Page 56 of Legacy of the Heirs (The Lost Kingdom Saga #2)

Soren

C louds conversed in thunder above Soren, who slowed her horse into a gallop.

It was unusually dark for the late morning as she approached the gaudy golden gates separating Lord Ryon’s estate from the modest farmland that formed most of Stedon.

Even as someone who wished to be queen, Soren did not have a taste for exuberant displays of wealth, only exuberant displays of power.

The sun had nearly set, with only a faint glow remaining.

She had told no one of her plans and rode nonstop from Albyn.

She ignored the few men at the gates, who waved for her to slow and announce herself.

Instead, she rode straight past them for the large wooden lodge at the top of a slope positioned on the backdrop of Hybrooke forest.

The men still called after Soren as she dismounted, loosening her horse’s reins, so it could wander the gravelled entrance. She scoffed at the carved wooden animals displayed along the veranda and the flaking gold paint around the door. How simple this home had once been before Lord Ryon took it.

As she forced open the double doors to the home and knocked over a servant in the process, a loud voice called from the top of the staircase. “Queen Soren, I assume?”

Soren merely glanced at the poor fellow on the floor before continuing her assessment and scanning the many mounted animal heads lining the staircase.

At a glance, she would not have placed Lord Ryon as someone who supported her cause.

He did not seem capable of taking a throne, lacking in physical stature, and moving with a gangly walk.

When he approached, though, she saw the hunger in his beady eyes and the wrinkles marking the sneer he often kept in place.

He bowed and took her hand, placing a kiss on the back of it.

“I did not expect to meet you so suddenly.” Rising, he stepped back and placed his hands behind the back of his luxuriously tailored velvet jacket.

“I am a woman of urgency,” she stated, resting her hand on the pommel of the Garridon sword at her side.

“Are you?” he asked, and Soren narrowed her eyes. “You have been here some time, yet the usurper remains upon your throne.”

Soren whistled low and quiet, and Lord Ryon’s eyes flickered to the wolves stalking out from the trees encircling the property, with Varna leading the pack.

“There is a plan,” she said firmly.

“I do not wish to offend you, my queen. It is merely an observation .” He dragged out the last word, and though she wished to slap the man for his observation , he was the first in Garridon to address Soren by her deserved title.

She raised her chin with a triumphant smile, invigorated by it. “Let us sit,” he exclaimed with a clap.

He guided Soren through a wooden archway and into a small sitting room.

It was far darker than Antor’s castle, which was difficult to accomplish with all the wood and timber.

She took a seat in the high-backed armchair, the fire burning to her right.

A view of Stedon appeared out the window behind Lord Ryon’s seat.

“You mentioned a plan,” he said.

Soren rested her elbow on the arm of the chair, struggling to find a comfortable position in her armour.

“What do you know of Sir Cain?” she asked, and the lord frowned.

“What is the relevance?”

Soren tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair. “Your queen asked you a question.”

He shifted in his seat and leaned forward for the glass decanter of amber liquid.

He poured two glasses and passed a glass to Soren, who refrained from making a face at the smell as she downed it in one.

She ignored the burning sensation scorching her throat.

Why must men involve alcohol in all their business?

She asked herself before pouring another, refusing to be perceived as weak.

“I require an answer, Lord Ryon.” She swirled the second glass as he looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

“He is experienced and is Novisia’s oldest commander,” he said plainly. Soren swirled the liquid again.

“Could he be a threat?” she emphasised, and the lord shrugged.

“I do not think so, though he would defend Caellum should you attempt to take his life. Why?”

“I need to assess who could be a threat when I take the throne. He seems to care more than a typical commander,” she explained, and Lord Ryon scoffed.

“Caring will be his downfall, then, will it not?” He finished his drink and refilled it, matching the quantity in Soren’s glass. “Are there others who concern you?”

“The other rulers, yet that is purely from a power stance. Commander Kazaar could pose a threat, particularly if his queen was caught in any crossfire of my future plans. They seemed particularly… close at the engagement ball.” Soren did not understand their dynamic, though she cared little about matters involving the heart.

“Few of those I stationed at the ball returned from the event, but those who did comment on their peculiar behaviour.”

“How many did we lose?” she asked.

“Enough.”

She nodded. The Lord of Night had named Lord Ryon when Soren was in the early stages of building her network across Novisia.

Over the years, her people had become one with Ryon’s spies, all wronged by the usurpers in some way throughout history.

His spies had been instrumental in casting doubt on Caellum’s reign and had played their part again during the riots.

Though she had been rather displeased upon learning someone had stabbed Caellum, almost losing the glory she wished for herself .

“I have some worries, my queen.”

She raised her glass to her lips. “Do tell.”

“Your sister,” he said. The burning liquid lingered in Soren’s mouth before she swallowed and trained her eyes on him.

“What about her?”

Lord Ryon leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs. “The people like her.” Soren rolled her eyes. Everyone liked Sadira. “I worry that if they go ahead with the marriage, the people will accept her on the throne, and your claim will dwindle.”

Soren threw her glass, though he did not flinch as it smashed behind him.

“I will only tell you this once, Lord Ryon. Caellum will not have the throne. My sister will not have the throne. I will have my throne,” she sneered.

“And if your sister gets in the way?”

“She will not.”

“But if she does?”

“She will not .” Soren rose from her chair, refusing to listen any longer. She was the only one who could question her sister. Crossing over to the window, she leaned against the ledge and stared at the figures in the distance, farming the fields of golden wheat dancing in the breeze. Her people.

“You know what needs to be done to hurry this along,” said the lord.

“Are you certain we have enough strength in Garridon to withstand challenge?” she asked.

“Gregor is too young and weak to challenge, and the others have always listened to me.”

“And what of the other realms? They could initiate war with us over this.”

“Is a civil war in Novisia really a priority with what we are up against?”

“What did the other lords have to say about the creatures?”

“Not a lot. Caellum spoke with us all briefly, but no one was particularly reassured that he—or anyone—knew what was going on.”

“That is because they do not,” she said, and even Soren was unsure.

Without the Lord of Night to guide her, all she knew was the creatures worked for him.

The lords did not know of the prophecy, which was a secret still kept among the rulers.

Soren wondered if Caellum and Sadira would address the events with the people of Albyn during their visit or if they deemed their words at the service for the dead to be enough.

“I am journeying to the Neutral City next. The rulers are all meeting,” Soren explained before making for the exit.

“Consider that a good place to assert your position,” he advised. Soren turned to him before she left. “A quick slice to the throat should do it. Or a stab in the back, whichever you think is best.”