The Ka'antira Heir

The Ka’antira Heir

Blood Feud, Book One

by Celina Summers

To the friends who just won’t be content with only two series in Asphodel—this one’s for you.

Copyright

The Ka’antira Heir , Blood Feud, Book One

Copyright @ 2017 Celina Summers

Smashwords Edition

This book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events is coincidental.

This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this book can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher.

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Dramatis Personae

Asphodel

Prosper de Asphodel—Count of Asphodel, Tamsen’s father

Solange de Spesialle—wife of Prosper, Tamsen’s mother

Tamsen de Asphodel—ruling Countess of Asphodel

The Elven Realm

The House of Ka’antira

Kaldarte—the Elven Seer, wife of Arami, mother of Lamec, Wilden, and Morrote

Arami—Woodlands Lord

Lamec—member of the Elven Council, father of Liliath and Cetenne

Ardenne—Lamec’s wife

Liliath—Tamsen’s foster-sister, Cetenne’s twin

Cetenne—Tamsen’s foster sister, Liliath’s twin

Wilden—Elven Scout, fealty-found to Mariol, Marquis de Beotte and Morrote’s twin

Morrote—Elven Scout, fealty-bound to Mariol, Marquis de Beotte and Wilden’s twin

Antir—last of the Elven Kings, brother to Kaldarte

The House of Ka’breona

Brial—Elven Scout leader

Beron—commander of Elven armies, father of Brial, Balon, and Berond

Balon—Brial’s brother

Berond—Brial’s brother

The House of Ka’charona

Acheros—leader of the Elven Council of Elders

Leither—Acheros’ wife, mind mage, head of Elven Mages

Geochon

Lufaux—King of Ansienne

Mariol—Marquis de Beotte, cousin to the King, member of Privy Council, and warmage

Anton de Ceolliune—Duke de Ceolliune, co-ruler of Callat-Ceolliune, father to Anner

Anner de Ceolliune—heir to the duchy of Ceolliune

Jeshan de Callat—Count of Callat, co-ruler of Callat-Ceolliune

Glaucon de Pamphylia—heir to the duchy of Pamphylia

Mylan de Phoclydies—Earl of Phoclydies

Myrielle—Mariol’s mistress

Gabril de Spesialle—Duke of Spesialle, brother to Solange, member of Privy Council

Hyagrem de Silenos—warmage, tutor of Tamsen

Chapter One

The forest was eerily silent, the ground sparkling under the crust of an early frost. The usual noises of animals or the murmuring of the north wind through the bare branches were muffled as if the forest itself was holding its breath in the cold night. Although the trees were beginning to shed the year’s leaves, the canopy was so thick and interwoven that very little moonlight found its way to add pearly sheen to the scene below.

The night was perfect. Crisp without being cold, silent without being ominous, solitary without being lonely. A perfect vista for a princess whose idea of perfection was complete isolation from the perfect world she lived in. Effortlessly, she made her way along the broad arms of a spreading elm tree.

Tamarisk Ka’briala was the daughter of the greatest Elven scout in the kingdom. If she did not choose to be seen, she would not be.

Tamarisk knew she wasn’t really alone…or if she was now she wouldn’t be for long. Her defiance of her parents only went so far. She remained in the forest of Leselle, staying within the confines of the Elven Realm she both loved and resented. If something happened and she was needed, any of the potent Ka’antira women could locate and summon her at need.

But they would only summon her if they had to, and the sad fact was they wouldn’t have to.

Tamarisk was also the daughter of the most dominant mage who’d ever existed—more powerful even than the gods, some said. Tamsen Ka’antira, the Elven Queen, had, after all, ended the existence of four deities the world knew of. The demigods and apotheosized immortals added immeasurably to that tally. As for mortal mages…well, no one since the Elven Queen’s own uncle had boasted enough magical strength to be much of a challenge for her.

