A Trial of Sparks & Kindling (Fall of the Mantle Book 2) Read online

  Contents

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  A Trial of Sparks & Kindling

  Fall of the Mantle: Book 2

  Yolandie Horak

  For Aunt Flora. Run with the wind, and dance among the stars.

  A Trial of Sparks & Kindling

  Copyright © Yolandie Horak, 2020

  ISBN- [978-1-9990648-3-9]

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

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A print edition of this title is also available.

  Cover art and design by Covers by Tallulah (covers.tallulahlucy.com)

  Maps by Yolandie Horak (yolandiehorak.com)

  Map

  Download or view the maps at yolandiehorak.com/extras/maps or via this QR code:

  Chapter 1

  The halls of the castle blurred into a grey haze, broken only by the phantom-shapes of people as they hurried along, no doubt staring or whispering behind covered mouths. Some of the shapes shrank as they bowed.

  They bowed to her, Carabelle of Mordoux, princess and heir to the throne. At least, that’s what Frank had called her. That’s what Malak had ordered her to say a few minutes ago.

  Cara allowed herself to be led. Her vision still pulsed; her hands still shook. Every scrape, bruise or overused muscle begged for rest—just for a moment.

  With a shake of her head, she shelved the weariness and shuffled on. Her body would recover.

  If only the same could be said for her mind. As the sedative drained out of her system, the numbness fled, and fragmented memories accompanied by warring emotions shouted for her attention. Frank was alive. She was just a princess. They were safe, but she’d almost been raped. Nathan and Nita had been hurt, and Clarke had died—too young, too eager to save an invisible queen.

  Rot still devoured Aelland, where Sera might have been exposed. Had the slummers marched all the way to Roicester? Were the Aellish caught in civil war?

  And Magnus. Dear, sweet Magnus. Had he made it out of the slums? Was he still alive, or had the cancer claimed him?

  Lock it away, Cara. Don’t think, don’t feel.

  Malak walked a step ahead of Cara and Nita. She smiled over her shoulder, paused to draw their attention to a painting of a man in opulent blue-and-red clothes, with a golden rooster pin above rows of stars and multicoloured ribbons tugging at the fabric of his blazer. His deep brown eyes were stern, his nose like Frank’s. Cara knew this face, even though she’d never met him—her grandfather. The one who’d sent her parents to Aelland as ambassadors.

  Malak’s mouth formed words, but the only sounds in Cara’s ears were a high-pitched hum and the frantic beat of her own heart.

  Nita seemed to know. She patted Cara’s hand as she picked up the pace and passed Malak. With steps too confident for someone who’d never been in this strange place, she led Cara up the stairs to the second floor, arm-in-arm. The contact was an anchor.

  Nita chose a room at the end of a hall and entered.

  The wall to the outside was rounded—the room must be in a tower.

  The space smelled of dust and a faint hint of smoke. Tongues of flame chatted happily from the fireplace in a corner of two inner walls. The fire must not have been lit for long, as a quiet cold remained where the warmth couldn’t reach.

  A rickety bedside table stood next to a plain bed made up in sun-faded purple, reflected in an untreated wood-frame mirror perched on the mantel above the fireplace. A pool of light poured from the window onto a small, round table, and two upholstered chairs on either side, one the shade of corn and one smoggy grey. Various-sized rugs and animal pelts of all colours covered the floor, except in small patches where the overlap wasn’t great enough, and grey stone peeked out from underneath.

  The shutters were open, and heavy-bellied charcoal clouds gathered outside. The sounds of merriment from the ongoing celebration slipped into the room with slivers of the icy wind.

  “How did you know it would be this one?” Malak’s voice echoed in the bare space.

  Nita shrugged. “A guess.”

  Between the bed and the door to the hallway, a painting took up most of the wall. The ornate frame almost touched the floor. A striking woman with raven-black hair and golden eyes stared down her nose at Cara from behind the frame, lips pulled into a smirk, each brushstroke placed to perfection. The artist must’ve been a magician—the portrait seemed alive. The woman sat in her red velvet chair as though she owned every inch of this room, Collinefort, and Mordoux. Something about her features was familiar, especially the cast of her eyes and that Frank-like smile. A relative.

  “I believe this is Grand Duchess Marceline, daughter of King Pierre the Fourth. Started a revolution single-handedly and saved Mordoux from civil war.” Nita leaned in close and whispered, “Quite the scandal, too. Slept with all the boys and girls in every court from here to Elion—my kind of woman.”

  “I remember her,” Cara said. “Celestine taught me.” She suppressed a shudder. When would Celestine reveal herself? And what would happen when she did?

  Malak came up behind Cara and played with her hair. When Cara shifted away, Malak followed. This would soon get old.

