The Emerald Sea: An Epic Fantasy Romance: Realm of Bennington, #2

By K. Stan Tinos

"The Emerald Sea," the second book in the Bennington series, plunges readers into a world teeming with rich atmosphere and gripping intrigue. Join Lord Willenborg and Lord Arron as they navigate treacherous landscapes and face the mysteries and dangers lurking within the fog-shrouded hills and dense forests on their journey to Rosymorn.

 

In Rosymorn, a vivid and bustling marketplace, the contrast between the lively activity and the inner turmoil of Salea Rumshi creates a compelling backdrop for the unfolding drama. As Salea grapples with her own identity in a world undergoing profound change, she finds herself inexorably drawn to the enigmatic figure of the new Lord and the transformative impact he has on Emerald Grove.

 

Tensions reach a boiling point as the occupying lords attempt to impose their statutes on the resistant villagers, sparking shouts of rebellion and setting the stage for a dramatic confrontation. Against a backdrop of escalating conflict, the knights stand ready for battle while the Lord struggles to maintain control, fueling the palpable sense of tension and uncertainty.

 

At its core, "The Emerald Sea" delves into the internal conflicts of its characters as they navigate the murky waters of deception, betrayal, and self-discovery. As readers journey deeper into the heart of Rosymorn, they are thrust into a world where secrets abound and dangers lurk at every turn, keeping them on the edge of their seats until the very end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pocket Book
• Release date: Feb 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224871872

Book preview

The Emerald Sea: An Epic Fantasy Romance

K. Stan Tinos

Pocket

Copyright © 2024 K. Stan Tinois

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

I dedicate this book to my family, both immediate and work-related. Without

them, I would have completed this novel a few years sooner. May God watch over them!

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Conclusion

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Books by K. Stan Tinos

Chapter One

The fog was the worst so far. Shadows and fog danced together, twirling like a whirlpool, and the once calm atmosphere turned into gale-forced winds, chilling everyone to the bone despite the protective layers of linen and wool.

How could this once fertile land look so wilted?

A trick of the magical realm, no doubt, to lull us into a false sense of reality.

Hearing the exchange behind him, Lord Willenborg allowed a faint smile of irony to crest his lips. He frowned almost instantly after that and shifted in his saddle. His eyes, so dark as to appear bottomless, narrowed slightly while they scanned the surrounding countryside. It was a wild, undeveloped land spread before them. Rolling hills were mantled in thick grass, dense forests that still offered a canopy of leaves despite the lateness of the season, and sparkling springs that fractured the sweeping meadows.

There are rumors that these woods are inhabited by fairy folk. Riding at Willenborg’s side, much like he had done for many years, Lord Arron nodded toward the nearby forest. A paradise of spirits both good and evil.

A gateway to a distant realm, more like, muttered Willenborg.

Pray that they don’t hear of your ingratitude, my old friend, Arron responded sarcastically.

Ah, but I am grateful. Once again, with a slight hint of amusement, almost mocking, set aglow with the intensity of his gaze. Grateful enough to risk death in these foreign lands.

Willenborg tightened his grip on the reins and glanced back over his shoulder. Nearly forty knights and squires had decided to come with him. Riding in a double column along a narrow, cobblestone pathway, they were fully prepared to follow wherever their Lord led.

The late afternoon sun broke through the fog for a fleeting moment, lighting fire to his long, dark hair and beard. He was tall and powerfully built, his face chiseled with determination, and his manner was one of utmost confidence.

Unless I’m mistaken, Willenborg, we are almost at our final destination, Arron noted with a wry smile of his own. He, too, had instinctively lifted his head to the brief appearance of the benevolent warmth of the sun’s rays. Even taller than the man he was riding beside him, his worn face creased as he muttered, Rosymorn, a curious name.

No more curious, I’ll wager, than the cottages and farmlands of Emerald Grove, Willenborg replied as his gaze scanned the horizon.

The fog had reclaimed its treasure as the sun was no longer in view, returning the chill, gray, and unwelcome pallor to the sky above. In the distance, the destination they were riding toward rose like a monstrous, sprawling structure situated atop a broad highland at the joining of two rivers. Towers and ramparts lifted upward out of the fortress walls that were more than a hundred feet high to pierce the fog-shrouded gray of the mid-afternoon sky. Apparently, the gates had been opened in full anticipation of the new Lord’s arrival, yet no one ventured forth to welcome him as he approached. Banners should have been flying from the ramparts. There were none.