But things had changed a decade ago, when her mother had sealed off the dream realm so she would be free to end the life of the last apostate god. When the Titan Asteria had fallen, screaming, into the bubbling magma that had foamed to the surface after Tamsen had torn a rift into the fabric of Godspring, Tamsen’s strength went with her. The Elven Queen would not have survived save for two factors. First, the god of dreams and prophecy, Phobetor, had willed himself out of existence to grant Tamsen the strength of a god. And second, Asclepios, the god of healing, had tended her on Olympios for over half a year. He had devoted himself to saving her and the child growing inside her.

Pasithea was now nine, a delicate little Elfmaiden with curling silver hair and dark eyes. Dainty and fragile even by Elven standards, Pasi was a laughing, dancing sprite who had learned early on how to wind the somewhat domineering men of her family around her tiny finger.

Brann and Morrote were twenty-two, and Tamarisk twenty-six. The Elven Princess frowned. To the long-lived Elves, twenty-six was still adolescence. But the Ka’briala children bore both Elven and human characteristics, thanks to their mother’s heritage. Tamarisk was an adult now, and she needed to behave like one.

By the time Tamsen Ka’antira de Asphodel was twenty-six, she was already the Elven Queen, already the Countess of Asphodel in the human world, already the victor of the second Ilian War, already married and the mother of three, already the mage who’d obliterated Lamashtu, the lion-headed goddess of magic. Her Elven blood had kept her young, so she appeared only marginally older than her daughter.

But the terrible years of the Eleusis had stolen much from the Elven Queen. She’d lost most of her physical strength, many of her beloved friends and mentors, and the use of her legs. The strain of carrying Pasithea to term while in the god’s healing sleep had leeched away what remained of her natural vigor.

What she’d lost in defeating the Eleusis gods and their rebellion she’d never recovered.

Tamarisk leapt on light feet into the welcoming arms of a gnarled and ancient oak. Yes, Mother is the Elven Queen, and Huntress willing, she’ll continue to reign for centuries.

Tamarisk was awed by what her parents did, so much so that even in the privacy of her mind she sometimes thought of them as the Elven Queen and Prince-Consort instead of just her mother and father. She loved them both absolutely, but she was intimidated by who they were.

Tamarisk brushed snow from the deep-scored bark of the branch and settled into the shadowed curve where the branch met the immense trunk of the tree. Her thoughts were dark and required darkness and privacy to consider.

Tamarisk often found ways to escape Leselle. In truth, of late she’d hated spending time in the city. Her parents were there…and the rest of the Ka’antira-Ka’breona family as well. They’d given her an Elfhome, and the tacit permission to explore the freedoms of her adulthood, but so far Tamarisk had failed to find anything that interested her. More than once, she’d caught a swift flicker of concern cross her mother’s face or the disappointed tightening of her father’s lips. Lately when she slipped away from Leselle for a few days’ respite in the forest, she almost always found that Uncle Wilden or Arami had followed her, ghosting on the edges of her path and keeping a protective watch over her. Once, her merry aunt, Sieppa, had accidentally run into her all the way up by the border of Tartarus. She’d even felt the kiss of someone’s magic sweeping past her. Not because she was doing anything particularly dangerous or because she was some kind of threat.

No, they watched over her because Tamarisk’s only worth to her family or her people was a nebulous, future thing. They watched her because she was the heir to the Elven Realm, and because her only real value would be to someone who wanted to hold her hostage to dictate terms to the Elven Queen and the Prince-Consort.

Not that they’d ever choose their daughter over their people.

And not that she’d remain a prisoner for approximately two minutes before things got ugly. She was a Ka’antira heir, the possessor of magic so rare that not even the gods could track her. She’d been raised with a sword in one hand and magic in the other.

Not many people, no matter how desperate, would risk the ire of a Ka’antira mage, not even one who usually chose to ignore her power as an inferior, unnecessary kind of weapon.

So on the surface of things, she had no reason to be unhappy. She loved her parents. What had once been tolerance for her younger twin brothers was now an unabashedly strong affection. Pasi was too adorable to resent. Her extended family, the Ka’antira and Ka’breona relatives, were dear to her and loved her as well.

Tamarisk didn’t yearn for the day when she would ascend the throne in her mother’s place, because she couldn’t imagine anyone else ruling Leselle as well as her mother. Tamarisk’s problem was petty, and she knew it.

