Paladin Read online

  PALADIN

  SALLY SLATER

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For permission requests, please address Perfect Analogy Publishing at [email protected].

  Copyright © 2015 by Sally Slater

  Cover art and design © 2015 By Hayley John

  Original artwork © 2015 By Dima Sahtout

  Original artwork © 2015 By Haley Netherton

  Published by Perfect Analogy Publishing.

  First Edition

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases or author interviews and appearances please contact Perfect Analogy Publishing at [email protected].

  ISBN-10: 0-9894633-1-1

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9894633-1-7

  www.perfect-analogy.com

  DEDICATION

  To my readers on Wattpad, for believing in Paladin and in me.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  You often hear writers say that writing is a lonely business, but I guess I got lucky, because when I wrote I was never alone. Thank you to the entire Wattpad community for keeping me company on every step of this crazy journey. Without Wattpad, there would be no Paladin.

  Special thanks to Daniel Taylor, AKA my geography and character name consultant, and to Hayley John, who made my amazing cover.

  Thanks also to my awesome publishers at Perfect Analogy for making my publishing dream a reality.

  Thanks to my boyfriend for being my biggest supporter and putting up with my insane writing hours. Now grow your beard.

  Finally, thanks to my mom for inspiring my love of reading and letting me sneak-read under the covers. I couldn’t have asked for a better editor.

  PROLOGUE

  Sam paced anxiously outside the Duke of Haywood’s solar. The duke, Sam’s father, had not had the chance to properly scold her the night before since he couldn’t very well scold her in front of all his esteemed guests. But before she’d gone off to bed, he’d instructed her to meet him on the morrow for, as he put it, a “brief discussion.” Sam knew the conversation was bound to be neither brief nor a discussion. She was in for a one-sided rant.

  Gathering her courage, she knocked on the great oak door to her father’s bedroom. “Come in!” her mother, Duchess Tsalene of Haywood, called out in her thick Rhean accent.

  Sam exhaled a breath in relief. The duke was infinitely more reasonable when his wife was present. Sam drew her shoulders back, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.

  With its damask-covered walls, mahogany carved furniture, and massive double fireplace, the solar had a romantic elegance that reflected her mother’s eclectic tastes more than her father’s unimaginative aesthetic. As was customary, the duchess had her own suite of rooms in the western tower of the castle, but she rarely used them, choosing instead to share quarters with her husband.

  The Duke of Haywood reclined in a throne-like chair by the mantle of the fireplace. “Samantha,” he drawled, drawing out the syllables of her name as though to nettle her. He knew she preferred Sam.

  She dipped into a curtsy. “Your Grace.” Then she went to her mother, who sat on the edge of the canopied bed. “Mother,” Sam said warmly, pressing a kiss to her mother’s cheek.

  The duchess made a clicking sound with her tongue. “La, daughter, show your father some affection. You wouldn’t want him to get jealous.”

  Sam rolled her eyes. The duchess was the only person capable of inspiring jealousy in the duke. “I’m quite sure he prefers I don’t,” Sam said.

  The duke cleared his throat. “He is standing right here and prefers not to be spoken for.” He gave his wife a long look before returning his attention to Sam. “How did you sleep?” he asked awkwardly.

  It was an olive branch, and Sam was smart enough to take it. “Well, father. Thank you.”

  “Excellent, excellent.” He gave his wife another long look.

  The duchess did not return his gaze, instead looking down at her turquoise-varnished nails. Sam began to grow nervous.

  “Samantha,” the duke said, “take a seat beside your mother.”

  Sam obliged, smoothing her skirts underneath her. The duke stared at her for a long moment, not saying anything. Even her mother began to fidget.

  “I’m sorry!” Sam burst out when she couldn’t stand the silence anymore. “I’m sorry about last night. I should never have provoked Lord Crawford.”

  “What’s this?” asked the duke, his eyebrows narrowing. “You provoked Lord Crawford?”

