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  SINGER’S Sword

  CHRONICLES OF THE CHOSEN

  CASSANDRA BOYSON

  Copyright © 2020 Cassandra Boyson

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Kingdom House Press

  Cover design by Christian Bentulan

  www.CassandraBoyson.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  AFTERWORD

  PROPHET’S APPRENTICE

  SEEKER’S CALL

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DEDICATED TO

  the music pal in my life,

  Steven Boyson

  1

  It was known among all in Castlehaven that Hazel was the daughter of highborn criminals. She had been made to pay for those crimes the whole of her remembered life. Though she’d not been imprisoned, she had been scorned and pressed into a lonely existence. Her parents’ misdemeanor? Attempted assassination on the king of all Kierelia… the same man who was her distant cousin.

  She could not blame anyone for thinking ill of her.

  Funny thing was, the king was one of the few who treated her with some semblance of consideration, though it could not really be called that. Politeness, perhaps. A kind of respect, though not that either. After all, could one look upon the offspring of the family members who wished one dead and not see corrupt history? Even so, he’d been the one to appoint his own sister as her guardian. It had been considered a mercy to be raised in the castle and she was often reminded of it. But she had other thoughts. Could it really be called merciful to remain in the one place where everyone knew one’s sinister history?

  It was what made her tremble at the thought of entering The Mirror. But it was her turn. She had reached eighteen years. It was required of every person with noble blood to enter at least once upon their first year of maturity. She had often inquired precisely what took place within but had never received a straight answer. All she knew was, despite its name, there were no mirrors involved whatever. It was just a room. Yet, once within, one was suddenly made vulnerable to a precise picture of who they were—one saw oneself with perfect clarity, for the timeframe one spent within the space, at least. Afterward, memory faded. Yet, the impression gained from the experience remained.

  She sat in the corridor outside, waiting her turn. There were two others to go before her that day. One had already entered and exited. He’d emerged with a rebellious smirk and an attitude Hazel could not begin to fathom. She knew this boy and understood he honored neither the profoundest nor holiest of ceremonies. She could not say what he had come to understand, but he meant to reject it with all his might.

  She couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear waiting and wishing the room’s keeper would take a reprieve that she might escape the confrontation without anyone the wiser. She knew she did not have the character that could so determinedly reject whatever was revealed, as the boy had. She’d been unable to reject the pictures others had drawn of her the whole of her life. What if she should find she had inherited her parents’ murderous hearts?

  Of course, she had no way of knowing what their intentions had been. For all she knew, they had some holy cause. But if ever she inquired, she was looked on with a kind of suspicion that made her feel grimy and in need of a long soak in Castillion Lake. It seemed she was to pretend her parents had never existed even if she couldn’t get out from under the reputation they had given her.

  The door to The Mirror opened and a white-faced Evelyn stepped out. It was clear the experience had frightened her.

  “Evelyn, wait,” Hazel called, reaching for the girl’s wrist.

  Evelyn ripped her arm away and continued on.

  It was true Evelyn had never seemed to quite like Hazel, but they had spoken twice with enough agreeableness between them. Hazel could not decide whether the girl’s response was personal or simply that she could not bear being asked about the occurrence.

  “Lady Hazel,” the attendant chastised. “It is your turn.”

  With head bowed, she took a step and then another. She was the daughter of rebels. She had no friends, nor even close acquaintance. Another step. She kept to herself because that was how those in the castle preferred it. She’d convinced neither her guardian nor anyone else to love her. She was unlovable.

  She did not want to go into that room.

  It was more than what she feared discovering about herself. It was the whole experience. Something peculiar happened between those four walls—something other-worldly. Or so she’d picked up from whisperings and legends. Once, when she’d been but ten years, she’d passed by to the sound of screaming. She’d been too fearful to remain and discover who’d been within or whether they had come out all right. Now, she dearly wished she had.

  She approached the door and the keeper turned the knob.

  “Mind your thoughts in there,” the woman warned. “He can hear them.”

  Hazel stepped in and spun around only to have the door shut in her face. She was abandoned. But who would hear her thoughts? This was a detail she’d not gathered before. If she was to be faced with the prospect of the truest picture of herself, she would rather it be alone. And alone, it appeared she was, for there was no one else within.

  The room was lit by a single torch above the door. There were no windows, no chairs, no hanging tapestries. There was but a large, ornately designed carpet over the floor. She bent to observe a portion and found a kind of chronicle illustrated along the border. Firstly, was a woman with a sword birthed from her mouth. A strange winged man stood with hands outstretched, prepared to receive it.

