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  The Last Throne

  Ruins Falling

  A. R. Peters

  The Last Throne: Ruins Falling by A. R. Peters

  © 2018 A. R. Peters

  All Rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, at “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.

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  Published in the United States of America

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

  Visit the author’s website at www.arpetersauthor.com

  Cover Art: © 2018 A. R. Peters

  Table of Contents

  Come Learn More

  Makeshift Ghosts

  In The Fowler’s Snare

  For Every Scar

  High Prince

  For Any Word

  When Storms Collide

  If You Enjoyed This Book…

  About The Author

  Come Learn More

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  Makeshift Ghosts

  “Here, kitty, kitty! I have fresh victims for you!”

  Devirah jerked her head up from its comfortable place on the couch. The man’s voice, filled with laughter and mischief, echoed around the shelves down the central walkway of the library. And she knew, though she couldn’t see it yet, that a bird—probably a tawny owl—had appeared up there somewhere. “They’ll be here in two minutes!” he called.

  Devirah grinned, jumped up, and leapt off the couch. As she did so, she closed her eyes, concentrated, and stretched out her limbs. When she opened her eyes, she was beating her new pair of wings hard to fly upward. She spotted the tawny owl on the second story of the library, sitting on the handrail but close to one of the wooden pillars, to hide from the doors. She landed beside him and shifted from her mimicry of the owl back to one of her favorite forms—a cat. Today, as usual, a calico. “For your information, Azaryah,” she told him, “I was a dog just then.”

  “Well, whatever you choose to be,” the owl said, his eyes twinkling, “get ready. You’ll love who’s coming over—there’s two, but the one you’ll especially enjoy. You’ve only been dying to haunt him.” She stared a moment, then burst into laughter at his play on words, and upon realizing who their victim was.

  Seven years. That was all it took for everyone in the castle to agree that the library was the most haunted place in the entire realm of Ye’shurun. The servants only entered if they had to, and mentioned it in whispers. The nobles were too pompous to admit their fears, but they avoided the entire north side of the castle’s fifth story—just to be safe. And every scoffer, no matter how strongly they doubted, walked away from the library reduced to the same state: shaken, wiping sweat from their brow, yet openly insisting it couldn’t possibly be ghosts.

  Well, they aren’t wrong, Devirah thought, smirking as the door handle trembled.

  Soon, the ornately carved door swung backward with a creak, and a young, gangly, pink-faced servant walked in. She and Azaryah peered around the pillar. He turned his head this way and that, his slightly bulging eyes widening. She understood the pleasure and awe on his face. She had never grown accustomed to the library’s majesty either. But she was startled to see his expression change. He hesitated momentarily in the door, but then strode in, a light smirk on his face as he lifted his chin, and looked down the bridge of his abnormally short and upturned nose. Devirah could easily imagine a cloak flowing behind him in the wind, as if he were one of the Twelve Princes conquering a rebellious village for the location of his newest castle.

  Devirah couldn’t help but grin to herself. She knew this servant better than she wanted to. She’d spied on him many times, but after seeing that smug expression, she knew she had never been more pleased to see him, or less guilty that she would be the cause of his humbling.

  But memories made her frown return. Scaring people off was fun, at first. But the more frightened they were, the guiltier she felt afterward. But she had to chase them away. Only four people were allowed here, because they needed this place. Its ancient smells. Its lovely majesty. Its silence. Its peace. The safety she and Azaryah provided. The Knight was infrequent, the Prince an incredibly rare guest, but the children…they needed this place most of all…

  There was a thud of wood hitting wood. Devirah inhaled, and shook her head, refocusing. The young man pulled it open but walked away, so the door had swung shut on a cart that a middle-aged woman pushed behind him. He looked back over his shoulder. She shoved the door open, set the cart down inside the door frame, and wiped her forehead while breathing heavily. Her nose was the exact opposite of the man’s: long, pointed, and slightly hooked. Her shoulders sagged as her small, dark eyes darted here and there, peering up from under her bushy black hair, and triple-checked her surroundings. The man frowned at her. “Oh, please, Merantha,” he droned, rolling his eyes, “don’t tell me you believe in that superstitious nonsense.”

  Devirah grinned over her right shoulder with the full glory of her unhidden glee. Beside her, Azaryah swiveled his head to look at her. His eyes and beak widened, his best mimicry of a grin. Oh, yes, she could practically hear him thinking—yes, this is going to be fun.

  They looked back down at the servants just as Merantha’s high voice snapped a reply. “You think you know all ‘cause you read, but you don’t. You never cleaned here.”

  “I personally think it’s a matter of lack of information and education to believe in ghostly myths,” the man droned on, picking up a feather duster off the cart idly. He touched the goose feathers, then one nostril raised as he rubbed his fingers together, attempting to flick away the residue of past cleanings. “All that our coworkers claim to have happened could be a myriad of coincidences resulting from the natural idiosyncrasies of a debilitated edifice, such as this—”

  “—You even know what half those fancy words mean, Bertie?”

