SanyareThe Winter Warrior Read online

  CONTENTS

  Copyright

  Title Page

  Blank Page

  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

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The End

  Free Short Story

  Review Request

  Acknowledgments

  Author Bio

  Copyright © 2018 Megan Haskell

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced in any form or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations used in book reviews or certain other noncommercial uses as permitted by copyright law.

  Cover Designed by Deranged Doctor Design (http://www.derangeddoctordesign.com/)

  Edited by Katie McCoach and Kimberly Peticolas

  Published by Trabuco Ridge Press

  CHAPTER ONE

  COFFEE. PERHAPS THE humans’ greatest invention. They had their faults, but the hot black drink was a vice she could appreciate.

  Rie lifted the mug to her lips, cradling the warm mug between her hands. She savored the steaming aroma before carefully sipping the cooler liquid off the top of the cup. This one was a bit more exotic, top notes of dried dates and spice, with a subtle chocolate flavor that masked the bitterness of the underlying bean. She’d made a point of trying different roasts and brewing methodologies since she’d been placed under house arrest. Today’s choice had been an Ethiopian blend, hand ground and brewed in a simple pour-over method. It took time, but the ritual was soothing and significant. Almost like meditation. Especially when everything around her had come crashing down.

  Rie clenched her teeth, exchanging the calm of the morning for the frustration of her situation. She should be celebrated as a hero. The Battle of the Arches had been a resounding success, the elves pushed back to their own territories, the humans safe from a war they couldn’t even comprehend. Yet she was kept as a criminal in her own home, closely watched by Lord Garamaen Sanyaro, the truthseeker and mediator of the nine faerie realms, the sword backed by the sun, her great-great-many-times-great-grandfather . . . her master.

  The coffee turned sour in her mouth, the bitter thoughts drawing the deeper bitterness out of the bean. Apparently, using souls from the Daemon Realm to push back the upperworld invaders was ill-advised. The lost souls had claimed bodies and now wandered the realms, slowly but inevitably going insane. Their actions couldn’t be predicted, and when they cracked, chaos and destruction were sure to follow . . . or so she’d been told.

  The Moirai had seen fit to leave her under Garamaen’s recognizance until such time as one of the lost souls was found. Then she would be released to do their bidding, little better than a dog fetching a bone.

  So much for earning a little respect from the leadership of the nine realms.

  While she waited for the lost to reveal themselves, Garamaen—or Greg, as he preferred to be called in the Human Realm—insisted she continue her studies. Only now, instead of practicing her skills in magic, she was studying the history of the nine realms. Chronologically. And in great detail.

  According to Greg and the Moirai, she needed to understand the tactics of the past to make better decisions in the future. Greg had raided the stacks of the Upper Realm, Autumn Realm, and Shadow Realm for texts to better understand the many different perspectives of every major historical event and empathize with the biases of each culture . . . and the many ways in which the same truth could be heard and understood.

  “I can hear your teeth grinding from the bedroom.” Daenor’s voice drew Rie out of her dark reverie. Wearing loose sweats and a t-shirt, he hardly looked like the son of the dark elf king and a princess of the fire sidhe. Disheveled white-blond hair stuck out from his head in messy spikes that pointed in every direction, while the natural red highlights added to the disarray. The imprint of a pillow wrinkle crossed the side of his face.

  Rie couldn’t help but grin behind her mug. Seeing Rie’s hidden smile, Daenor quirked an eyebrow, but it only added to her internal amusement.

  “I’m glad to entertain. It’s certainly better than that grimace you were wearing just now.”

  “How is Faernodir doing?” Rie asked, changing the subject. She’d rather discuss his frustrations than her own, and his visit to the Shadow Realm had lasted far longer than anticipated. He hadn’t made his way to bed until near dawn.

  Daenor wiped a hand across his face, exhaustion written in every line of his deep brown skin. As a half-breed, he didn’t have his father’s deep black complexion nor his mother’s olive tan. His was somewhere in the middle, a unique blend that few could boast, especially when combined with the blonde hair spiked with red.

  “He’s learning. And Ragnar is picking up the slack.”

  “Are you sure you’re making the right decision, resigning command of the Shadow Guard?”

  Daenor’s lips pursed in a dissatisfied frown. “I have no other choice. I can’t willingly serve the man who lied and kept me from my heritage. Besides,” he wrapped his arms around Rie’s waist, careful not to jostle the hot coffee in her hands, “my job here is far more fun.”

  Rie blushed, thinking of yesterday morning’s sparring session. Daenor had been put in charge of Rie’s physical training. Yesterday, they had practiced close combat maneuvers with the use of fire magic. Eventually some clothing got singed. Which required the removal of said clothing.

