EDIT: I updated this 28/6 after deciding to do another rewrite, so bear with me for future updates as I continue to beat this book into shape. Itās... mainly the same, except I cut a bit to put into the next chapter and rejigged the wording. So enjoy!
So I decided to finally post some of this book Iāve been talking about for the past while, so here goes.Ā
High fantasy series written by a Monty Python and Terry Pratchett fanatic, inspired by my other hyper fixation, Game of Thrones. Please like and subscribe for more content. Thank you for your time.
A moodboard for your attention:
The continent of Truphoria, the third weed of summer on the 1345th Year of Mortality.
On the Night of Raining Thorns, Prince Seth Crey was killed by a masked assassin. Everyone who knew him agreed he most likely deserved it.
But hours earlier, public dislike of the adolescent had been placed aside. Dusk fell over the heart of Adem as the nobility of the world, plus a few opportunistic stragglers, flocked into Creysā Keep. Any concern about masked assassins had, unfortunately, fallen by the wayside. There was a far greater matter at hand.
There was a wedding due to start.
This was to be no normal wedding. It was a royal wedding, in the kingdom of Adem, no less. There would be romance, and love, and drinking and fighting in liberal amounts and, more importantly, cold feetā¦
Thirteen was a young age for oneās youth to die.
Or so Seth considered, sitting on his throne beside his father. He glared down at his Portabellan guests, or, rather, King Theoās future investment.
The family of three plus their enormous entourage were recognisable purely by the sheer amount of gold coating their clothes and adorning their wrists and throats. Sethās father had laughed himself sick when he clapped eyes on them.
Best day of my life? Best day of his, more like.
Seth was far from having a good day. His mother had gifted him a ridiculous outfit she appeared to have fashioned out of an old dress, his shoulder-length hair was itching up a storm inside the collar and his Uncle Osney had forced him into a bath that left him smelling like a first-prize flowerbed and feeling a prize twit to match.
He was quite used to fragrant baths and ill-designed clothing of his motherās making. Thirteen years of being crown prince of Adem had well equipped him for that. It was the hair. Truphorian men kept it short and out of the way. Portabella had a fetish for long, luscious locks. Heād been growing it out on his motherās command since the betrothal was finalised a year ago. Queen Eleanor had curled it into tight coils with a pungent oil. It was hideous in every sense.Ā
Itās all for the sake of the alliance, his father had told him.
As far as Seth was concerned, he could stick his alliance up his arse. No Portabellan stick insect was going to have his babies anytime soon. Heād heard rumours about the procedure. It seemed ridiculously unhygienic.Ā
King Theo Crey reached an elbow out to nudge his sonās arm.
āPretty little thing, isnāt she?ā he said over the din of the celebration.
āDunno. The motherās in the way.ā
The mother was a mishmash of wig and petticoat. Seth couldnāt tell woman from accoutrement.
āThe girl, over there, look.ā Theo pointed.
Seth looked her up and down.
Cienne Fleurelle stood between her parents, her skinny form trembling within what must have been six tailorsā worth of silk petticoats. She peered up at Seth over the top of a gilded fan and gave him a tiny, tentative smile, which he pointedly ignored.
āSheās veryā¦ small,ā he drawled. āLillyās bigger than her. Is she three years old as well? I donāt think I feel comfortable seeing someone a full decade younger than I am.ā
āDonāt be stupid, sheās of an age with yourself. You canāt afford to be fussy, you know. Youāre a man now, or as good as at this age. You must spread your seed now that youāre still young.ā
Sethās face screwed up in disdain.
āThatās disgusting,ā he said with a shiver. āImagine sticking yourself into a girl. Ew.ā
āIt must be done. You are my heir, young Seth, and heirs must procreate. Why donāt you show her around? Get to know her a bit before the ceremony?ā
Seth threw his eyes towards the heavens and rose from his throne.
āAnd remember,ā his father reminded him.
Seth pivoted with a dull expression.
His father flourished his right hand.
āPolite, chivalrousā¦ā
āAnd complimenting,ā Seth finished. āThe exact opposite of what youāre like to Mother.ā
āBe gone, Seth,ā Theo told him irritably, āand heed my words or else!ā
Seth stormed away, trying not to think of what āor elseā meant as the King of Portabella beckoned him over eagerly.
His matchstick of a daughter had taken heed of Sethās hostility and cowered behind his broad build, her silver-blond head scarcely visible.
Seth approached the family and bowed.
āWelcome, your majesty. My father and I are pleased to receive you.ā
āAnd we are as pleased to be received,ā the king said, his voice thick and jolly. āYour highness, may I introduce Princess Cienne, my daughter.ā
He directed to Cienne a stream of nonsensical speediness that Seth wasnāt sure was even a human language.
The princess emerged from behind him to drop a quick curtsy.
āGreetings, my prince,ā she said in a small voice, a thick accent curling prettily between the words.
Seth recalled his earlier counselling with the Duke of Osney and knelt onto one knee to take her hand.
āGreetings, my lady.ā
He pecked the back of her wrist.
Princess Cienne retracted her hand, smitten.
āDo not let me keep you, Prince Seth,ā King Fleurelle said to Seth with a benevolent smile. āIām sure you have much to show your future wife.ā He winked.
Seth inclined his head with a faint, fake smile.
Give us a chance to unpack the rings, you dirty bastard, he thought privately.
Seth offered an elbow to Cienne.
She beamed at him and took it.
They strolled to the courtyard together.
