Heart of Defiance (The Royal Spares)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Signy

S ome people say that one person’s trash is another person’s treasure. I think that might be exaggerating the case a little. It’s more like, one person’s trash is someone else’s “might as well make the best of it.”

As the queen of making the best of it, I should know.

At the moment, I’m making the best of a tattered old fishing net someone discarded by the river. The rock I’m sitting on is hard against my ass, and the coarse strands of rope are rubbing my fingers raw, but the burble of the water and the light summer breeze are pleasant enough.

At least until the dukeling and his fawners show up.

I’m just knotting two of the frayed strands together, closing up a hole even the biggest trout could swim through, when their voices carry through the trees. It’s easy to recognize the dukeling’s. He’s the one who sounds like he figures he’s giving a momentous speech to the entire kingdom when his only audience is a handful of friends and the woodland creatures .

And, unwillingly, me.

The crunch of Rupert’s footsteps through the brush punctuates his words. “It truly is an incredible development. I can’t wait to see the reactions in our court. And naturally some benefits will trickle down to the nearest towns.”

His companions’ voices don’t carry as much, but I catch a “That’s fantastic!” and a “What a win for the duchy!” which is what they’d say even if he shat on a log.

I yank the jumble of intersecting rope into my arms, wrinkling my nose at the dank odor it gives off, but I don’t manage to gather it fast enough to avoid notice. As I shove to my feet, ducking my head instinctively so my long black hair shields my face, the dukeling and three other men around my age stride up to the edge of the river where it widens about twenty paces away. Prime fishing spot—their poles gleam under the afternoon sun.

Rupert sweeps his gaze imperiously over the bank. I know he’s spotted me when his lip curls with a sneer.

He flicks his blond hair away from his eyes. “Oh, look, it’s the waif of refuse. I can smell her from here.”

One of his lordly friends makes an obscene gesture in my direction. “Take a dunk in the river, filly, and let’s see how you clean up.”

The lordling next to him snorts. “It won’t be well. Even her own godlen didn’t want her, isn’t that right?”

The last comment stings right down to the outer edges of my feet—to the stumps of the two smallest toes on each that I offered in sacrifice during my dedication ceremony when I turned twelve.

We all dedicate ourselves to one of the nine lesser gods at that age. Many of us offer up a piece of ourselves in the hopes we’ll be blessed with a gift of magic in return.

Everyone else I know who offered the trade was rewarded for it .

But the gods rejected my sacrifice. Inganne, the godlen of creativity whose sigil is branded into my skin over my sternum, determined what I gave was unworthy of the magic I asked for.

So I can’t even say these pricks are entirely wrong. Gritting my teeth, I ignore their jeers and grab my pouch of tools.

The fourth man in the bunch makes a disgruntled sound and motions his companions’ attention back to the river. “Why bother with Signy when we’ve got fishing to do? That’ll be a lot more entertaining than she is.”

That’s Landric for you. Son of the richest merchants in town, probably worried my existence will reflect badly on him in the eyes of the nobles he’s sucking up to. With his striking coppery hair and well-built frame, he cuts an attractive enough figure for them to treat him as an almost-equal when they venture beyond the duke’s nearby estate, but he shouldn’t have any delusions that they see him as an actual friend.

Hard to believe we played together when we were little. Us and the other children around the same age clambered along this river and roamed through the woods beyond the town’s last streets, explored the many crevices and caves that weave through the rocky underbelly of this landscape.

I turn my back and hurry away, biting back all the caustic remarks I’d like to make. Insulting the town outcast gets you some laughs. Insulting the duke’s son and his companions gets you a dozen lashes with a whip.

I don’t need to learn that lesson twice. Better to show them that I don’t even care.

It’s a quick tramp through the woods to the abandoned cabin I’ve made my own, slumped in the shadow of one of the many rocky outcroppings that jut from the forest floor. The roof is smothered with lichen and I have to stick a stone at the base of the door to hold it shut, but it’s some kind of shelter.

A crack in the jutting stone marks one of the shallowest of the caves around town, a space I’ve turned into a storage shed of sorts. I toss the net in there to finish mending later.