Tamarisk was unhappy because there was nothing left for her to do.

She knocked her head back into the tree trunk hard enough to make herself dizzy, wishing that a good lump on the skull could bring about contentment. But the tree only murmured soothingly around her, while the silence of the Elven forest cushioned her from the outside world.

How did one go about being the daughter—and heir—to a legend? Two, to be honest. Brial Ka’breona was one of the seven kingdoms’ most skilled warriors and generals. He’d dispatched the odd deity or two as well. Her parents had formed a perfect partnership as the protectors of the Elven Realm, and the legends about them were impossible to refute. Although they rarely talked about their exploits and particularly the end of the Eleusis and the Battles of the Underworld, they didn’t have to. Everyone knew what they’d done and what they’d sacrificed to do so.

Brann and Morrote were lucky. They were both already marked out on their own paths. Morrote was an Elven Scout and a commander in the army, while Brann, who was the most human of the four Ka’briala heirs, would succeed Mother as Count of Asphodel and a warmage. They had studies, responsibilities, tasks.

But Tamarisk? Not so much. Her primary function was to sit at her mother’s right hand, observing the workings of the Elven Realm and learning how to rule from that example. When one got right down to it, the Elven Queen was scarcely two decades older than her daughter. If she’d been a full-blooded Elf, Tamsen was just barely of age. Tamarisk could have been her younger sister. But the gods, in gratitude, had granted Tamsen the full lifespan of an Elf. By the time Tamarisk’s life had any real meaning as the heir to the Elven throne, she, too, would be elderly and near the end of her lifespan.

So there was nothing to look forward to and nothing to prepare for. Tamarisk Ka’briala would live a long, useless life, honored because of who her parents were but given no responsibilities, no daunting challenges, and no reason to hope. To the rest of the world, she was the luckiest girl in history.

But in reality? She didn’t have some great thing to do. That’s why she was resentful, gods help her. That’s why she was slipping out of the city at night, to walk the upper boughs of the ancient trees. She had to wrestle with her bitterness alone, keeping it from her parents’ eyes because they, of all people, deserved to have a happy life.

Huntress forgive her, she even resented that.

Well? Tamsen looked up from her papers, a frown puckering her brows.

Brial grimaced and then hung his cloak near the hearth of Elfstones to dry. "She’s fine, cariad. She’s just sitting there, thinking."

She’s doing more than thinking. She’s torturing herself. Tamsen sighed. I wish she would tell us what’s troubling her. That might help her feel better.

Why not just ask?

Tamsen smiled without meaning to. Sometimes, Brial’s matter-of-fact approach to deeply personal problems was endearingly obtuse. The only reason he hadn’t asked Tamarisk himself was because she’d entreated him not to. But something about the set of his shoulders warned her he was reaching the limit of his patience.

Not that he had a great deal of patience to begin with.

I don’t have to ask her. I think I know what the problem is. The Elven Queen bundled up her papers, slipping them into an oilskin pouch. I have an idea, Brial, of how to help our daughter, but you’re not going to like what I am going to suggest.

Try me.

He sat next to her on the low Elven couch, lifting her wasted legs and stretching them across his lap. After a decade, Tamsen couldn’t walk more than ten steps and not even that unaided. Lately, even that was beyond her. As Brial began to massage her calves, patiently working out the aches that long, weary days of inactivity caused in her limbs, Tamsen took a deep breath.

Tamarisk is unhappy because she feels useless.

Useless? She’s the heir to the throne. How can she feel useless?

Brial. Tamsen tried not to roll her eyes. Considering how long and hard you struggled against those same feelings when we were younger, I’d think you of all people would understand.

"That was a little different. I was fighting against every tradition I’d been taught. It was my responsibility to protect you, to fight your battles, to defend you and your throne—not the other way around. Do you think it was easy to be the only man in the world who couldn’t protect his own wife? But in the end, we learned how to adapt. Tamarisk will too. She is the best of both of us, love, and we eventually forged our own path."

"Yes, we did. But…Tamarisk is our heir. She will rule Leselle one day as its Queen, the daughter of two people the rest of the world is too afraid to defy. We brought her up to face the same kinds of titanic challenges we faced."