  Sam blinked. “He didn’t mention it to you?” She had poured her drink down Lord Crawford’s shirt when he’d gotten a little fresh, and she’d been sure he would blab to her father.

  The duke glowered at her. “No he did not, but perhaps he should have.” He turned toward his wife. “You see, Tsalene, this is exactly the sort of behavior I’m talking about.”

  “I said I was sorry!” Sam said.

  Her mother took Sam’s hands into her own. “Your father didn’t ask you here to apologize.”

  Now Sam was well and truly nervous. The last time her mother had spoken to her with such gravity was to tell her that Old Tom, the former castle steward, had passed. “Why am I here, then?”

  “To talk about the future,” said her father. “Your future.”

  Sam folded her arms over her chest. “I don’t see what there is to talk about. I already know my future. Find a suitable husband, marry, and produce an heir. I understand.” Sam didn’t like her future, but she’d made peace with it. What other choice did she have?

  The duke raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Do you? Because it seems like you’re doing everything in your power to obstruct it.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t be obtuse, Samantha!” he snapped. “Provoking Lord Crawford, of all people?”

  Sam returned his glare. “Lord Crawford is a fool.”

  “He is young, handsome, and wealthy. A catch by most ladies’ standards.”

  She lifted her chin defiantly. “I’m not most ladies.”

  “That doesn’t excuse your ridiculous behavior!” he yelled.

  “Richard,” her mother cut in with a note of warning. The duke closed his mouth. Squeezing Sam’s hands, her mother said, “What your father is trying to say is that it’s time for you to take the prospect of marriage seriously.”

  “High time,” the duke said, moving towards the bed so as to loom over her. “You’re sixteen years of age, Samantha. You can’t keep running around with your hair all amok and dirt on your face, waving your silly sword. You’re a lady, for the Gods’ sake. Act like one.”

  “All right,” Sam said in placating tones. “I’ll pay my appearance more mind and make an effort to be more courteous.” Assuming the matter was settled, she rose from the bed.

  The duke put his hands on her shoulders and shoved her back down. “This conversation isn’t over.” He glanced at his wife, who gave him a slight nod. “We’ve given you too much leeway for too long. You have till your next birthday to find a husband, or we’ll find one for you.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am entirely serious, Samantha. Enough is enough.”

  Without another word, Sam shot up from the bed and stormed out of the duke’s solar, slamming the door behind her. She strode across the long corridor, down several flights of stairs, and out of the castle, shoving past the guards without so much as a “pardon me.” Her father wanted to marry her off to some lordling stranger before she turned seventeen? Faith in blood, her seventeenth birthday was less than six months away!

  She felt betrayed—not by her father, as she
expected this sort of nonsense from him, but by her mother for going along with it. Sam would have thought that her mother, of all people, would stand up for her. True, her mother had married at her age, but she’d married for love. Shouldn’t she want the same for her daughter instead of forcing her to meet some arbitrary deadline?

  Needing time alone to think, Sam walked till the notched turrets of Castle Haywood disappeared from view and the light of the afternoon sun filtered red-tinted through the trees. When she could hear the sound of moving water, she forked left, heading onto the winding forest road that bisected the land between Haywood and Catania. She’d traveled this road hundreds, maybe thousands of times, in search of the one place that always gave her sanctuary: the small clearing that was her mother’s secret spot, or had been, till she had shared it with Sam.

  When Tsalene of Rhea first came to Haywood, a new bride and a stranger in a strange land, she’d found this place, a hidden alcove surrounded by coppice and a babbling brook. She’d dug a hole in the soft ground and planted a seed taken from her homeland. Now, twenty years later, it was a firm cherry tree with drooping branches that bore cascades of pale pink blossoms. Tsalene had dubbed it the Goddess Tree in tribute to Rhea’s patron goddess, Emese the Great Mother, and when she came out here, she would pray beneath its flowering boughs.

  Sam sagged against the Goddess Tree, closed her eyes, and prayed. Emese, if you’re listening, help me . . . She paused, uncertain of what kind of help to pray for. Finding a good husband? Someone who made her parents happy? Someone who loved her? Someone she loved?

