Abendau's Legacy (The Inheritance Trilogy Book 3) Read online

  Abendau’s Legacy

  The Inheritance Trilogy

  Book Three

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialog are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 Jo Zebedee

  Published by Tickety Boo Press

  www.ticketyboopress.co.uk

  Edited by Teresa Edgerton

  www.teresaedgertoneditor.com

  Copy-edited by Sam Primeau

  www.primoediting.com

  Cover Art by Gary Compton

  Book Design by Big River Press Ltd

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This is the end of an era for me. My first imaginary world finishing and my first trilogy left to go out in the big world alone.

  As ever, many thanks are due. My family and friends, who pull me away and keep my life in balance, as well as providing awesome fun. My kids, Becky and Holly, who cope well with being book-orphans, and Chris, my husband, for tolerating me working at weekends, and doing just-one-more-chapter. It occurs to me I should have dedicated one book to each of you, but there’s time for that later.

  By the time book 3 gets underway there are less beta readers than before – they need to have read the first two books, for a start, and still have time to read on. But three gallantly stuck with it! Huge thanks to Sue Jackson, John J Brady and Em Tett for reading over and beyond the call of duty.

  Also, thanks to Teresa Edgerton and Sam Primeau. Teresa’s touch in this book (and indeed the trilogy) may not always be visible – as a great editor’s shouldn’t be – but I know what she shaped and changed and how much better the book is for it. Many, many thanks. And Sam who put up with my multiple spellings of Syllte (in fact, Sam, could you check it here…) and my weird dialect moments, and kept the grammar and continuity on the straight and narrow. Also needing a mention are Gary Compton and Tickety Boo Press for taking the chance on me as a debut novelist and allowed the world of Abendau to see the light of day. It’s been a blast.

  Other professionals need a mention. The unsung booksellers, for one. I’ve been one, I’m married to one, and I know how hard they work and how much their enthusiasm carries the booktrade. To all those who have supported – Easons, Waterstones, Blackwells and the independents who have taken it – many, many thanks. Also, conventions. I’m getting to know that circuit, and thanks to all who’ve given me a space at a con to talk about books. A big, big call out to Titancon in Belfast who accepted me into their fold and have given the best craic I’ve had when working, ever (I’d argue whether it is actually work, more of a privilege).

  Finally, finally, finally, all the readers and reviewers, those who’ve contacted me to say you enjoyed the books, those who shared thoughts about what worked and what didn’t, and helped me make the story stronger, a huge thank you. Without you, it means nothing.

  Jo

  Abendau’s Legacy

  by Jo Zebedee

  Once again, for Chris, Becky and Holly. You are just amazing!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Early morning light filtered through rough-hewn portholes, casting sea-shimmers on the corridor’s ceiling. Kare stopped at the entrance to the old Queen’s chamber in the Roamer complex and stood, soaking in the warmth of the sun and the sound of waves drumming, ceaseless and rhythmic.

  He touched the room’s force-field, letting it tingle against his hands and play over his skin. Once, he’d thought it was a security measure – now he understood that the chamber was not just a sleeping-room, but the Roamers’ museum of a culture, and the force-field prevented damp air reaching it on days when the sun was clouded and the air cold.

  Get on with it. He grimaced, took a deep breath, and pushed his way into the room.

  The briny air was replaced by the low musk of incense, burned in honour of the dead. The room remained as it had been when he’d last visited it, on the memorial day for his grandmother, when he’d lit the incense. Memories rushed at him: of the casket containing his grandmother’s ashes, due to be released over the great ocean of Syllte; of the Roamers hoping he’d accept the room as his own, the final symbol that he was Karlyn, their King, not Kare Varnon, the cast-out; of Kerra, wide-eyed and excited at her new heritage, and Baelan, surly, standing apart from the crowd.