A quick glance over the garden shows no new weeds have invaded since this morning. I checked my snares right before I headed to the river.

I don’t really care about the dukeling and his views on me, but the encounter has left my nerves on edge. The little plot of land I’ve claimed looks even more dreary than usual.

Is this really it? This is all my life is going to be, from here until the end?

There are worse fates, I remind myself. I might as well go tend to those.

I set off on a route that skirts the edge of town, but once I reach the hill at the northern end, I have to veer onto the outer streets to make the climb. Sweat beads on my forehead with the lingering mid-day heat. I keep my gaze fixed on the polished limestone structure perched up at the top of the road, which is coming more clearly into view with every step.

A murmur catches in my ears regardless. “There goes that useless Signy.”

I just keep walking.

For the last several paces of the climb, tufts of grass creep onto the packed dirt road. Really, it’s more of a path at this point. I’ve left all the houses behind, nothing remaining but the memorial building ahead of me.

Somehow it looks less grand when standing right in front of it than it does from the bottom of the hill. I could touch the edge of the stone-tiled roof if I lifted my hands. The whole structure is barely larger than my decrepit cabin.

But no one needs to live in this building. It’s a symbolic home to honor those no longer living at all .

Row upon row of names are carved into the outer walls, the earliest etchings from centuries ago worn down with age. I pick up one of the rags I keep in a bucket near the corner and start wiping away the grit and bits of moss that’ve attached themselves to the surface, obscuring some of the letters. Here and there, I need to take out my pocket knife to scour off the worst bits.

The names continue all the way around the back of the building and onto the other side, where the newest additions reach about halfway across. Still plenty of room for more, and no doubt there will be more to come.

I give the last couple of rows an especially thorough wipe, my gaze lingering on two names that were added sixteen and thirteen years ago respectively, when I was five and then eight.

Greta Emadaut. Faro Hendiksson.

I rest my fingertips against the carved letters, my tan skin dark compared to the pale stone.

My memories of my parents have fragmented with time, gone hazy and disjointed. But Mom’s smile still beams through my recollections, alongside Dad’s buoyant laugh. The way she’d cuddle me on her lap when I scraped my knee, weaving flowers and ribbons into my hair. The way he’d toss me up in the air like I weighed nothing at all and then swing us in a giddy circle.

No markings on the building say what the memorial is for. We’re too afraid to openly state it.

Our conquerors don’t like any hint of discontentment with their rule. If we gave away that we’re bearing witness specifically to our family members, friends, and neighbors who the Darium empire’s soldiers have struck down, this structure would be rubble by sundown.

It’s hard to imagine what this town—what all of our country—might have been like before Dariu invaded the entire continent. The last people who experienced the old Velduny are long dead. But I have to think life was better when our kings and dukes and countesses weren’t worrying more about keeping favor with their overseers than serving their own people.

I put away the rag and grab the broom to sweep off the tiles around the memorial. My gaze wanders over the landscape around the hill, and some of my earlier restlessness subsides.

It’s a stunning view. The domed marble roof of our temple of the All-Giver glints under the sun, ornate patterns carved across it. Next to it, the ancient town hall looms with a subtle grandeur. Its burnished pinkish-gray stones were cut from the local hillsides.

On either side of town, winding crags rise up amid the forest like islands in a sea of green leaves. One curves right over to meet the ground again, forming the arch visitors ride through to enter town along that road.

Straight ahead to the south, our river winds through grassy plains before feeding into a sparkling lake at the foot of jagged mountains. A temple of Inganne, my chosen godlen for all she dismissed me, stands a couple of miles to the west of the lake, shining so vibrantly orange it immediately draws the eye.

Looking at it, I tap my fingers down my front in the gesture of the divinities: forehead for the three godlen of air, heart for the three of the sea, gut for the three of the earth, then fisting my hand between my breasts where I have Inganne’s sigil burned into my skin. I can’t not pay my respects to our gods when faced with this vista, even if they don’t care much for me.

I’m still not totally sure why Inganne rejected my sacrifice. The shame of it has never stopped burning. But I am blessed to live in a place surrounded by such beauty .