  Devirah let out a low growl of laughter, which she immediately clapped her paws over her mouth for. Thankfully, the two servants were so caught up in the moment that they didn’t hear her. Bertie stared at the woman a moment, and then his face contorted as he snarled back, “It’s a funny old building—that’s what it means. Anything could happen—drafts, weak rafters—anything to make gullible people think of ghosts.”

  “I told you, Azaryah,” Devirah stated, flicking her tail and licking her paw.

  “Yeah…you did. Bertie is arrogant. You might have understated it, actually.” He met her eyes briefly, then looked away as he drew himself to full standing height, puffed his chest feathers, and spoke in a lofty, clearly annunciating voice. “I’m sure our acquaintance can give a thorough explanation of the definition of humility, but has he experienced such a phenomenon himself?”

  She chuckled, and replied with her best actor’s impression of a storybook villain’s ex
citement. “If he doesn’t know now, he’s gonna learn ta-day.”

  Azaryah laughed. “I also presume that since he doesn’t believe in ghosts, he does not believe in anything magical, either? Such as—let’s say—Avad’im?”

  “I’d presume not.” She flicking her tail again and smiled at the thought.

  Apparently, they’d been whispering too loudly. The servant woman was looking around the rafters, her dark eyes widening. She wildly brushed her bushy black hair out of her face and wiped her brow again. Even Bertie looked around, but with more curiosity than fear.

  “They heard us,” Azaryah commented, his voice falling lower as he leaned backward.

  “Oh yes, apparently so.” Devirah grinned as she watched Merantha’s eyes shot back and forth again. “But let’s not damage the poor woman’s nerves. Confuse, don’t abuse.”

  Azaryah turned and scowled at her. “You haven’t heard her talk yet. You just wait.”

  They glanced down again. Merantha was still looking around and shivering. Bertie shook his head, grabbed a duster and thrust it into her hands. “Don’t embarrass yourself. This is the highest level of the castle, and it’s already on a mountain. It’s just wind on the roof.”

  “I may not have schooling, but I know the difference of wind and whispers. I’m not stupid.”

  “Well, ghostly whispers or not, you’d better get over it, because I’m not going to clean this place by myself. Let’s get going.”

  “Sure you would. Your clothes fool nobody.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re too clean. You never done a hard day’s work in your life.”

  Bertie glared at her. “Well, you’re not getting any notice by higher officials by being disgusting. You have to stay somewhat clean if you want to be a butler, or have Prince to take you as a personal servant. Being that I keep myself presentable, and being that I’m not old and decrepit yet, I’m sure I have a better chance of that than you.”

  Merantha’s tan skin darkened considerably. “Ye don’t get noticed by laziness, neither.”

  They glared at one another for a moment. Then Bertie grabbed a duster and stalked off to the right side of the door toward the first set of shelves. Merantha went to the opposite side of the aisle, and disappeared from sight under the second story.

  Devirah glanced up and around briefly, getting ideas of how to tailor her reign of terror for the servants. There was an aisle between long and towering wooden bookshelves; thirteen on the left, thirteen on the right. Each shelf, front and back, had a rolling ladder of ornate black metal that twisted and spiraled like calligraphy, or a grapevine. A second story was erected on either side, and the wooden roof above was curved. Two spiral staircases, akin to the rolling ladders, were the only way up. High windows on the second story let in light. Most of the back wall did too, which was comprised mostly of high windows that faced due north. Forest and granite cliffs were visible on clear days, but today, the windows shone gray and white with streaks and droplets. Beneath the windows were luxuriant couches and wing-backed chairs, two large desks on east and west, and a fireplace. Its chimney was the only break in the wall of windows.

  She glanced back at Bertie. He had walked to her left toward the first shelf, and had climbed up the ladder to begin dusting. She was sure that Merantha had already begun. Really, the servants should’ve begun dusting on the second story first, but she suspected that Bertie just didn’t know what he was doing and Merantha was so mad she couldn’t think straight. Or she was afraid to go up and risk being shoved down the stairs by the dead.

  “Shall we join them?” She turned to look over at Azaryah as he lifted off from the rail and floated above the first shelf, high above Bertie. Then suddenly, in a whiff of silver vapor and a few lingering flickers of light, he vanished. She grinned, searching the air. A moment later, she just barely caught a dark shape—she assumed it was a house fly—floating under the second story and onto the shelf where Bertie had just dusted. She lost sight of it until Bertie stepped down a couple of rungs, his eyes looking down at the highest shelf now. There was a much smaller puff of silver vapor and flickering bits of light. Then a mouse peered down at Bertie, and then up at her.