  It had struck him, then, how like him and Karia his children were. The future they presented could have been his own if his father had not succeeded in escaping the Empress. The Empress had taken the boy, as she’d wanted to with Kare. She’d touched his young mind and tried to shape it. How did it feel for Baelan to see Kerra, so loved and secure? He and Karia had been thrust into their crazy childhood together, but had been loved by their erratic father equally. Baelan had never had any recognition of who he was. Kare wanted to give his son the chance to discover himself – and his daughter, too, so shaped by the palace and her constrained future.

  He turned in a slow circle, taking in the symbols etched in the stone. Some were the earliest patterns that had come to form the complex decals of the Roamer families, others a lettering he was not familiar with, an interlinking of lines and images that made him feel certain he should understand their message, and frustrated he could not. The shelves were filled with artifacts that he’d taken the time to explore over the past days. A ship’s control panel, dulled with age, taken from the first of the Roamer ships; a chart marking Syllte and its star; a book, heavy, its cover inscribed with more of the lost language. Inside, it listed the kings and queens of the Roamers. His father – once heir to the Roamers – was not listed, nor would Kare be, unless he formally accepted their kingship, here in this room.

  He didn’t want the anger within him, he wanted to let it go and be free. He wanted to accept what was offered on Syllte – the peace of the mesh and the power it offered, his place in a community that stood with him, watching from the mesh, collective breath held.

  He zoned the Roamers out. This decision was his alone: he didn’t need an audience. He wanted to accept, yes, but to do so would be to put aside their betrayal, not just of himself, but his father and sister, too.

  The alcove beside him was thick with dust. He ran his finger through it, leaving a thick line, stopping at a carved wooden box. His breath caught. He hadn’t seen one like it since he was seven, when his fingers had been small enough to slip into the carved runs and trace them. Now his adult fingers didn’t fit into the grooves, but ran over the top of them instead.

  He lifted the box and popped it open. Inside, nestled on dark velvet, was a clear jewel.

  A Seer’s prism. His father had chosen to embrace the Empress’ prism cell and travel the future, time and again, to find a path to free his children from her. He’d been left unable to Seer again, his mind too fragile, yet one glance at a prism had overcome him. When that had happened, nearly thirty years ago, it had been the true death of his father, his final, shocking moments merely confirmation.

  Kare’s mouth moistened. He remembered that day with his father, going into his first – and only – vision. He had the power to use the prism. He could discover if the path he’d walked, the path that had cost him and everyone he loved so much, had been the right one. He ran his fingers over the hard glass, tracing its angles. He’d never given in to the temptation to Seer, leaving his horror-filled dreams the only forewarning of the future. But his heritage had never shone before him like this.

  He hooked the prism from the box and sat on the edge of the small bed, turning it over and over in his hand. The refracted light merged with the shimmering sea-cast. It would be easy to attach the stone to the thin
silver chain hanging from the ceiling, as his ancestors had done, one after the other.

  His shoulders tensed but he stayed still and straight, his promise to Karia, made curled with her in their freighter’s pilot’s seat, stopping him. Their father’s screams – screams from Kare’s future, ones he’d matched and more – had echoed through the ship. His twin’s fear had radiated to him and back, a macabre dance of shifting thoughts.

  His promise that night had a shared strength, carried for her and for him. He closed his hand over the prism, stopping the light. He hadn’t kept his final promise – everything hadn’t been all right – but he’d kept this one for thirty years; he was damned if he was going to break it now.

  A light breeze made him look up. The room was empty, but he could sense the sister who’d haunted his youth. She felt very close to him, and it was right that she did: she should be here, a princess of the Roamers, not a ghost-child left only in his mind. He tightened his hand around the prism, his once broken bones aching, until the cut-glass dug into his palm. Let it hurt; at least it was clean.

  Karia’s presence faded back to where she should be, leaving only a deep pain, centred on his heart. He ran his hand through his hair, pushing it back from his sweat-beaded forehead. Gods, he’d been right to resist taking this room.