  Sam didn’t want a husband, not really. In her heart of hearts, she wanted more. She just didn’t know what “more” looked like.

  A twig snapped, and Sam’s eyes flew open while a startled yip escaped her lips.

  Husky laughter floated across the breeze. “It’s only me,” her mother said, emerging from the brush. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “I wasn’t scared. You just surprised me.”

  “Of course. My fearless daughter,” her mother said with gentle mockery, a smile transforming her exotic features from merely striking to beautiful. She might claim that Sam had inherited her smile, but the duchess’s smile had an air of mystery that Sam’s lacked, as though it guarded a thousand secrets.

  “What are you doing here?” Sam asked, her anger still raw.

  Her mother wiped a stray leaf from her gown and crossed to the Goddess Tree, running her fingers over the bark. “I came to find you.” She sat down against its trunk and patted the ground beside her. “Come sit by me.” Begrudgingly, Sam did as she was told, settling her skirts around her ankles. Together, they sat beneath the Goddess Tree, watching the cherry blossoms fall in silence.

  Her mother spoke first. “You’re angry with me.”

  Sam saw no point in holding back. “Aye. It’s bloody unfair, is what it is.”

  Her mother sighed. “There are many things in this world that are unfair, Sam. You are the sole heir to a great and noble family, and so you must marry and carry on your father’s line. All of us are born with a Gods-given purpose in life, and whether or not it’s what we’d choose for ourselves has no bearing.”

  “So that’s it, then?” Sam asked bitterly. “I’m to marry whomever my father chooses for me and spend the rest of my days stitching embroidery and minding the babes?”

  Her mother arched a sable eyebrow. “I think I should be offended. Do you think that is all I do?”

  Sam blushed. “No, it’s just—” She took a deep breath. “This life is what you wanted. It’s not what I want.”

  “What I wanted?” Her mother gave a one-sided smile. “I am happy now, far happier than I ever imagined. But if I’d had my choice, I would have followed a different path.”

  “You would have?” Sam asked, surprised. Her mother had never said anything of the like before.

  “Oh, yes,” her mother said. “You and I are not so different. When I was your age, I wanted to be a great warrior, like my sister Nasrin.”

  Sam’s mouth fell open. “Your sister was a warrior?”

  “Is a warrior. Or she was when I last saw her, Gods, more than twenty years ago now. It is not so uncommon in Rhea for a woman to take up a weapon, though there are few who devote their lives to it.” She nudged Sam with her elbow. “Who do you think convinced your father to teach you to fight?”

  Sam shrugged. “I thought he enjoyed the excuse to wallop me with a stick.” Although nowadays, it was usually the other way around.

  Her mother chuckled. “It does seem like that sometimes, doesn’t it? My father was my teacher, too, you know.”

  “Your father taught you the sword?” Sam asked, delighted.

  “He tried,” her mother said, laughing. “I didn’t have Nasrin’s talent. Or yours. And he never hesitated to tell me as much.”

  The corners of Sam’s mouth kicked up. “That must have rankled.”

  “In the end, it didn’t matter. Nasrin joined the Convent of the Sun, and as my father’s only other daughter, it fell on me to marry, and marry well.” She played idly with a fallen petal. “My father wanted to ally the family with a foreign lord, one with great military power. He chose Richard for me.”

  Sam scrunched her face in confusion. The Duke and Duchess of Haywood were the most famous love match of their generation. “But that’s—”

  “Not the story you’ve heard?” her mother said. “Or one I’ve ever told you. All of Thule knows the story of our accidental first meeting in the king’s private gardens. It was no accident—my father orchestrated the whole thing. He is Rhea’s finest military strategist, after all.”

  Sam digested this. “Does Father know?”

  Her mother grinned. “I told him the day after we consummated our marriage. He didn’t speak to me for an entire week after that. He forgave me, though, because by then I’d fallen in love with him, and he with me.” Her grin vanished. “I did not know, or dare hope, I’d love the man I’d marry. But I did my duty, and the Gods saw fit to give me a husband worth loving, and to give me you, my most precious daughter. You’ll see. The Gods will reward you, too.”