  “I apologise for the state of the room, my lamb,” Malak said. “I didn’t have much time to prepare, though I managed to collect a few nice items from around the keep. Your bed was made just last week, one of many constructed from the leftover timber from a village the emperor burned. As we are at war, there aren’t many resources to spare in the name of luxury or decoration, but anything that can be salvaged will be used for necessities.”

  Cara snorted. She’d never had luxury or decoration. Her room in Henri and Celestine Chastain’s house had been small, dark and plain. At the Cutter estate, her room hadn’t b
een much bigger, but she’d been able to choose the colours, the furniture, and it had been home. Would she ever consider Collinefort home?

  Nita turned to face Malak. “We need warm water.”

  Malak’s expression soured. “I’m not a servant, I’ll have you know. Also, I’ve already ordered a bath to be drawn. It’s in here.”

  “Come along, Sweets.” Nita tilted her head towards the door on the other side of the bed.

  An architect had squeezed in a wedge-shaped bathroom. The bathtub stood against the rounded wall, perched on copper lion’s paws, green and turquoise between the toes. Weeping stains crept down where the copper met the porcelain.

  Steam rose in tendrils from the tub to condense on the outer wall, and droplets puddled on the floor. Inside the tub, rose-scented bubbles drifted in lazy groups, and oil swirled patterns on the water’s surface. Almost like the Mantle.

  “I’ll help you undress.” Malak stepped closer and pulled Cara’s hair over her shoulder.

  Cara retreated. “No.”

  “But, my lamb—”

  “Don’t touch me.” Cara swatted away Malak’s hand. “I said no.”

  Malak crossed her arms and smoothed the crease between her brows. “You’re a princess now, and princesses must be attended.”

  “That’s what I’m here for, of course.” Nita flashed a lopsided smile. “You didn’t think we’d leave our dearest Carabelle without a servant, did you? You can order us some tea. Off you go, off you go.” She shooed an ever-paling Malak out of the room, then shut the door.

  Cara drew a deep breath. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll find a way to deal with her. You relax; I’ll be back soon.” Nita left.

  Cara undressed, did a poor job of looking anywhere but the purple finger-shaped bruises on her arms and thighs, then soaked awhile. She submerged in the water, mesmerised by the bubbles as she exhaled. The urge to suppress her emotions came over her, but she pushed it away, and instead allowed herself to cry.

  When Nita later returned with a towel, tears were still dripping from her jaw.

  “You’re letting it out. That’s good, Sweets. Really good.” She sat cross-legged with her back against the tub. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I’ll be around if that changes.”

  “I feel better already,” Cara said.

  “It takes time to get over someone invading your space that way, taking what wasn’t offered.”

  “You sound like you know what it’s like.”

  “You mean, has some random guy tried to have his way with me against my will? Yes.” Nita laughed without mirth. “Unfortunately, I know too many people who have been assaulted in some way or another, male or female. For us women, though, it’s more common. It will remain that way for as long as we are believed to be lesser to men. If we are kept voiceless, we will be used and discarded.”

  Heart-breaking, but true.

  Nita reached over her shoulder and held out her hand.

  Cara took it. “Back when Sera was on her way to become queen, she always used to say she’d change Aelland. Make it better for women. It’s been four years.” She sighed. “Do you think it’ll ever change?”

  Nita was quiet for a moment, then said, “Every woman in a position of power is a woman with a voice. It may not look like it now, but I do think Seraphine has changed Aelland, even if just a little. I think if she has a chance, she’ll do even more. Just like you.”

  Cara laughed. “The invisible princess?”

  “The very same.” Nita squeezed. “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

  Was she? Cara had never thought herself strong, but maybe after all she’d lived through, everything she’d survived, she wasn’t as weak as she’d believed.

  The door banged open, and Malak entered the bathroom with a slimy smile. “The king wants to see you, apothecary. Immediately.”

  Nita snorted, squeezed Cara’s hand again. “Fine. You can take me to him.”

  Malak’s smile faltered, but she led Nita out of the room with the tilt of her head. While they were gone, Cara dried off and dressed in one of her robes.

  A pot of tea and a teacup adorned with tiny flowers and insects awaited her on the table beneath the window.

  The pot was lukewarm, but Cara plopped into a chair and poured herself a cup anyway. The floral taste of chamomile was just distinguishable from the sickly-sweet flavour of too much honey. Something else hid under the honey. Sharp, almost medicinal. A Mordian herb? Still, she was parched, so she threw back the whole cup in two big gulps, then refilled it.

  She drank slower this time, half-gagging at the strong aftertaste.

  She moved to put the cup back on the table, but blood rushed to her head, and black spots clustered at the edges of her vision. The cup shook in her fingers and clattered onto the table.

  Had she dropped it? She blinked a few times, and tried to swallow, but the inside of her mouth was sticky, thick. Her heart raced. What was happening to her?

  Malak entered the room with an armful of dresses. “You’ve had some tea?”

  “Yes, but my head is spinning and I feel—”

  “Hush, everything is fine, my lamb.”