To the east was the main village, nestled in a valley near a river, a tidy collection of cottages and shops with cobbled pathways; it was the very definition of rural quaintness. Strangely, however, there were no signs of activity amongst the townsfolk in what should have been the busiest time of day. There was no one crossing to-and-fro the various shops, no one harvesting crops, no children playing or animals scampering about. If not for several columns of smoke being whipped aloft from several cottages, Willenborg would have thought he was surveying a ghost town.

A sudden, sharp uneasiness crept over him, but he urged his steed forward through the gate. Without hesitation, his entourage followed. Their horses’ hooves thundered along the cobbled pathways to announce their arrival into the central courtyard. They were met with an almost eerie silence. The courtyard was deserted. Yet even worse was that the spacious, muddied courtyard was filled with broken furniture, fetid vegetation, animal manure, and stagnant water—combined to produce a ferocious stench.

Willenborg drew his steed to a halt and swung down from its saddle. His eyes gleamed harshly. A single muscle twitched in the ruggedness of his face as he battled the intensifying anger building within him. Neglect and despair were painfully evident at every turn. The fields looked sickly, and the crops appeared afflicted with various diseases. The cottages and pens of the farmers and shepherds looked ill-kept as if their owners no longer cared about them. The shops and stalls of the villages looked dilapidated and old. Everything seemed to be in shambles. If there wasn’t evidence that some of this damage happened recently, it would have been easy to believe that Rosymorn was abandoned for years.

It appears the housecarls have been somewhat remiss in their duties, Arron said cryptically. He dismounted and ordered the entourage to do the same.

Willenborg sensed the disappointment that no one would voice as he sliced a furious gaze toward the keep and whirled about toward the outer stairwell. He flung open the massive wooden doors and strode through the darkness into the great hall. Damp and smelling of must with stone floors covered in a mossy patina and rotted wood ceilings, creaky wooden doors with rusted iron fastenings, faded tapestries and floor coverings, and monochromatic discoloring from spiderwebs—it had none of the comforts the weary travelers would desire.

Willenborg listened to the gale winds howling woefully through the cracks in the thick stone walls. His expression now stoic. There was little doubt in his mind that the rest of Rosymorn would yield the same dilapidation. Rosymorn, he muttered, then a brief, humorless smile appeared on his face.

Scribe, Arron bellowed as he suddenly appeared in the great hall, show yourself at once! There was, of course, no response to his demand. Where is that lazy mongrel?

Gone. If he ever existed, replied Willenborg.

Gone? But were you not told…

What I was told doesn’t matter, Willenborg cut him off. His voice edged with a faint bitterness.

It’s a mistake, surely! Arron set to reassure him.

Yes, my own. Removing his fur-lined cloak, he tossed it impatiently to the floor. He lifted his arms and folded them across his chest. Glancing down, he caught a glimpse of the coat of arms displayed on the front of his crimson tunic—a golden hell sphere. His eyes darkened with memories he tried, yet failed, to forget. More a fool am I to think my fate has changed. He muttered to himself.

The King is dead; there is no one you can appeal to. Protested Arron, quickly closing the distance between them. I cannot believe that he would have wanted our blood to freeze in such a place!

He would have us do his bidding, Willenborg asserted calmly. You forget, Arron, we were not sent here for our pleasure but to secure his. I was charged with holding Rosymorn, which is exactly what I plan to do.

But with the King dead, we can hasten back to our homes at first light before the court has even left.

We will not return home, Willenborg said with an air of weary resignation. His gaze made a quick assessment of the great hall. For better or worse, he decreed somberly, we are here to stay.

Tempted to provide further argument, yet knowing full well that it would avail nothing, Arron acknowledged defeat. Dropping his hands to his side and temperament schooled to impassiveness, he asked, What would you have us do?

Prepare for the approaching night. Set up the last of our provisions and gather whatever wood can be found. The men must have a hot meal. God knows that they’ll find little warmth within these walls. Willenborg walked over to the fireplace, bracing a hand distractedly upon the ash-covered stones. Tomorrow, we begin repairs.