  “Maybe,” Sam said, unconvinced.

  Her mother pushed to her feet and offered Sam her hand. “Let’s go home. Today is a day for celebrating, not for arguing.” She glanced up at the sky. “And we best go quickly. It’s going to rain.”

  As if to emphasize her warning, a distant roll of thunder shook the ground. Sam clasped her mother’s hand and stood up. When had the sky become so dark? It wasn’t the dark of evening, but the dark gray of a fast-approaching storm.

  They pressed back towards the main forest road as fast as they were able, without a care for the thorny thicket. Thunder rumbled again, closer now. Sam had counted ten seconds between this boom of thunder and the last. The storm was minutes away. When dots of water began to speckle the forest path, they ran.

  A violent crack of lightning rent the sky, and it began to rain in earnest. Mid-stride, Sam slipped on a wet rock, ripping her skirts at the knee. “Great,” she muttered, brushing off dirt and grime. The skin underneath was bloody.

  Her mother kneeled down in the mud beside her, hissing in sympathy. She, like Sam, was soaked to the bone, her gown plastered to her body and her hair hanging in lank, wet strands. “Can you walk?”

  Sam nodded, easing herself off the ground. “It’s just a bad scrape.” She put her full weight onto the offending leg, and winced. “I think.”

  Her mother lifted her face to the sky, allowing rain to splash down her cheeks. “We’ll go slowly. We can withstand a little water.” She rose and slung Sam’s arm around her shoulder. Grateful, Sam leaned into her, and together they hobbled down the road.

  The rain came down harder, and heavy fog settled over the forest, thick enough that Sam couldn’t see more than an arm’s length in front of her. She shivered, cold and a little afraid, though she was loathe to admit it.

  Lightning split the sky with a sharp cra
ck. Sam and her mother yelped in unison then traded guilty smiles. “It’s very dark, isn’t it?” her mother whispered.

  “Aye,” Sam whispered back. “Why are we whispering?”

  “I don’t know. It feels appropriate.”

  A nervous giggle escaped Sam’s lips, and her mother looked at her crosswise. Sam wasn’t much of a giggler.

  They pressed on, slower now, while visibility worsened and the rain beat down on their heads. In theory, they were moving closer to the edge of the woods, but without the familiar turrets of Castle Haywood in sight, Sam felt miles and miles away.

  Lightning flashed, cutting through the fog, and Sam’s heart stuttered. She had seen something in that brief flash of light. Two red orbs and jagged yellow triangles. Eyes. And teeth.

  She squeezed her mother’s shoulder and said, as quietly as she could, “Something’s out there.”

  “La, don’t be silly. It’s only your—”

  “Hush!”

  “—imagination,” her mother said, too loudly. A low growl punctuated the air.

  Sam’s stomach clenched with fear. It wasn’t her imagination, whatever it was. She squinted into the fog and glimpsed black fur and a long, glossy snout. Please let it be a wolf, she prayed silently. She watched its outline grow larger as it drew nearer. Please . . . just a really, really big wolf . . .

  “Faith in blood,” her mother swore. There was no hiding the fear in her voice.

  They could see the creature clearly now, and smell it too—it stunk of wet fur and copper and rot. And it was no wolf. The creature was the size of a horse and had fur so black it seemed to consume the light. It was tall at the withers and gaunt like a greyhound, its ribcage visible where its coat was finest, with long, muscular hindquarters that tapered into monstrous claws. Its crimson eyes were flat and unintelligent—but hungry, so, so hungry as they bore down on Sam and her mother.

  Those blood-red eyes could mean only one thing . . .

  Demon.

  Her hand brushed against her side, reaching for a sword that was not there. Gods, how she wished she had a weapon. “What do we do?” Sam asked her mother, trying to remain calm. Sam was all confidence and bluster with a sword in hand, but without one she was as vulnerable as anyone else.