  Cara shook her head. What was she thinking? Everything was fine.

  ***

  Cara ran along the hillside. The sssh of falling debris flooded her ears, and smoke blocked her vision. Mud and uprooted grass clung to her robe, blood splattered her skin—not her blood, Clarke’s. Then came the vicious faces of men pinning her to the ground, ripping her clothes. The bear, Blizzard, roared and struck, jaw pink and crimson, dripping chunks of flesh and sticky saliva. The armoured warrior, Varda, shouted at Cara to fight back, then Frank pulled her into his arms.

  She bolted upright, gasped for air. Where was she?

  Dusk had fallen. A fire still danced in the fireplace in the corner, and one side of her face was warm from the radiance. The other side was cold. Somewhere in this room—her new room—an unseen crack allowed entry to icy gusts of the howling wind. Rain came down in sheets. Shingles rattled; rafters creaked. The shutters over the slim window did not line up when closed, and a sliver of flickering light reached across the stone floor whenever lightning flashed.

  She was in Collinefort. Safe. Just a nightmare, a dream, but all of it reality.

  Cara had ridden into the stronghold on Blizzard’s back earlier that day, the triumphant return of a princess to a homeland she’d never visited. Could it be a return if she’d been born elsewhere, under the Mantle?

  Her eyelids remained heavy, her motions slow. She was hollow, a husk. Where were the emotions that had caused her to break down earlier?

  She wore a soft, white nightgown. Had Malak undressed her? A glass of water sat on the bedside table. Cara reached for it with an unsteady hand and gulped down the water as though she’d been born parched.

  She needed to think. Focus, Cara.

  They’d arrived at the castle, and Nita had brought her here, to her new room. They’d chatted while Cara had taken a bath, Malak had said Frank wanted to see Nita, Cara had sat by the window. She’d had tea, then she’d apparently fallen asleep.

  The tea. The tea had tasted off, as if something sharp had been drowned in too much honey. Considering her confusion, the hushed emotions, could Malak have given her a sedative? Just like Frank had done at the outpost.

  No, that couldn’t be it. She was just paranoid, because Celestine might be in the castle.

  Celestine. Of course. She was here, somewhere. At least, Pointy believed she would be. How could Cara have forgotten about that?

  The door shifted open, and Frank entered her room.

  “Ah, you’re awake.” He smiled. “I was beginning to think you’d gone into hibernation or something.” He carried a tray with one hand. The edge of a plate and greenery were visible.

  She frowned as she sat. “I don’t remember falling asleep.”

  Frank perched on the edge of her bed. “It’s been a long
journey, Mouse. A lot happened. I think you’ll be tired for a few weeks, if not months.” He reached out and gave her hand a squeeze. “Now, I’ve brought food. You must be hungry.”

  She didn’t feel anything. Emotion, hunger—nothing but air inside. “No, I don’t—”

  “Here, eat.” He placed the tray on her lap.

  She reached for the fork and put a bite in her mouth. Why had she done that? She hadn’t wanted to. She blinked a few times and lowered the fork to the tray.

  “No, eat it all, Cara.”

  She took another bite and winced at the taste of that strange Mordian herb. Almost… What was the word she’d used earlier?

  With each subsequent bite, more of her thoughts drifted away. Every outline of every shape cloned, pink and green and blue, and the additional outlines trailed in her peripheral. Every sound developed a twin and echoed. Hands that weren’t hers fed her food she didn’t want to eat. Such a strange taste. Medicinal—yes, that was it.

  “Everything is all right,” Frank said. “You might forget a bit, but everything is fine.”

  “Everything is fine,” someone said. Cara. She’d spoken.

  In a cage, in the loneliest part of her mind, she screamed.

  Her paranoia was ingrained. Scared into her by the people who’d raised her. Someone was always out to get her—family, stranger, it didn’t matter—out to kill those she loved because of who she was. Perhaps this medicinal flavour of paranoia was unfounded, but she instinctively knew she was in danger.

  “I’m sorry.” Frank traced a finger up her cheek, then wiped it on the sheet. “So sorry, Mouse. We were going to wait, but the things I learned about you from Du Pont at camp, the things you told me?

  “You became an apprentice. You figured out how this plague spreads. You studied the bloody Mantle. And the confidence! The way you’d spoken to Vendla outside the keep, how you’d stood up to Varda at camp—you’ve changed. The old Cara would never have done that, and she’s afraid that you won’t listen to her when she comes to you.” He swallowed. “If you’d come with any other ally, Cara. Any other than Du Pont, this wouldn’t have happened.

  “She’s afraid. The Du Ponts can’t be trusted, and here you are travelling with their golden son. You followed him out of Aelland, you put your life in his hands, and it scares her. Us. I’m sorry it must be this way, but it’ll be all right. We just needed to get it into your system. Tomorrow will be better.”