I don’t need to have magic to one day honor that beauty with something I’ve created, like I’ve always dreamed.

Something like the fountain burbling in our town’s central square. When my attention drops to it, a couple of kids are swaying along the outer edge of the basin. The girl slips and jumps into the water with a burst of giggles. On the other side, one of the town cats darts over to lap up a little water.

My mother left her mark on this town, even though she was stolen from my life far too soon. She carved every curve of the elegant figure standing on the fountain’s platform, pouring the water from a jug. Every petal on the flowers that dapple the ground around the woman’s feet. Every symbol on the Veldunian crest that binds her rippling cloak.

Adelheid is an old Veldunian folk hero. It’s said she gave up her home and traveled the country in a time of drought, helping those she met find ways to keep their crops and gardens alive, and Prospira, the godlen of fertility and abundance, blessed her with a jug that would never totally empty.

The corner of my lips curves up in a wry smile. I once imagined contributing a work of artistry that was even more breathtaking. Now that idea seems ridiculous. But I’m glad that Mom’s creation keeps nurturing the town even after her death.

I’ve put the broom away and am taking one last look over the landscape when I spot a cluster of dark figures on horseback riding along the road to our natural stone archway.

There’s no doubting what they are the second my eyes catch on their uniforms. Only Darium soldiers wear those outfits that are black from helm to boots—other than the white skull and bones painted onto the material.

They make themselves up to look like living skeletons. I can’t deny it’s effective. A shiver travels down my back as I watch the five of them.

I stick to my high perch, following their progress into town. For a minute or two here and there, I lose sight of them amid the buildings. But it’s always easy to pick them out again as soon as they pass into view.

When they reach the edge of the main square, they dismount. The nearby townspeople stiffen and slip into the nearest buildings as surreptitiously as they can manage.

One of the soldiers motions to his companions as if he’s in charge, and a couple of the others march over to the bakery.

My stomach knots. I don’t need to be in hearing range to figure out what’s going on.

No money will be exchanging hands. The soldiers of our long-time conquerors simply point and take.

The men come out of the bakery with a couple of bundles of rolls and pastries. They lift the visors of their helms to eat, and the leader’s mouth glints metallic in the fading sunlight.

He sacrificed a few teeth at his dedication ceremony for a gift. Assuming his sacrifice was accepted by his chosen godlen.

Which most are. I’m the rare exception.

One of the soldiers saunters over to the fountain and fills his canteen from the water streaming from the jug. Another follows him and peers up at the figure. He turns to say something to the leader.

I can’t read the leader’s expression from here, but he strides over to a couple of townspeople who’ve just jarred to a halt across the square. Before they can hurry away from the intruders, the soldier asks them something with jabs of his hand toward the statue .

What’s going on? What could they possibly be upset about?

The tension in my gut winds even tighter with the sense of some impending horror. My hands ball at my sides.

Whatever the townspeople answer, the leader shakes his head. He peers up at the statue for a moment and turns to walk back to his underlings.

For the space of a few heartbeats, I think it’s over. Everything’s okay.

Then he waves his hand toward Mom’s fountain in a flippant gesture as if to say, “Do what you like with it.”

Three of the solders retrieve spiked clubs that were dangling from their saddles and barge forward. With a brutal swing, the first smacks his club down on the statue’s arm.

A cry breaks from my throat. Even as the sound bursts into the air, another soldier attacks the statue, battering it with thumps that carry all the way to my hilltop. The third hangs back with a hint of hesitation, but she doesn’t move to stop her colleagues either.

With a few more strikes, the statue’s arm cracks. Chunks fall off the mouth of the jug, tumbling into the basin’s water. The first soldier hops right onto the platform, his boots scuffing against the delicately carved flowers, and bashes at Adelheid’s marble head.

The tension bottled inside me explodes through my body. It knocks every thought from my head but a silently wailed No!

My legs propel me forward. I’m running down the hill at full tilt, my patched boots smacking the cobblestones, my breath searing my throat.

No, no, no.

My sprint to the square passes in a blink in the haze of my panic. I’m barely aware of the buildings I’m rushing by, the road falling away beneath my feet, the instinctive splaying of my remaining toes ensuring my balance.