  Soft footsteps brought him out of his thoughts. Sonly, standing by the door, gave a hesitant smile. “I was told you were here.”

  He touched his head. “My posse?”

  “Yes.” She sat beside him. “Are you all right?”

  He nodded. He held the prism tight and took a deep, shuddering breath. The sea-light shimmered, ageless, and he watched until he was calm enough to speak. He didn’t need the prism to know his future path; he just needed to find it within himself to take it.

  “After I dissolve the empire, I’m going back.” Icy sweat broke across his shoulders. “To Abendau.”

  “You can’t.” Sonly’s voice was thin and scared. “I won’t let you.”

  “We can’t live like this,” he said. “My mother is in the palace, plotting against us.” Sonly went to interrupt, but he held his hand up. “Not just against me and you, but the children. Lichio. She wants all of us.”

  “We have security. She can’t get near us without you sensing her. We’re safe.”

  He gave a tight smile; Sonly didn’t believe it any more than he did, or she wouldn’t insist on centering the Free Republic in the relatively secure Ferran system, the great gas giant and satellites straddling the middle and outer zone systems. She was no fool; she knew that if the Empress regained her support in the central star systems, nowhere would be safe for him, her, or anyone they loved. She must know, too, that Syllte wasn’t as secure as the Roamers insisted. His mother had a fleet of ships to throw at the planet, if she found it – if she lost some to the storm, she’d absorb it.

  “We can only fly using Roamer ships,” he said. “We have personal security teams everywhere we go, and outer perimeter teams. That’s not what I want for you or the children. I want them to know they won’t be taken to Abendau and made to face my mother.”

  Yet Baelan wanted to return to Abendau – and it was his place to, surely. As ever, things weren’t as simple as they should be. The boy could not be sent back. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. A silence stretched, until he drew in a breath. “I need to – for what it’s worth – end it.”

  “Then send an assassin.” Her words were quick, almost desperate.

  He took her hand. “She’ll sense anyone else before they get close.” His voice was stronger than he’d imagined it would be. “Sonly, she has taken so many lives. My father, Karia. Silom and Sam; everyone. I can’t let her take any more.”

  The quiet stretched, broken only by the beating sea until, slowly, she nodded. He gripped the prism in his free hand and brought Ealyn and Karia to his mind. When – if – he finished this, it wasn’t only for him, but for all of them.

  He took a last look around the room. Until his mother was dead and he was free to choose his own path, this room and its legacy could wait. He had to know his decision was for the right reason and not driven by fear, or the need to be different from his mother – a Varnon, not a Pettina. No, more than that – Varnon was another fake name, given to his father for convenience; he needed to know whatever heritage he accepted was his own. The Roamers had cast his father out, they’d left himself and Karia to their fate; he couldn’t accept what they asked of him. Not unless he was sure. Until he was, they’d have to wait.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The grounds of Abendau palace sweated in the hot sun, filling the air with the smell of roses and underlying loam. Shanisa wrinkled her nose. She hated the gardens, with their fake promise of life and growth; without the ice-replenished moat, the garden would die, as nature decreed it should.

  Everything about Abendau was a lie. Her child, borne for the tribes, wasn’t by her side as promised. He hadn’t brought Varnon down and freed the tribes. Instead he’d been taken by Varnon. She couldn’t bring herself to think what would happen when he realised Baelan had been created to replace him, right down to his DNA.

  She crossed her arms against a sudden chill. Baelan might be his father’s son in every measurable way, but he was hers in love. No matter how challenging, he’d been her son, who no one in the tribes wanted to get close to, for fear of his power. She half-smiled; even as a babe, Baelan’s needs had to be met before his crib-clothes smouldered.

  Later, she’d taught him discipline and patience, even as he’d screamed that it hurt to hold the power inside. She’d held him, comforted him, watched him learn and kept him firm with her love. They had been everything to each other: mother and son; teacher and pupil; playmates when the other children shunned him. Without him she was adrift and unsure of herself. She buried her nose in a flower, inhaling its fragrance, to hide her wet eyes.