Brial frowned. Why is that a bad thing?

"Because, love, as long as we are here, we will be the ones to face those kinds of tests. To her mind, there is no task left for her to fulfill. Leselle has been unopposed since the Tammuz fell. Ansienne has been at peace, and soon Kylos will take over from Rontil. He’s almost of age. Anteros and Maron are running around the world, sending Tamarisk letters describing their adventures. Morrote is leading his own cavalry unit, and Brann is at Asphodel, ear-deep in studies and managing the estate. Even Penthea and Antira are experiencing new things, training together with the Hippolytes. But Tamarisk gets to sit and listen to me argue with the Council."

Brial’s eyes softened. I think I see what you’re talking about. You’re saying that Tamarisk feels frustrated.

Yes. And a frustrated heir invariably finds her way into dissatisfaction and resentment. Tamsen hesitated and reached for a paper tucked under the pouch. I have an idea of how, perhaps, we can head this off.

And now we get to the part I’m not going to like.

You’re not. Tamsen handed him the document. "We’re going to Geochon for Kylos’s investiture next month. Obviously, Tamarisk must go with us. But after the celebrations are over, I have something I’d like for our daughter to do without your assistance or mine or any of the others."

What’s that?

Tamsen smiled. I want to send Tamarisk to Ilia.

Brial’s face went white-hot with instant fury. Ilia? Have you lost your mind?

Not at all. We’ve been working on our plans for Ilia for years, haven’t we? I think it’s time to begin.

And what exactly would that be? You’ve never bothered to tell me.

The Elven Queen shrugged. An Elven homeland.

We have a homeland.

Yes, we do, but it’s a small forest in the middle of a human kingdom. There’s Sanctuary and Merila, of course, but even they are tucked between human towns and cities. The Elves need their own realm, their own continent. If we don’t settle Ilia and develop it into the seat of our people, we’ll be dragged further into the affairs of the human kingdoms around us. Leselle doesn’t need to parent Ansienne any more than Ansienne needs to be subject to the whims of the Elven throne. If we take the continent of Ilia for our people and the other demimortals, like the centaurs, we can protect the differences between us and the mortal races. Tamsen shifted slightly, rubbing the back of her neck. But more importantly, Brial, we can prevent anyone in the future from using Ilia as a staging point for political catastrophe. We can protect the Temple of the Gods and guard the passage to Godspring. You know as well as I do that even with three Elven cities now, we’re already getting dangerously crowded.

You’re right, he admitted.

A distant continent for our people will serve us just as well as Hippolytos has served Antiope’s nation. That separation from the human world has allowed them to remain out of the conflicts that have ripped through this continent. If we are to grow as a nation, we need that distance for ourselves. I envision Tamarisk as the head of a different kind of Elven Realm, Tamsen went on, and her words took on the soft echoes of that strange, otherworldly consciousness that had sometimes marked her voice since she’d borne the strength of a prophetic god inside her. A realm where caste no longer matters, where any Elf of any house can aspire to be anything, where we can nurture the wild places and not be in conflict with mankind over how land is to be used.

"As the population grows, that type of conflict is inevitable. Since the Elves crowned a young and lusty Queen, more of our people undertake the vialigatis." Brial laughed. Arranged marriages were a natural method of keeping our kingdom small. That’s no longer the case.

Much of that has to do with the sanction of the gods. Our people are being blessed with more children.

As I said—young and lusty.

We’re both still young—

—and lusty. Brial kissed her, his lips lingering on hers for a moment, but when he pulled away, the frown was back. But why send Tamarisk to Ilia? Why not just do it ourselves?

"Do you intentionally not listen to me? Sometimes I wonder if you do that on purpose. Our daughter needs a focus that is outside of our own. She needs something to accomplish, Brial, that no one can take away from her. She needs to feel that she has the same importance as that other Elven Queen."