Tomorrow, Arron echoed. Giving a nod, he wheeled about and headed toward the doorway. He hadn’t yet stepped outside before Willenborg halted him.

Arron!

Yes, My Lord?

Make it known that I will release anyone who wants to leave. The words were spoken softly and leveled; the effort on which they were said was not lost on Arron. None will accept the offer, he replied. Suddenly, his mouth curved into an impulsive grin. Like it or not, Willenborg, you will have sufficient company in your misery. With that, Arron left the room. Willenborg stared for a while, then cursed himself for being the fool and headed off in his friend’s wake. All was quiet.

The storm, while mercifully brief, was so ferocious that it left a multitude of puddles glistening under the night sky. The wind was now nothing more than a whispery breeze that caressed the rolling hills and stirred the rain-soaked leaves.

Sitting alone in the fire-lit darkness of the master bedchamber at the very top of the keep, Willenborg cast a pensive glance downward. The squires and knights were temporarily quarantined in the great hall below. They slept on the cold stone floor; their blankets spread as close to the makeshift fire as safety would allow. Arron and five other aristocrats, who usually would have sought comfort in their private quarters, had also chosen to remain in the hall—it was by far the warmest and driest room in the castle. Outside on the battlements, four guards had been posted at each corner of the towers.

The new Lord of Rosymorn had lifted his hand to the thick, rough-hewn mantlepiece above the fireplace, and for him, the hours had crawled by with an agonizing unhaste. His eyes moved back toward the flames dancing on the other side of the hearth. The firelight played softly across his face, casting long shadows upon the walls. Behind him, a huge four-poster bed carved from oak offered a damp and musty respite from the day’s worries. Rain and wind found their way through holes in the walls and ceiling, wetting the mattress and the faded brocade curtains left undisturbed by the castle’s plunderers. The only furniture in the room was a small table beside the bed, a large yet empty wooded trunk, and an ancient chair that had already proven—yet only briefly—of supporting Willenborg’s large frame. He was too restless to sit.

Still, deep in thought, he turned and walked toward a high-arched window, noting that four of the nine lead panes of glass were missing. The night air blowing into the bedchamber was cold and scented with a putrid combination of smoke and the garbage in the courtyard below. Inhaling deeply nonetheless, he gripped the edge of the stone sill. His eyes fogged with sudden hardship, a hardship dulled by time but never quite forgotten. What a fool he had been.

I’m so in love with you. Her betrayal still haunted him; it still served to make his blood run hot. Damn that woman! Would he never be free from her?

He muttered another curse under his breath and flung a glowering glance at the retreating brilliance of the moons. The first soft, hesitant colors of the new day had already begun to set aglow in the sky. He left the window and returned to his troubled stance before the fireplace. He was tired. Dear God, he was tired. And he was in Emerald Grove. He exhaled a long, uneven sigh and closed his eyes momentarily. It was then, in a rare and unusual stillness of the dawn, that he could have sworn he heard the soft, passionate strains of a woman’s voice.

Chapter Two

Her eyes, filled with doubt and nearly as gray as the blanketing fog, strayed to Rosymorn once more. Towering ominously above the villages of Emerald Grove, outlined against what once was an endless blue sky before the shadows and fog began rolling in, it served as a hated reminder of multiple takeovers. Of other invaders from various regions who tried yet failed to break the spirits of those living within its borders.

The morning has passed, Salea Rumshi, yet you tally still.

Salea stared ruefully. A dull, telltale color stained her face as she turned to face the elderly woman who stood regarding her from the cottage’s narrow entryway. I… I have much to do, it’s true, she stammered. She was forcing a disingenuous smile on her face as she nodded politely at the small, hunched woman with ragged white hair dressed in black. Beryon will be expecting his new coat, she said as she grabbed the coat. Good day to you, Delana Farro, and once more, my utmost gratitude for finishing the job so quickly. She balanced the large wicker basket on her right hip and prepared to set off down one of the town’s cobbled pathways.

Delana, however, unexpectedly chose to ignore the farewell and pronounced, They’ll find no welcome here. Her ancient features twisted into a knot as she glared at Rosymorn. She drew her well-worn shawl more closely around herself and shook her gray, wimpled head for emphasis. None at all!

Who? asked Salea, assuming unawareness.

Sent by the Shar they be! she said as she spat on the ground in disgust.

Have you seen them yet? Salea questioned.