  Hazel peered up, wondering when this peculiar occurrence was to begin. It felt strange to wait in the dark, the small light flickering behind her. Her heart pounded with the unknown. But as all was still and there was nothing else to preoccupy her, she was drawn back to the carpet. She paused as she came to a king in danger of a large, fire-breathing beast that looked something between a lizard and a horse with wings. The creature was unexpectedly beautiful, but it would destroy the poor king. The figure directly following was a woman with her mouth open and musical symbols floating out. This one drew her, for she dearly loved music. She bent to touch it.

  She was bodily thrown back the moment her fingers stroked the fibers. Wave after wave of an invisible torrent flooded over her. She felt herself falling through the floor but discovered she was only held fast to it. The carpet was beneath her, cradling her powerless body.

  What surprised her was that she was not entirely terrified, though frightened she was. But there was more to it. There was something—someone—in the gust… and they were not unpleasant. They were fearsome and ferocious but also… kind?

  She stole a long breath of the gale and relished it. She had never breathed atmosphere so liberating. It filled her with life she had not experienced and brought wholeness never afforded. She’d never felt so powerful, nor had she felt so small. She was insignificant compared to all this was. It surged on as she savored it until it became too much—far, far too much. She was going to burst.
Perhaps that was how one saw oneself so truly: their insides erupted from their outsides and they were laid out in defenseless pieces on the peculiar carpet.

  In a sharp breath, the storm ceased. It was torn from her so swiftly, she gasped with emotion at the loss. Shakily, she drew upon her knees and bent over with a guttural sob. She clutched her arms over her stomach as if to hold herself together.

  But ever so gently, the breeze whispered around her. It was like meeting a kindred spirit. It liked her and she liked it and it was glad she liked it. Perhaps this was unusual. Perhaps this force, this presence, was what had caused the person to scream those years ago. Did others not fare under it so blissfully as she had?

  Like gentle hands, the presence pressed her eyes closed. Instantly, she was met with the vision of a shimmering diamond. She soon found herself inside it, peering up through the facets. To her horror, a giant war hammer came dropping toward her. She keeled over in a useless attempt to shield herself as it met the wall of the gemstone in a core-ringing smack. She lifted her head. The stone had not even cracked.

  Rather, it began to glow and reveal faces of people she knew within its various surfaces. With clarity, she understood their characters, weaknesses and strengths. Finally, she saw her own reflection. It appeared frightened, as she was certain she did just then. But stamped upon either of her cheeks were the words “resilience” and “discernment.”

  Were the terms intended to describe her? Yes—it was an understanding placed in the center of her gut like a burning ember. Suddenly, she could see these characteristics within herself, though she’d never recognized them before.

  Without warning, the diamond was stolen up by a pair of blacksmith’s tongs and she watched in horror as she was cast into an inferno. She endured every flicker, not spared a moment’s pain. She screamed and worked to awaken herself from the experience when her attention was drawn back to her reflection. Her white gown was replaced by golden armor. She was brave, bold, capable, beautiful—everything she would ever wish to be. She admired this girl, this other version of herself. How she wished she could be her.

  With a jolt, the vision was removed and she could breathe again.

  “Hazel… my precious daughter,” a voice seared through her with heat fiercer than any flame.

  She opened her eyes and found herself in the mirror room again.

  “Diamond of my heart,” the voice continued.

  She searched for its possessor but discovered naught.

  “Wh-who speaks to me?”

  “I am your father.”

  “My f-father?” This could not be. Her parents had been banished from the kingdom.

  “The creator of all things.”

  She blinked. Could this be the spirit of her kingdom? She had never paid him much thought. Not many did in her circle. What did one call him again? “…G-great Entity of the eternal realm?”

  He laughed and she was both confused and embarrassed at once.

  “Aye, cherished heart.”

  She fell to her knees. Was he the one who would hear her thoughts? Why had no one told her? She might have come prepared, done some research. And why was he speaking to her so, calling her by terms of endearment?

  “Does everyone see themselves within a diamond?” she asked before she thought. She felt special having seen herself in such a precious stone. The thought that everyone might experience the same made her jealous.

  “The diamond was you,” he said. “Very few see that particular depiction. As you might have gathered, I am quite proud of it.”

  “Of it… of me, you mean?” she nearly squealed in astonishment.

  He laughed again. “Who else? It is not every woman who can withstand the blow of war hammers and shine all the fiercer. Not everyone might survive the fires of life and come out stronger and more perceptive. That has been you up to this point… but it is all about to change.”

  “You mean I won’t be a diamond anymore?”

  “You will always be a diamond, Hazel. But should you enter this room again in a year’s time, you will not know yourself nor anything around you. Indeed, everything familiar to you is soon to transform.”

  Transform? Did she want change? She sensed it would not be trivial. It sent tremors through her. The notion lay like a weight upon her. Yet, how long had she wished things could be different? How long had she yearned to escape what her life had been thus far?