Well, I’m sure Wilden won’t be all that pleased when we tell him he has to go back to the one place—

No. Tamsen rarely said anything to her husband in a flat tone of voice, but she had to head off that train of thought before Brial finished it. No Wilden, no Arami, no Kaldarte. Certainly not you or I. Not even Sieppa and Balon. She needs to choose her companions. Tamarisk needs to do this her own way, love. If we put this possibility into her hands, we must trust her absolutely to handle it as she sees best, and that includes whom she trusts to take with her.

But who’s going to protect her?

She is a Ka’antira heir, Tamsen replied quietly. Against most things, she can defend herself. Let her decide how she wants to approach the rest.

Brial stared at his wife suspiciously. You’re up to something, Tamsen.

Me? she said, her voice bland and innocent. Why would you ever think that, Brial Ka’breona?

Because I know you.

Tamsen sighed. His muscles tensed against her skin as if he were steeling himself for a blow. The silence in their relatively modest home grew edgy and protracted.

I think it best, Brial, that Tamarisk be given this chance to succeed or fail on her own. She has to learn to rely upon herself, to trust herself to make the best decisions possible, or we’re not doing our job as her parents. Tamarisk served in Panathea’s temple on Hippolytos. She’s inherited your mind for strategy, and that’s been enhanced by the tutelage of the goddess’s acolytes. She needs a real project, love, something she can sink her teeth into and approach as an independent agent of the Elven Realm. We aren’t just raising an Elfmaiden, Brial, but an Elven Queen. She must learn to think like a diplomat, a warrior, a general, a Loresinger, a monarch, a mage, and a woman…and if she stays here, she won’t. She’ll think like all the other Elfmaidens she knows—girls being raised to rule a home and not a kingdom. By the time she has to be able to reign independently, she won’t be able to formulate any plan without doubting its outcome. If that happens, it will be a disaster.

You’ve seen something.

I’m not the Elven Seer. Kaldarte sees things. I don’t.

Brial shook his head stubbornly. You’ve seen something.

Tamsen hesitated. Not really. But I have a very strong sense that we have to put this in Tamarisk’s hands and—

The Elfstones dimmed abruptly. Brial didn’t need that much illumination; his senses were as keen as they’d ever been. But Tamsen had never enjoyed the enhanced senses of her people.

Brial had dimmed the Elfstones so she wouldn’t be able to see his reaction as easily, which was how he always reacted when he feared the news that came next. He got to his feet and went to stand against the hearth, casting his face into deeper shadow.

"And where will we be, cariad?"

Tamsen looked down at her hands. I’m very much afraid we’ll be busy with something else, love.

Chapter Two

Tamarisk had always loved Geochon.

Human cities had a vitality Leselle lacked. In the mornings, the sounds of people on the streets would awaken her early. Even as a child she’d run to the windows to look out on the city, fascinated by what she saw. Vendors wheeled their carts to the market, their wares covered with cloths and their wheels squealing on their axles. Soldiers passed each other, their armor and weapons rattling with a clatter against the cobbled streets. Women would pause to laugh and gossip, while children ran shrieking at their play or resentfully marched to school or the masters they were apprenticed to. Carriages rumbled by, their owners protected even from Elven eyes by the decorated panels and curtained windows.

So different from Leselle, where the natural grace and silent beauty of the Elves’ world was unmarred save by the susurrus through the sacred oaks and the voices of the Loresingers instructing the young.

On this first morning of the fortnight celebrating King Kylos’s investiture, Geochon was as loud at daybreak as it usually was at noon. The common people of Ansienne had flocked to the capital to watch their young King formally take the throne. His uncle Rontil de Tizand, the Prince-Regent, was heading at last for the pleasant, busy life he’d always envisioned for himself in Spesialle. His wife, Alcmene, wanted to be nearer to the four daughters who were training with her sister, the formidable Hippolyte Queen Antiope.

Tamarisk’s recent gloom was dispelled by the thought of what the next two weeks would hold. Not only would Kylos take the alabaster throne, but every night there would be parties and balls and banquets. Royalty from throughout the seven kingdoms would be in the capital. Every high-ranking noble in Ansienne would be as well, and so would the far-flung scions of the Elven royal family. Aunt Sieppa and Balon would remain in Hippolytos, sadly, where they spent their time raising their pair of young sons in the centaur village and maintaining a permanent Elven embassy amid the fabled legions of the island. Her cousin Antira, daughter of Cetenne and Glaucon de Pamphylia, and Wilden’s half-Hippolyte daughter, Penthea, were there too, training with both Sieppa and Antiope’s legions.

