The Bad Heir Day: Royal Pains, #8

By Roberta Olsen Major

Every day is a dull day, now that King Ardour has everything in the kingdom under control--everything, that is, except for his children… King Ardour may rule by the power of his sword, but it is his daughter, Wisteria, who safeguards the family—and the future—with a powerful weapon of her own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597054249

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!

Once I reacquired TIES from my granddaughter, I found myself being highly entertained... It was much more of an attention-getter than James Mitchner... Major is a talented author who gives her readers the opportunity to partake of sheer reading for pleasure... style, composition and wild imagination... I love reading a book where the good guys win and the bad ones go to that place where bad guys will reside for all eternity...

—a reader from Texas

I just finished TIES over the weekend! What a great book. I just loved it. I just love the subtleties...such a delightful band of characters! Harry is a loverly hero!!

—a reader from California

Royal Pains:  Book 8

The Bad Heir Day

Roberta Olsen Major

A Wings ePress, Inc.

Young Adult Fantasy Novel

Edited by: Sara V. Olds

Copy Edited by: Jeanne Howard

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 © 2009 by

ISBN:  978-1-59705-424-9-

Published In the United States Of America

Wings ePress Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

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Dedication

For all those who await the return of a prodigal, who keep the faith and the home fires burning, and who live in hope of a happy ending.

In memory of Joe, who lived the life of a very Good Heir.

Prologue

In the barren place called Moor Dour a screech rent the air, like a combination of rusty hinges forced open against their will, torn fingernails on slate and the bitter squabbling of stinking peasants fighting over a crust of moldy bread.

A sluggish wind picked up a whiff of the accompanying miasma and blew itself north to escape the stench. Even the stunted shrubbery in its path seemed to hunch down and fold in upon itself, as if to cower from whatever hid within the unwholesome draft.

The tower of Moor Dour, a dismal, decaying wart on a briar-tangled hill, shuddered. Unholy light flickered in the dark window slits. Green flames erupted from the barricade of thorny vines, crackling and emitting sulfurous fumes. In a sudden roar that rattled the bones of every skulking, scrawny creature within thirty leagues, the structure came apart, crumbling into a fetid, smoking heap. Surely nothing could survive such destruction for, when the dust settled, nothing remained but ash-shrouded rubble.

But furtive shadows slipped from the stinking heap that once was Moor Dour Tower, scattering to the four points of the compass, leaving smoky footprints behind in the sullen ash of the charred briars.

Far away, in the still-verdant kingdom of Wist, a short-statured gardener paused over a tightly curled, dew-kissed rosebud. He winced, as if pricked, and shut his deep-set eyes. A long moment passed before he could manage a steadying breath.

Roses, for all their delicate beauty, are stronger than they look, he reminded himself.

Though no shadow yet darkened his domain, the gardener knew what had just been unleashed, just as he knew what was to come. That knowing was both blessing and curse.

The gardener straightened his shoulders and reached to pinch off the dead head of a neighboring bloom. The spent blossom went into the mulching basket, just as morning sun spilled over the tidy chaos of the gardens of Wisteria’s Keep.

Part One:

The Tower of King Ardour

Children of Ardour and Liha:

Jenagret, First Daughter

Pax, First Son

Belamue, Second Daughter

Child of Ardour and Rikel:

Wisteria, First Daughter

Children of Ardour and Jobena:

Vexto, First Son

Lux, Second Son

Gustus, Third Son

One

Four hundred years earlier...

My mother was dead.

I was six when her heart ceased beating; now I was sixteen. I’d lost her too many years ago for tears, though there were days, like this one, when I wished for the power to bring her back. At the very least, had she not died, I’d be without three troublesome half-brothers, with time on my hands to do whatever pleased me. Watching over the three troublesome half-brothers did not please me. I strongly suspected it never would.

It took two hours, but I finally cornered Vexto, the last of the three littles to be scrubbed from dusty head to grubby foot. I am nine! he shrieked. I can wash myself, Wisteria!

I tweaked his ear and vigorously applied the soaped cloth to the small onion field growing in the dirt behind it. Can and will are two different stories, Vexto. You could, but didn’t, so now I must.

I was still a few inches taller than Vexto, though all three littles were growing quickly. I didn’t doubt that they would one day reach King Ardour’s lofty heights. By that time, I hoped they would be in the habit of scrubbing themselves clean for the annual Festival of the Greening.

Vexto sank lower into the wooden tub, sulking. I don’t see why we have to be clean for the festival. Lux will get a bloody nose and Gustus will just spill food all over himself, so it’s a waste of water.

You are a son of the King, I reminded him. You have to set a good example.

He jerked away from my soaping cloth, splashing water all over the front of my robe. At least you’re getting a bath at the same time, he jeered.

I pushed his head down—to get his hair wet, or perhaps to drown him, something I had contemplated many times over the course of his nine-year life. He came up sputtering, so I applied soap, paying particular attention to his open mouth.

At last, the task was done for another year.

I jumped back as he surged from the tub, grabbed for a drying cloth and rained curses on my head. I sat back on my heels and watched him stomp away, his face red with temper and scrubbing. Then I rubbed my wet sleeve over my sweating face. The stone floor was awash in gritty water, the tub almost empty.

My own bathwater would be cold by now. But refreshing, I told myself grimly.

The festival would start just before midday, with the binding to begin as the sun reached its zenith.

A noon-high binding was supposed to symbolize bright days ahead, or some such silliness, but all the symbolism in the world hadn’t helped Ardour’s last two attempts to bind himself to a new bride. It was if his good fortune was all spent in pursuit of unifying the kingdom, with none left over to spill onto the heads of his subsequent brides and children.

His last two brides were young. Too young, I’d thought both times, scarcely older than his daughters. Though he chose them for their youth and bloom, each bride died of a mysterious taint just a few moonspans after the bindings. Each bride was with child at the Festival of the Greening, as was Ardour’s tradition, but neither infant survived.

It was selfish, but I couldn’t help but feel relief that