  Unexpectedly, a figure appeared before her. He smiled with the glimmer she’d heard in the laughter, but he looked nothing like what she had pictured. He stood tall with dark hair and lively eyes. The furs he wore were like fire. In his hands, he held a chunk of coal.

  She stood to her feet. “What is that for?” Despite the shock of the Great Entity’s appearance before her, she was struck far more by a queer apprehension of that coal.

  “It is pleasant to meet you, as well,” he said with mirth. “You may call me H.S., if you like.”

  She found herself smiling back, despite herself. “I do like,” she said as if she’d known him the whole of her life. They were very alike somehow, though he was so much easier and freer—everything she wished to be. “You can call me Hazel.”

  “I already have.”

  She nearly laughed, so absurd was it to be standing in The Mirror, speaking to Kierelia’s god as if he were an old friend. Come hell or high water, he made her so very at ease. But she observed the coal again as he took a step nearer.

  “What is that for?” she asked again.

  His eyes grew solemn as he searched hers. “I need you to transform it into a diamond for me.”

  She stepped back. “H-how?”

  “You must swallow it whole.”

  “Swallow a hunk of coal? How? Why?”

  “I must ask you to perform it without question if you don’t mind.”

  She did mind… But at the same time, she had an uncanny feeling she’d made a friend of this god who presented himself as at first ferocious, then rather terrifically amiable. She could not bear the thought of letting him down.

  “Very well,” she breathed with a half-laugh. This was absurd.

  His eyes lit with flame. “Thank you. Would you just open your mouth, please?”

  Looking into his eyes, she found it easy to trust him. She did as he bid. Upon her tongue, he placed it. It tasted of blood. She looked to him and he nodded. With a breath and the closing of her eyes, she managed to get the chunk past her throat. When her eyes opened, he was gone.

  How empty she felt. She felt like crying but understood her turn in the room was complete, so she went for the door. With her hand on the knob, she froze. Very few claimed to retain any knowledge gained within The Mirror. She could not bear to forget a single moment, to forget the peculiarly wonderful chum she’d found in this H.S., the god-Entity of her realm.

  With the narrowing of her eyes, she turned the knob. As she took her first step to exit, she shouted, “H.S.!”

  The room’s keeper widened her eyes. “What was that?”

  “Er… what was what?”

  “Why, you just shouted something rather obnoxiously, girl.”

  Hazel glanced back at the open door, into the dark room. “I…” What had happened? She felt a weight had been lifted. She was light as a feather. Something was different. She was altered.

  She turned back to the keeper. “What did I say?”

  “Er, you said, why, I imagine you said something like ‘Achess’… What does it mean?” She appeared interested now.

  Hazel shook her head. “I cannot imagine.” She worked hard to remember, but all she recalled were flashes of what might have been glass. And she tasted… blood.

  2

  The castle’s passages transitioned daily. There were rumors as to why this occurred. The first was that it was rigged to do so from its very beginning to confuse intruders or any enemies who might overtake the fortress—a defense mechanism. Others claimed it was enchanted by the Great One himself, or by his emissary, the proph
et, who was said to have been present from Kierelia’s beginnings. Still, others insisted the castle was cursed by the beautiful sorceress, Maera, who was said to have existed nearly as long as the prophet, though the prophet said otherwise.

  As it was, the castle most often altered itself habitually, in nearly the same reformation every few days. One had only to live there long enough to learn its tendencies. These variations were never witnessed, of course. One merely awoke, opened a door or rounded a corner to find them.

  Hazel could never be certain which explanation she believed, but she liked to think the castle was enchanted. The prophet, whom she’d known all her life, liked to believe it as well, though he claimed he had nothing to do with it. But he also claimed he’d not been present at the time of its construction and all knew that was not the case. Indeed, it was recorded he’d had a great deal to do with the birth of the Kierelian kingdom. Many said it might never have been born if not for his involvement. And, whenever he happened to be seen looking upon the fortress, it was clear what pride he took in it. When Hazel pressed him one day, he admitted he thought Kierelia the most tenacious of kingdoms upon the planet Kaern.

  This morning, as she turned the doorknob of her bedroom, she paused to recall what the castle held outside this day. The day before, it had been the kitchens—always handy when one was famished. But this meant her favorite day had arrived. She beamed as she opened her door to find another door across the hall. Crossing the short distance of the corridor, she opened it and ascended the spiraling, unadorned staircase. Affectionately, she ran her fingertips along its rail, which shone from years of this caressing.

  She recalled the first morning upon which the door had appeared before her bedroom. It had felt like a gift presented by the castle itself. Never before had it materialized there and the fortress was not known to make alterations from its customary agenda. This change had been what had made her ascend those stairs for the first time. As she had yet to discover a sensible reason for the occurrence, she was content to presume it a present from the possibly enchanted and perhaps, as she liked to imagine, slightly conscious structure.