I careen into the square just in time to hear one of the soldiers muttering to the others. “All these years and everything we’ve done for them, and they still think they should celebrate the time before the empire.”

He swings his club at what’s now a stump of the statue’s arm, and I hurl myself at him.

Somehow, my pocket knife is in my hand. I barrel into the soldier, slashing out with it, my voice crackling up my throat. “That’s ours . You can’t take it. You can’t take everything!”

My knife skids over the leather covering his upper arm before tearing through the fabric and flesh below his elbow. The soldier grunts and heaves me to the side with a smack of my jaw.

I stumble and manage to stay upright, brandishing the blade, breathing hard. “Get the fuck away from our fountain. It belongs to this town, not to you.”

The fact that anyone’s objected at all has apparently bewildered the soldiers. All five of them have turned to stare at me, the two at the fountain momentarily lowering their clubs. The one I cut has his hand pressed to the wound, the cloth around his fingers turning even darker with blood.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” the leader snarls, drawing his sword.

I’m too angry to be scared. “I live here. This is my home. And I don’t want you here.”

I launch myself at him so quickly he’s obviously not prepared. Rather than push forward to meet me, he flinches backward.

My knife swings wide, but I heave my fist forward too, clocking him in the nose. He recovers with a snarled curse. I barely dodge under the swipe of his blade .

He wheels toward me, murder in his gaze, and the realization penetrates the blare of adrenaline in my veins that I might actually die today. My name might be the next added to the memorial on the hill. The other soldiers storm toward me?—

And a metal bowl flies through the air to clang against one of their helmets.

“She’s right!” the baker’s assistant yells, wielding a steel tray like a weapon. “Get out of here and leave what’s ours alone.”

All at once, more dishes and other odds and ends—rocks, shoes, a hammer—pelt the soldiers along with a barrage of shouts.

“Go away!”

“There’s nothing for you here!”

“Get back on those horses and ride!”

A crowd of townspeople has emerged from the buildings around the square, their faces taut with the same fury and anguish I was feeling. No one else would have wanted to see the fountain destroyed any more than I did.

They were just too afraid to say anything until someone else did it first.

“Back off,” one of the soldiers growls, and jabs his club at the people closing in around him. It smacks into a little girl’s jaw.

At her yelp of pain, the crowd surges forward. They punch and shove at the soldiers, heedless of their weapons.

Bertha from the butcher shop lunges forward and stabs a skewer straight into one skeleton-painted chest.

The soldier jerks and collapses, blood gushing from the wound. As Bertha yanks the skewer free, the Darium leader must decide his squadron is too outnumbered.

He doesn’t have any intention of dying today.

“Pull back,” he calls to his underlings, already retreating. They hustle to the horses they left at the edge of the square and haul themselves into the saddles.

“That’s right!” a woman next to me hollers. “Run like the beasts you are!”

The leader yanks his horse around. “You’re going to pay for today, peasants.”

Then they canter off the way they came.

A cheer goes up through the crowd of townspeople. Exhilaration rushes through my chest alongside it.

Excited voices babble all around me, friends gripping each other’s arms and exclaiming over our victory. With a grin on my face, I start to ease back to the fringes.

But Bertha grabs my arm and peers at me. “Are you all right, Signy? That was impressive, the way you came at them.”

As I blink at her, a man speaks up from behind me. “It really was. You showed them they can’t get away with whatever they want.”

An older woman who’s eased into the crowd aims a quiet smile at me. “Your mother would be proud.”

My voice comes out in a stammer. “I—thank you. I just couldn’t stand seeing them break her fountain.”

“There’s a line,” someone mutters.

Someone else gives me a hasty pat on the back. “You did good.”

Despite the ache where the soldier bruised my jaw, a smile stretches across my face. All at once, I feel like I did as a kid, spun around giddily by Dad like maybe if I wished it hard enough, I could actually fly.

“We kicked them out,” I say, barely able to believe the words. “We kicked them right out of town.”

Bertha grins fiercely. “And if they come back, we’ll do it all over again. Now let’s celebrate our first taste of freedom in three hundred years.”