He walked her around the perimeter, through the dining hall, around the spiralling patterns of the back gardens, everywhere he could think of to postpone having to invent small talk to amuse the silly creature clinging to his arm. As rain began to pitter onto the transparent crust that had become of Sethās hair oils, he led her back indoors and commenced a tour of the castle before, finally and tentatively, showing her to his rooms.
Where the fragile door of common courtesy was, abruptly, shattered from both sides.
āGet off! Get off!ā
Seth tried to scream through a mouthful of Portabellan tongue technique as Princess Cienne squeezed him to her as tightly as possible.
He wrenched himself away and wiped his mouth.
āSalator Creyās balls!ā he gasped. āWhat the hell was that?ā
āA kiss, my prince,ā she said timidly, assuming her previous saintly faƧade.
āIs that what you call it?ā
āWas it not pleasing, my lord?ā
āPleasing?ā Seth shuddered. āIt was moreā¦ torturously inexperienced. Donāt they teach you these things before you get here? Honestly. It was like having a puppy in my mouth.ā
Cienneās face fell. āI apologise, my prince.ā She reached forward with both arms. āLet me try againāā
āNo!ā he exclaimed.
He stumbled out of her reach.
āYouāre already nearly suffocated me to death, leave me be!ā
Cienne stood back, a delicate frown between her brows.
āDeath? How could I have kissed you to death? You still live.ā
Seth rolled his eyes. āNo, love, that was a joke.ā
āJuh-oke?ā she said slowly. āI am not familiar with this word. It is like the word āpokeā?ā
āNo, it is not definitely not like the word āpokeā!!ā
Seth stepped back again for self-preservation.
āI meant it was an exaggerationāā
āEggs? What have eggs to do with me kissing you to death?ā
Seth dropped his head into his palm.
āNo, you nitwit, visit a library. You havenāt kissed me to death, I only meantāā
Cienneās expression turned stony.
āNitwit. I think Iām aware of this phrase,ā she said in a monotone. āI beg your leave, Prince Seth. I feel a bit sick, I should like to get some air.ā
āSick,ā Seth echoed. āI like that, I think Iāll use that. It will look more convincing if weāre both unwell, wonāt it? We can blame it on the shrimp, put off the wedding for at least anotherāā
The door slammed behind her, to the concern of no one but a raven outside, which left a spatter-shaped indication of its disgust on Sethās window.
Smiling faintly at his newfound excuse, Seth entered his bedroom and bolted the door behind him. Women, he decided long ago, were not his speciality.
Cream cakes, however, he thought warmly, were very much his best friend. His mother was bound to bring him a platter of two once she heard he was āsickā. Particularly if he dropped the good old āgrowing painsā line.
Anyway, he was a prince of the realm. The next king, in fact. He would get married whenever he bloody well felt like it, and his fatherā¦ well, Seth could think of what his father would do in the morning.
He climbed under the covers of his deluxe four-poster and, despite the imminent arrival of cream cakes, fell asleep within moments.
Six hours passed.
Seth awoke to the sound of a raven pecking on his window. He sat up to chase it away when a small hand shot out of the shadows to slit his right palm with a short dagger.
Seth screamed out in fear and alarm.
The shade slapped another hand over his mouth.
The hand held a clothā¦ a damp clothā¦
A ravenās squawk echoed in his ears. Blackness washed in from the edges of his awareness, like rolling waves on a shore. The last thing Seth remembered on the night of his murder was the assassin taking blood from the wound on his right palm.
Ā The second and considerably more consequential thing that happened on the Night of Raining Thorns concerned an actual egg.
The Queen of the Forest was pissed off. Very pissed off indeed.
Someone had made shit of her castle.
She sat on the landing of what used to be a full set of stairs. Steam burned her lungs as though she sat inside a recently erupted volcano, but steam was the least of her problems.
Red smog drifted around her from the ground floor, dissolving the flagstones. She peered down into the centre of a massive crater in the middle of what used to be her audience chamber.
A few remnants of egg shell lay scattered in the centre.
The Queen shook debris out of her hair.
She tried to recall the date.
Third week of summer. King Theoās kid was getting married today. She hadnāt been invited, but that was fine. Social ostracization wasnāt something she was unused to.
Having explosive dragon eggs thrown at her was a different story.
Of course he would form an alibi first. That was King Theo Crey down to a T.
He could at least have given her a bit of notice, she thought sourly. A hoard of Crey foot soldiers arriving at her gate, that would have been fine, but magicā¦ that was a cheat. And she should know. Cheating with magic was her signature move.
The Queen examined her household from the foot of the stairs. Some were badly injured. A lot of them were dead. This was not good. Hosting a retaliation with half a house and a council of six cripples was like enrolling in a jousting match with no arms ā she might as well go ahead and put a sword in her own throat. Which was no doubt his plan.
Now she was really pissed.
She limped to the remains of her bedchamber, adjusting her dress, stained a dull grey from the debris thrown at her in the explosion. She brushed her dust-coated hair away from her face. A mass of smouldering splinters in the corner marked the remains of her bureau.
A red glint caught her eye.
She dug a hand into the wreckage.
The amulet felt cool under her fingers, in spite of the blast. It had sat inside the drawer for years, decades even. The amulet had never been used. She had never had the desire to use it.
Similarly, the Creys had never made shit of her castle either. And nothing on their part had ever meant war. This had changed a lot of thingsā¦ and there were a lot of things still to change.
She clenched it tightly in her fist and closed her eyes.