  “Sister? Are you all right?” Jakina’s sand-reared voice, guttural and deep, cut through the still air.

  She straightened. Her brother’s eyes were hard and watchful. Beside him, Ralina attempted a smile, but it was wary: since her attempt to leave the palace grounds – just for a few hours in the desert – her brothers had given her little freedom, refusing to allow attendance at the souk, or even to pray alone.

  “I love the garden,” she said. “Such opulence, so many smells.” She walked on. Most days she came to the garden when the palace became too much for her and the walls closed in around her. Jakina and Ralina kept pace, a pair of shadows at her shoulders. She touched the prayer-coin in her pocket. “May I make an offering to our Lady Averrine?”

  Ralina’s eyes were soft, giving her hope, but Jakina shook his head. “Would you break our family’s bond?” he asked. “The shrine is outside the palace.”

  “You know I will not.” She touched her ankshar. Its chain might be thinner than her brothers’ ankhars, its stone a quarter the size of their pendants, but it was by far the most valuable. The clutterback pearl was smooth under her fingers, rubbed and rubbed over the last fretful weeks. If she sold her ankshar, the pearl alone would bring enough to purchase a flight off world. But to give up such a precious ankshar, passed through the maternal line from her grandmother, would mean she must leave the tribe, all without knowing which planet Baelan was on, or how to get close to him. She closed her hand over the pearl, and lifted her chin. “Am I a prisoner, then?”

  “Of course not,” Ralina said, his voice smooth. “Our Lady fears you will be used by our enemies, and wishes only to keep you safe.”

  Lies. She had heard the whispered conversation between Phelps and Jakina, about how she couldn’t be trusted to do the tribes’ will in matters regarding Baelan, and how our Lady had asked that she be kept under guard in the palace. Ralina had spoken for her, but only to suggest a little more freedom, not that they could trust her. She glared at him: she was an elder with a child; she should be allowed to go before the tribal council and ask for her release.

  She force
d a deep breath. No matter how she’d stormed and pleaded, it had done no good. Indeed, Ralina had risked much to gain her access to the gardens.

  “Very well, brother. I’d still like to send prayers for my son’s safe return.” She led the way into the sunken garden where a simple prayer-pond in the centre glittered under the sun. She knelt on the keystone of the surround and took the coin from her pocket, imagining Jakina’s eyes watching her, dark and disapproving. He listened closely to the Cult, closer than he should. She zoned his presence out and bowed her head. “Blessed Lady, look after my son. Let him not be harmed, and see he is returned to his people.”

  She dropped the coin into the water, watching it be consumed by the dark depths, and stayed on her knees, head bowed, her focus on the ancient desert gods – a heresy, should she be discovered. She squeezed her eyes closed: let Baelan not be harmed. Let him come back to Belaudii, where she waited for him.

  Soft footsteps sounded behind her. A slow dread crept up her spine, and she hastily buried the focus of her prayers and stumbled to her feet. Her Lady’s face was soft, her hair styled so that it framed her face. She embraced Shanisa, her touch filled with such sympathy that it broke Shanisa’s resolve, and tears fell. Minutes passed in the sultry heat, the only sound the soft trickle of water, until Shanisa broke away and ducked into a curtsey.

  “My Lady,” she said. She remembered her disloyal thoughts about her freedom and swallowed past a hard knot of dread in her throat. For that alone, she could be chastised and the Cult were unforgiving of those who doubted, casting them out to be found dead in the alleys of the Old City, where those who heard their screams knew not to intervene. “Forgive me.”

  “You miss your son.” The Empress put her hand out, supporting Shanisa’s elbow. Her voice dripped kindness, but behind was the terse steel of command. She leaned her head in, just a little. “The tribes tell me you are more than Baelan’s mother. They tell me you are everything to him.”