  “What’s going on today?” he asked, releasing Rie to pour his own mug of coffee. He seemed to enjoy the beverage as much as Rie did, so long as he didn’t have to make it for himself.

  But the question might as well have been a bucket of cold water emptied over Rie’s head, bringing her back to the reality of her enforced education. Thankfully, she didn’t have to respond.

  “Today’s battle is particularly exciting,” Tiik chimed from the table. The pixie was reviewing the lesson plan, walking back and forth across the binder that held the chronological timeline of the Great War. “It’s the battle of Rómesse Gulch. I believe this is the same battle in which Curuthannor’s father was ultimately killed.”

  Rie looked up from her mug, intrigue
d for the first time since being assigned the stack of ancient tomes. As her warden in the Upper Realm, Curuthannor and his lifemate Lhéwen had practically raised Rie from birth. All the same, he hadn’t shared much of his past with her.

  “Really?” she asked.

  “I don’t remember studying that battle. Was the general involved?” Daenor asked.

  The pixie shook his head, zipping up to hover above the table. “No, but Rómesse Gulch was the village where Curuthannor was born and raised, and this was a relatively small battle. Curuthannor’s father was the greatest blacksmith in the area—arguably in the realm—at the time. At the start of the war, the king commissioned the weapons for the elite guard from him, and within a few years, Rómesse Gulch was a bustling center of commerce, with the majority of trade related to the smithies. Which, of course, made it a high-value target for the enemy.”

  “You mean my father.”

  “Actually, your grandfather was still alive at the time, so it was his rule. But your father did lead the army onto the field.”

  “Tally one more on the Shadow King’s ledger.” Daenor’s voice had turned grim. He wasn’t a stranger to war, but Rie understood there were times when the actions of his forebears weighed heavy on his heart.

  “No one is blameless in war. And no one can claim all the fault,” Rie said.

  “Those might be the wisest words you’ve spoken,” a deep tenor spoke from the living room. Apparently Garamaen had been listening. Rie could only just see the back of his head above the cushioned back of his favorite reading chair.

  Rie decided not to say any more, choosing instead to sit down at the table, Daenor at her shoulder. She had always wondered about Curuthannor’s family and his past. He’d never told her the story. Not in detail, anyway. The Upper Realm library had been off-limits to humans. Maybe now was a chance to finally learn more about her adopted family.

  She lifted the cover of the leather-bound and engraved manuscript for today’s lesson, admiring the beauty of the illuminated pages while Daenor squeezed her shoulder in a gentle massage. She leaned into the strong fingers as she turned another page. Gold foil swirls delineated the margins and inset illustrations highlighted the major players’ house crests and portraits.

  “What have I said about the books?” Tiik reprimanded, dashing over to give Rie the white cotton gloves she was supposed to use when touching the pages. The three-inch pixie clucked his tongue in a chitter of Pixl, a sign of his agitation. He was a historian, perhaps the only pixie who valued information more than physical treasure. He had been thrilled at Garamaen’s new idea for training.

  He was the only one.

  “They’re magically enchanted not to fade or disintegrate. I don’t think the gloves are necessary,” Rie replied.

  “They’re a necessary precaution. At some point, the magic needs to be replenished. Not knowing when these particular books are scheduled for maintenance, we can’t be sure you won’t poke a hole in a precious page.”

  “Just wear the gloves,” Niinka, the self-appointed leader of the five-pixie swarm, groaned from her perch on Rie’s shoulder. “He won’t let up until you do.”

  The pixies were Rie’s constant companions, with one or more of them hiding in plain sight somewhere on her person, or nearby, at all times. Hairless and naked, with translucent dragonfly wings, they could change the color and texture of their skin to exactly match their surroundings. If it weren’t for their incessant chatter, no one would ever know they were there.

  Rie sighed, holding out her hands. “Fine, I’ll wear the gloves. But I state again, I think this is ridiculous.”

  She slipped on the soft cotton, wiggling her fingers to pull the gloves as tight as possible then sat down to read.

  A bell later, she was still sitting in the same chair, reading the same text. So far, nothing had been mentioned about the blacksmith or his son, and though visually beautiful, the content of the book was about to bore Rie to tears.

  A pounding on the house’s back door drew her attention away from the dry historical text. Daenor had changed position to sit across from her and eat his breakfast in silence, but he looked up at the seemingly urgent knock.

  Rie stood from her seat at the kitchen table and stretched. Garamaen had offered her the use of his study, but Rie was afraid anything more comfortable and she’d simply nap all day.

  “I better go check on that,” she said.

  Daenor rose from his own chair. “I’ll come with you.”

  “You still have a lot of reading to do. We haven’t even gotten to the main battle yet!” Tiik sounded more disappointed than he had any right to be, though he had been sitting on Rie’s shoulder to read while she did.