No. But others have and found themselves the worse for it. Delana answered. She shook her head again, muttering, Black-hearted demons spawned from the Underdark; they come to steal what they will never have.

Was it fear of thievery, then, asked Salea, that prompted all doors to close to them yesterday? A faint, wry smile appeared briefly on her face.

"Sneer if you must, child. But no one in this village will pay him respect. He and the other aristocrats are to be shunned, now and forever. Even the fairies declare it so."

So that is why the fog swirled. Strangely enough, the sight of it, spanning across the valley to the gardens she had been sitting at, had chilled her to the core.

And the fog will only get worse! For their presence has brought the decay, and it will spread each day they remain. Delana explained, then leaned closer to reveal, The new Lord sent three aristocrats to the marketplace shortly after sunrise, after food and women to do the cooking and cleaning.

And what came of it?

They left empty-handed! Her pale brown eyes glinted with triumph as she cackled gleefully. Salea found herself unable to share in the laughter.

He has the right to use force if need be, Salea warned. Surely defiance and disobedience will only bring trouble.

Trouble? What would you, a mere handmaiden, know of trouble? the elderly woman scoffed.

Enough to know that anyone sent by Mistcloak Keep will not be driven away so easily, Salea replied, her voice underscored by more than a touch of defensiveness. I have studied there these last three summers, remember? I have heard…

It matters not what you’ve heard. Delana cut her off. We will not do their bidding. No, nor part with any of our provisions to warm their bellies. Come mid-winter feast, they will be gone. She uttered the prophecy with conviction, both thorough and steadfast.

Maybe they don’t want to be here themselves? Salea parried quietly. She glanced again at Rosymorn while Delana impatiently disappeared inside the cottage and closed the door.

The sun blazed in the mid-morning sky, spreading its warmth across the timbered, windswept rolling hills and setting Salea’s hair aglow. She had secured the thick, mahogany-colored tresses in a single long braid down her back—and had stubbornly disparaged the use of a veil or cowl. Her clothing was also chosen out of a preference for comfort rather than a nod toward social dictates. Of plain, deep green wool, with long fitted sleeves and a rounded neckline. And while modest by most standards, its clinging fabric could not hide her womanly figure’s slender, well-rounded comeliness. If not for her hooded mantle fastened around her shoulders, she might have drawn even more attention while making her rounds through Emerald Grove. But she had little time to think about her appearance as she heaved an audible sigh as she maneuvered the basket—ladened with three books borrowed from a local lecturer and writing material to join the cloak as a gift for Beryon Tantal—onto the curve of her left hip.

Curiosity rose within her, curious to see what manner of men had come to enforce the latest infuriating restrictions sent from Mistcloak Keep. Black-hearted demons, Delana had called them. Perhaps they were sent by the Shar, Salea mused. Perhaps worse. Yet all that truly mattered was their purpose in coming. For that reason only, they were to be despised. Her eyes blazed with furious anger before she forced herself to look away from Rosymorn. Setting her leather ankle-high boots along the cobbled walkways with practiced ease, she headed toward the makeshift tables set up amid the central marketplace. The village was bustling with its usual midday activity. There was much to be done, especially after the hours sacrificed to the emblematic suspension of the previous afternoon. Salea’s steady gaze swept the proceedings with newfound indulgence. A wobbly, lop-sided cart filled with fresh vegetables rolled over the arched cobbled pathway on its way from many outlying farms.

The clatter of people walking echoed throughout the market, along with laughter, music, and the various merchants’ chantlike hawking of their wares. Women were caught up in the endless tyranny of cooking, cleaning, sewing, and tending to the children. Men toiled in the nearby fields, set their hands to the cleaner pursuit of shopkeeping, or merely sat and passed the time by drinking wine in a group of like-minded cronies. Chimneys extending out of thatched roofs offered up thick, ever-present billowing of smoke; the smell combined, regretfully, with the even more pungent smell of animal and human waste.

Salea emerged into the crowded square and repositioned the basket again before striding forward. Her eyes glistened at the tempting array of food for sale—fresh strawberries and figs, pears and apples, milk and butter, pudding and cake, pie and vegetables, and loaves of freshly baked bread were everywhere. The scent of spiced wine drifted from a huge iron pot simmering over an open flame. Delana Farro’s widowed daughter stood behind a stall displaying her mother’s handicrafts. And one enterprising boy had gathered a profusion of freshly picked Blue Buckets and offered them at a princely sum.