But there would be other important people to see, and that was what excited Tamarisk most.

Strange, really, to realize that Kylos was a grown man ready to take his place as King of Ansienne. When she thought of Kylos, she remembered the child she’d protected when they were captives together on Godspring—a child whose natural terror had switched without warning to anger when he thought she needed defending.

No, I can’t think about that. Not now.

That instinctive chivalry had created a bond between them, a bond that had been kept alive through a vigorous correspondence. Tamarisk found it hard to picture him as a grown man; the last time she’d seen him, Kylos was a pimply adolescent.

But that wasn’t the only exciting thing she was thinking about. Anteros de Ceolliune and Maron de Beotte would be there. She wasn’t quite certain what they’d be doing, but they’d be doing whatever it was that a young warrior and a young warmage did when they were back home after roaming around the seven kingdoms looking for adventure. Rontil had last sent them to flush out bands of criminals who were stalking merchant caravans between Rontandeux and Geochon. For months now, she’d been getting their letters detailing how they’d learned to work together in tracking down the enemies of the crown.

Maron, of course, was the Marquis de Beotte and part of the royal family. He’d be escorting his mother, Myrielle, who was one of the people the Elven Queen loved best in the world.

But Anteros was the one she was most excited to see.

When they’d been sixteen, Anteros and Tamarisk had been close—far closer than almost anyone knew. They kept their fledgling romance to themselves, fully aware that until Tamarisk came of age nothing could be said or done about it. And then, their feelings became secondary, dragged under by the wave of terror that had overwhelmed her when her mother had supposedly died on Godspring. The fear of being the Elven Queen left no room for her adolescent love. But then her mother had returned, and Anteros had left for Ceolliune with his father. They’d not seen each other often after that, but corresponded frequently.

She’d fully expected Anteros to show up in Leselle for her coming of age celebrations not half a year ago, but instead he’d sent a polite note and a gift. At first, his absence had hurt her feelings, but then she realized that he’d probably never been as infatuated with her as she’d been with him.

Regardless, Tamarisk still found herself dreaming about the boy she’d adored and the man he’d grown into, which was more than likely a waste of time. Although they continued to exchange letters regularly, his tone seemed to be growing somewhat distant.

Tamarisk bit her lip. She wanted Anteros to see her today as a woman grown and not the mischievous Elfmaiden who’d run laughing through the trees of Leselle and pressed awkward kisses against his mouth.

Anteros’s father was Anner de Ceolliune, who was Ansienne’s foremost general and the Prince-Regent’s most trusted advisor. The Duke de Ceolliune had once been in love with Mother, despite being Father’s swordbrother. The Duke had remained unmarried. He’d spent the years since the Eleusis between governing his city-state and leading the armies of Ansienne. He’d also fathered a pair of daughters on the Hippolyte Queen, who were both being brought up in the traditions of their mother’s people.

Tamarisk had always liked the Duke, but she’d always felt vaguely sorry for him too…and a little guilty. He was such a good man, always putting the happiness of others before his own. Anteros worshipped his father, and that, at least, gave the older man a sincere and quiet joy.

But it didn’t seem fair that life hadn’t given the Duke more when he had given so much to the world.

Today, visiting royalty from all the seven kingdoms and demimortal races were going in state to the palace to be greeted by the young King, his uncle, and his privy council. Their official arrival would kick off the festivities, and tonight a grand ball and banquet would be the first of the great entertainments being planned.

Her mother had told her to take this fortnight and enjoy herself. As a result, she’d unfettered her daughter from the excessive protocols of the Elven Realm, which allowed her greater independence than she’d ever experienced before.

Tamarisk smiled, and for the first time in months felt genuine excitement. Being young, pretty, and female, she started to think more about her appearance and less about her unworthy complaints about her lot in life. Perhaps this was just what she needed to turn her thoughts from the darkness and back to the light.

The crowds outside the Elven embassy had