  Devirah grinned at him, hunkered down, then leapt off the railing of the second level. As she fell, she lifted her tail and stretched her limbs wide, imagined what she wanted to become, and soon was fluttering her moth’s wings gently to hover and land on top of her friend’s opposite shelf, beneath the second story. She glanced over, and saw Azaryah smiling and shaking his head. She quivered her wings at her friend, hoping he understood her gesture. At least moths were silent, even if they were bigger. Quieter than flies, and less disgusting, too. Ghostly in their silence.

  She smiled to herself at the thought. Yes, she was ghostly. They both were excellent in their ghostliness, even for being Avad’im: shape shifters, warriors, and above all, what the humans called enchanters. On the rare occasion that one of the Avad’im revealed themselves to a human, it was masked in an animal or human form. For their natural and easiest form to shift into, though human-like in appearance, was terrifying, waking up something greater than just the fear of the dead. Additionally, they could disappear and reappear at whim, and they could manipulate the elements to a degree, igniting greater terror. Because the Avad’im were forbidden from harming the humans, mind or body, they kept to a practically separate world. To commit violence toward a human’s body or mind was a terrible betrayal of their law and kind.

  But not her and Azaryah. They had unusual, and important, circumstances. But she couldn’t dwell on that now, she reminded herself. She had to focus.

  She glanced back at Bertie. He’d dusted the first three shelves all the way down, pulling books out and then pushing them back with reverence. He pulled a book down to look at it. “How many books do you think are in here?” he asked, flipping through a few pages.

  “I don’t care. Keep cleaning.”

  He glanced with a scowl at Merantha, and put the book back. But a few minutes later, he was distracted by another book. He picked it up, paused, and then began to flip wildly through the pages, his eyes growing wide. Devirah looked over, and Azaryah gestured for her to join him on the other shelf. She closed her eyes, imagined where she wanted to be, and then reappeared at his side. The moment she’d become a mouse, Azaryah gripped her arm so hard, and so suddenly, that she jumped. When she glared at him, he shot out a tiny clawed finger. Cautiously, Devirah stepped forward and peered closer at the book. It was a worn, green leather book, and the top of the leaves were stained deep red. She gasped. It was a wine stain, not blood. She knew, because she remembered watching the glass spill onto it years ago.

  “It’s Graedin’s,” Azaryah squeaked in her ear. “His copy of the King’s journal!”

  She stared at it, her heart pounding ferociously. “How did it get here?!”

  “I don’t know! I thought the Princes had all the copies burned!”

  “What if somebody had found it?! It was right there—on the third shelf!” That book was condemned to destruction by the Twelve Princes that ruled the realm. The original copy had been written by the King himself many generations past, and the King had commanded his work—filled with laws, but also with poetry, stories of magic, and even a little history and science—to be copied word for word by every Prince newly appointed to his position.

  But that was generations ago. Over the years, the Princes that lived and died had scoffed at the stories of magic within it. They did not want to be governed by the laws of a King long since gone, especially since the King had been rumored to be an Enchanter of some sort. Powerful beyond comprehension, a wielder of power and strength that was terrifying. They thought it ridiculous. So now, that book was precious—and dangerous—beyond measure.

  “Bertie, are you going to work or not?!” Merantha’s voice snarled.

  He scowled, and turned to her. She scowled back, and turned to keep dusting. But he kept staring as he pull
ed open his robes and tucked the leather book into a wide inner pocket.

  “No!” Azaryah gasped beside her. He turned, his eyes bulging. “Did you see his face?”

  “Yes,” she replied, gritting her teeth. “He knows exactly what it is. That little sneak-thief.” She glared at Bertie, who was now dusting again. He kept checking the book in his pocket and glancing at Merantha. “The Princes won’t be forgiving if he gets caught with that book. And it belongs to Graedin anyway. It should go back to him.”

  Azaryah nodded, still glaring toward the servant. Captain Graedin Kairathed was the First Knight of the Realm, commander of Ye’shurun’s entire army. He was a wise and admired leader both in the army and among the people. And he had hand-written this copy of the King’s journal, the book Bertie snuck into his pocket, by himself. The Princes had once been bound by law to copy it in their own hand, not the Knights of the Realm. But Graedin copied the journal because he wanted to. The ancient King had envisioned a prosperous, peaceful realm, and written down all of his wisdom and dreams in that book. So the knight had copied it, yearning to know anything that could help his country be all it was meant to be.

  Clearly, she and Azaryah had done a good enough job chasing people away that no one had bothered to check the books for any stray copies—this one would’ve been found immediately. When the library had been first built, books had been gathered swiftly and thrown in here, and shortly afterward the King’s journal had been outlawed. She knew Graedin had missed it since around that time, though. And she intended to return it to him. She looked back at Azaryah, to his piercing gaze. “Any ideas?” he asked. “How are we doing to get it back?”

  “Whatever it takes.” His brows furrowed, and she quickly added, “I mean, if our normal tactics don’t work, we do whatever it takes to get the book back—save violence.”