secure and impersonal as rope. Then he dug his booted heels into the ribs of the beast and we were off into the night, leaving behind the tavern and my mam and the village forever.

There was no kindness in him, the stranger, but I sensed no malice directed at me either. He spared me no words. My frozen heart melted just enough for a small hum to creep up my throat. If I could sing to him, I knew he would never harm me.

But at the first notes, the man dug into his pockets and extracted twin twists of wool, which he inserted matter-of-factly into his ears to block the sound so that my music could not reach him. It could only comfort me—and I hardly thought I was worth it. Still, I hummed under my breath and allowed the sound to wrap around me like a shawl. The horse’s ears twitched, so maybe it wasn’t altogether wasted.

I expected to miss my mam, but discovered I was an unnatural child in more ways than one, for the night air cooled my cheeks as I huddled in my cloak, the lullaby in my throat soothed me, and the gait of the horse lulled me into the sleep of a baby cradled in a loving mother’s arms.

I was half-twelve—and the night my mam lost me to the roll of the dice was the deepest sleep of my life.

Two

W ake up. The fingers were smooth against my cheek, though the slap that followed stung.

I came awake like a swimmer breaking the surface of a pond, gulping in a draught of air, and found I had nestled my cheek against the rich fabric of the stranger’s waistcoat. It was the fabric that drew me, for the chest beneath had nothing of softness or welcome to it.