  “Why don’t you read the text and give me a summary?” Rie teased. She knew that option wasn’t truly viable—she really did need to learn the histories in depth and detail—but it was worth a shot. Besides, with the old heavy parchment and his insistence on gloves, Tiik would have a hard time turning the pages.

  She didn’t wait for an answer, striding out through the kitchen and into the sunken living area that overlooked the long expanse of beach and a distant ocean horizon.

  “Hmph. With your pace of reading, I probably should,” Tiik mumbled, darting out in front of her.

  Rie quirked a corner of her lip at her friend. No matter his complaint, information was information, and eavesdropping on a new visitor was just as enticing as the dusty old book to the pixie who craved knowledge.

  The smile didn’t last long.

  A small man with a long, white beard and white fur cloak stood at the back door. Framed by the beach and blue rolling waves in the background, the man was obviously fae, and obviously out of place. Rie didn’t recognize his species. No taller than Garamaen’s waist, tension radiated off his body, giving him a larger presence than his physical form. A deep crease formed between the man’s bushy white eyebrows as he spoke with Sanyaro in low urgent tones.

  Garamaen nodded, his lips pulled down in a grim frown. “I’ve been expecting your visit.”

  “You knew?” the little man asked.

  “I suspected, but I couldn’t be sure. My Sight has grown hazy. Only once before has the future been obscured.”

  Rie was getting better at reading her mentor’s moods and expressions, but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking now. His face had smoothed into a neutral mask. All she knew was that if his precognition was failing, something was terribly wrong.

  “Then you’ll come?”

  “We’ll leave immediately.”

  A grunt was the little man’s only response.

  As soon as Garamaen shut the door behind the visitor, his facade fell. His shoulders slumped in weary exhaustion and he rested his forehead on the solid oak.

  “What is it?” Rie asked. Whatever the little man had wanted, Garamaen had taken it harder than usual. Though he’d been severely injured with a knife wound to the gut just weeks before, he rarely showed any sign of the physical toll his recovery was taking on his body.

  “Fenrir.”

  “What?”

  “Not what, who. Fenrir. The great wolf of the Winter Realm. Chained for nearly six thousand human years, he’s finally escaped.”

  Rie ran the calculations in her head. All the realms ran on slightly different time scales, but that still meant the wolf had been imprisoned for more than two thousand years. A life-span not unheard of amongst the fae, but certainly a harsh punishment.

  Garamaen’s haunted gaze turned toward Rie. “Pack your bags for the cold.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “YOU CAN’T BE serious,” Rie argued, following Garamaen down the hall toward the stairs that led to his bedroom, Daenor on her heels. “You’re still healing. Éostre will never allow it.”

  “Then it’s a good thing Éostre is no longer here.”

  “Greg, be realistic. You’ve recovered some strength, but you still have to pause walking up the stairs from the beach.”

  There w
ere fifty-two uneven stairs up a steep cliff from the beach to the back door of the house. Every morning, after reading her first assigned text of the day, Rie and Garamaen would walk down that beach, each day a little farther. But each day, on their return from the sand, they had to tackle the stairs. And each day, Garamaen had to pause at least once to make it back up to the house.

  He was in no shape to take a quest to the frozen Winter Realm.

  Garamaen paused at the base of the small flight of ten steps that led to his bedroom. He braced his arm against the wall. His voice was deeply pained.

  “Tell me, Rie, what do you See?”

  Rie shook her head, not understanding.

  “Look to the future. What are you doing next week?”

  Rie huffed an annoyed breath but closed her eyes. She sought the center of her energy, the place where her Sight lived. She dove into the pinpoint of light, looking for the multitude of futures that could be, given the choices of the present.

  They would travel by portal to the Winter Realm and meet with the barbegazi leader, she could See that much, and it seemed there was no alternative. This was predetermined. But the rest was a foggy scattershot of disconnected images: snow and ice, stone and darkness, a sparkling city in ruins. Nothing so solid as a path to follow, but plenty of destruction and fear.

  She opened her eyes to find Garamaen’s knowing gaze locked on her face. He gave a sad laugh at her anxious confusion.

  “Six thousand years ago, before I came here to the Human Realm, I made a choice. I chose to save Fenrir’s life at the expense of his freedom. I sacrificed my hand to make sure that the barbegazi would live without fear.”

  Rie’s gaze traveled to the stump where it pressed against the wall. Too often she forgot about his handicap, since he never seemed to let it stop him from anything.

  Garamaen’s blue eyes glowed with intense emotion.

  “That choice made me who I am today, but every choice has consequences. Sometimes those consequences aren’t realized until years, decades, centuries later. My consequence has arrived.”

  Rie examined her master’s face, looking for any hint of indecision. Fine lines of pain branched out from the corners of his eyes. His typical teasing twinkle was gone.