Alex Barclay - Curse of Kings

To the loveliest loves in all the land:

Lily, Abigail, Sophie, Emily, Michael and Lucy

Dedication

The Archivist’s Oath I am Archivist Tristan Ault. I vow to tell the untold tales, and my master is the truth.

Prologue OURTEEN YEARS AGO… Wind rushed in from the cold night and quenched all but three of the torches that lit the great hall of Castle Derrington. King Micah, weakened by illness, lay slumped on his throne, his breathing dry and shallow. A towering band of men on horseback surrounded him, flames dancing in their eyes, their cheeks streaked with blood. Outside, against the beating rain, the king’s most loyal counsel, Villius Ren, rode his white horse across the burning drawbridge and charged through the deserted barbican, through the courtyard and into the great hall. “Your Highness,” he said, drawing his sword from its scabbard. King Micah looked up from the shadows, and saw that his trusted servant bore the same blood markings as the pale warriors before him. He bowed his head. “It is not your betrayal that saddens me, Villius. It is the world and how it has turned to darkness to find its way. And how can we be guided without light?” The wind whipped around the last of the torches and the room went black. “You have succumbed, Villius, as the weak and the ignorant do,” said King Micah. “Since you were a child, happiness held no value for you. I was foolish to think that you could change. You have defeated a man on his deathbed. Your courage is commendable.” The filthy white horse reared up on its hind legs. Villius Ren wrenched the reins, the hot breath from his laughter misting the cold air around him. He said just one word: “Release.” “Farewell,” said King Micah, “but know that this is not the end.” When all the arrows had arced from their bows, Villius Ren jumped down from his horse and went to where King Micah lay bleeding. One by one, Villius twisted the arrows in his master’s wounds, and tore them free. King Micah’s eyes shot open. He reached out and gripped Villius Ren’s arm. The two men locked eyes. Villius felt as if his flesh had been sucked towards the bone and released, as if he had been drained, then replenished. A feeling of sickness and loss swept over him. He staggered away from the king, whose eyes had closed, whose chest had ceased to rise. Villius Ren and his warriors had laid claim to the Kingdom of Decresian, but only by defeating a dying man. Henceforth, to all but each other, they would be known as The Craven Lodge. The Curse of Kings was cast. Somewhere in the castle, a baby cried.

1. Unsettled Souls

2. Wickham’s Tale

3. The Holdings

4. The Lunatic Prince

5. Starveling

6. Spectator

7. Teal and Gold

8. By Nightfall, Be Gone

9. The Beast He Would Slay

10. Curse Your Souls

11. Downfall

12. Chancey the Gold

13. Census

14. The Archivist’s Oath

15. Black Against the Rising Moon

16. The Honoured Son

17. Oilskins

18. The Other Guide

19. Ten Falls

20. Home

21. The Thousandth Soul

22. Grief

23. Abandoned

24. A Million Steps

25. Pinfrock

26. The Same Hand

27. Prophecy

28. The Bridge

29. Rumours and Fathoming

30. One Man Down

31. All That is Buried

32. Bones

33. Pincer

34. Acquisition

35. Marsh Light

36. Quintus

37. Truth and Loyalty

38. Collapse

39. A Truant Kingdom

40. Dying Breath

41. Black to the Core

42. Rotting

43. Beneath the Surface

44. Hope

45. Engulfed

46. The Legend of Praevisia

47. Frax

48. Stakes

49. Reckless

50. Banished

51. Heartbreak

52. The Evil That Shone

53. Six Scars

54. Hidden

55. Fall at the Last

56. Skyward

57. Descent

58. Sweetling

59. Slaughterhouse

60. Testament

61. Fallen

62. Undermined

63. Fire

64. The Boy Who Never Was

65. Separation

66. The Walled Garden

67. Beloved

68. Grave

69. Poison

70. Affliction

Afterword

Acknowledgments

Copyright

About the Publisher

I am Archivist Tristan Ault.

I vow to tell the untold tales, and my master is the truth.

OURTEEN YEARS AGO…

Wind rushed in from the cold night and quenched all but three of the torches that lit the great hall of Castle Derrington. King Micah, weakened by illness, lay slumped on his throne, his breathing dry and shallow. A towering band of men on horseback surrounded him, flames dancing in their eyes, their cheeks streaked with blood.

Outside, against the beating rain, the king’s most loyal counsel, Villius Ren, rode his white horse across the burning drawbridge and charged through the deserted barbican, through the courtyard and into the great hall.

“Your Highness,” he said, drawing his sword from its scabbard.

King Micah looked up from the shadows, and saw that his trusted servant bore the same blood markings as the pale warriors before him. He bowed his head.

“It is not your betrayal that saddens me, Villius. It is the world and how it has turned to darkness to find its way. And how can we be guided without light?”

The wind whipped around the last of the torches and the room went black.

“You have succumbed, Villius, as the weak and the ignorant do,” said King Micah. “Since you were a child, happiness held no value for you. I was foolish to think that you could change. You have defeated a man on his deathbed. Your courage is commendable.”

The filthy white horse reared up on its hind legs. Villius Ren wrenched the reins, the hot breath from his laughter misting the cold air around him. He said just one word: “Release.”

“Farewell,” said King Micah, “but know that this is not the end.”

When all the arrows had arced from their bows, Villius Ren jumped down from his horse and went to where King Micah lay bleeding. One by one, Villius twisted the arrows in his master’s wounds, and tore them free. King Micah’s eyes shot open. He reached out and gripped Villius Ren’s arm. The two men locked eyes. Villius felt as if his flesh had been sucked towards the bone and released, as if he had been drained, then replenished. A feeling of sickness and loss swept over him. He staggered away from the king, whose eyes had closed, whose chest had ceased to rise.

Villius Ren and his warriors had laid claim to the Kingdom of Decresian, but only by defeating a dying man. Henceforth, to all but each other, they would be known as The Craven Lodge.

The Curse of Kings was cast.

Somewhere in the castle, a baby cried.

NVAR WAS A LAND OF TWELVE TERRITORIES AND ITS northeasterly was Decresian. In the time of King Micah and Queen Cossima, the people were looked after, employed and respected. Ever since The Craven Lodge took over, only a desperate few sought work at the castle, hired and fired at the whim of Villius Ren.

Mostly, the people of Decresian were poor, angry and sleep-deprived, for, in a walled garden in the grounds of Castle Derrington, nine hundred and ninety-nine corpses were buried and every night, when the clock struck twelve, their unsettled souls screamed for mercy until daybreak.