Watching the children who scampered to-and-fro in the midafternoon sun brought a wide smile to Salea’s face, but they quickly retreated when recalling the realization that there wasn’t a proper school in the village. The village women did what they could, of course, but it really wasn’t much. Very few families could afford to send their kids to the private schools near Mistcloak like Salea’s foster parents did.

Her spirits lightened once again when she spied a group of young women gathered on the outskirts of the open-air market. She hastened toward them; she was eager to hear the latest gossip. Despite her extensive education and her family’s one-time wealth, the villagers accepted her as one of their own. They cared nothing about her privileged upbringing but were impressed by her heritage. The Rumshis, after all, had been noblemen in the southern region of Bennington before they lost their land and status to taxes. Wandering northward, they gained notoriety and became outlaws; Salea’s father had inherited a streak of bad luck. He might have been a rascal and a bit of a wastrel, yet he clung fiercely to his roots and was loved by his neighbors. When her mother and father were murdered by invaders from a different realm who sought war with Bennington, the people of Emerald Grove honored their memory by building a statue of them in the town square. The sight of it never failed to stir her emotions.

Good day to you, my love.

She drew up short, eyes widening before lifting to meet those of a smiling, dark-haired man who had suddenly moved to block her path.

Her temper flared at the endearment on his lips—innocent as it may have been, but to be called ‘my love’ by such an old friend—she had resisted scolding him for it. I am surprised to see you here, Lucan Rielle, she told him. Her color deepened as she observed the way his gaze traveled over her with an unnerving familiarity.

Surprised you should be, Salea Rumshi. He said with an expression of mocked seriousness. Have you forgotten the promise you made me?

Promise? Her bewilderment was both evident and genuine.

To come riding with me today, he answered.

Oh, I…I am sorry, Lucan. Failed contrition, she directed her gaze down at the basket balanced on her hip. Beryon…

…gave me leave to search for you, he interrupted and finished. His brown eyes twinkled, his angular and freckled countenance shadowed by his battered hat’s wide, upturned brim. Per his norm, he was dressed in a simple cotehardie of worn woolen fabric. His boots were worn and crusted with mud, indicating that he spent the morning toiling in the fields. No matter, he insisted, I will walk you home.

But I haven’t finished my errands, she protested.

Then you shall have my help. He took her arm and began leading her back toward the tables. There would be no gossip on this day. She tried her best to conceal her disappointment.

Are you away to the Sacred Pool tomorrow? she inquired softly.

I am, Lucan answered.

Will your mother be joining you? she added.

No. His hand tightened possessively around her arm; he cast her a look of tenderness and affection that constricted her throat in sudden alarm. She would be honored if you pay her a visit in my stead to discuss the wedding. He said with certainty.

Oh, Lucan, she sighed, halting and pulling her arm, gently yet firmly, free from his grip. Her eyes were filled with silent appeal when they lifted to face him again. Have I not told you…

Often enough, he cut her off. The smile on his face was now one of wounded irony.

I have been away these past three years, she reminded him, quick to lower her voice as she glanced nervously around. She did not want the whole of Emerald Grove to know the intimate details of their courtship, especially since it was a courtship in which she was a highly reluctant participant. You must give me more time.

More time? We have known each other since childhood. He grasped her arm again and pulled her over to the relative privacy of an alcove bordering the market. Was it not your father’s wish, Salea Rumshi, that we should be husband and wife?

It was indeed, she was hesitant to admit.

Yes, and my father’s as well. It was agreed upon between them when you and I were but babies. Resisting the urge to pull her closer, he assumed a more professional air and confided, I have spoken to Beryon, and he would see us married by year’s end.

What? She gasped; her eyes grew wide at the shock from what she had just heard—her head shook in vehement denial. It’s too soon, Lucan!

Is the thought of marriage to me so distasteful then? he demanded sharply, his words touched with anger.

No. No, but… her voice trailed away as she sought the kindest words to put him off. Dear God, how could she possibly make him understand? Mercifully, fate intervened.

A commotion erupted in the town square. The sudden thundering of horses’ hooves shattered the heretofore peaceful aura of the marketplace. A