Pearseus Bundle: The Complete Pearseus Sci-fi/Fantasy Series Read online

  Contents

  Contents

  RISE OF THE PRINCE

  MAD WATER

  VIGIL

  ENDGAME

  SCHISM

  Character List

  Appendix

  Full Contents

  Acknowledgments

  About the author

  Notes from the author

  PEARSEUS:

  RISE OF THE PRINCE

  Introduction

  “Hell is paved with good intentions.”

  Saint Bernard of Clairvaux (1091-1153)

  287 After Landing (AL)

  Chamber of Justice, the Capital

  May 29, Styx

  Augustine must die.

  The realization hit Styx the same moment Justice Augustine, the woman Styx had sworn to protect with her life, raised the ceremonial goblet.

  “To peace,” Augustine cried out in a joyous voice.

  Styx fixed her envious eyes on the crimson cup in Augustine’s hand. The unadorned matte surface showed it to be made of pure plastic—the most prized material on Pearseus and a clear symbol of the Justice’s power. It had once possessed the unique ability to warm up or cool down any liquid it held inside, although its batteries had been dead now for centuries. The few remaining fuel cells were reserved for the Capital’s handful of energy weapons.

  A loud clang echoed through the room, startling Styx. A bearded man stared at his goblet, which had slipped from his fingers to spill its blood-red contents on the floor. His gaze jumped up to Augustine, his eyes wide with terror. “I’m … I’m so sorry,” he stammered. “Please, Your Honour. Forgive me.”

  All chatter died away so swiftly, Styx thought for a moment she had gone deaf. Augustine’s brow furrowed. She touched the crystal hanging from her neck. It lit up, recording her verdict.

  Realizing he was being judged, the clumsy man took a step backwards. He slipped on the spilt wine and landed on his back with a loud thump. “Mercy,” he whispered.

  Augustine made an almost imperceptible nod. Two Guardians, her personal guards, took one step forward and snapped to attention. They slammed their energy lances on the floor with a startling bang that echoed through the hall. The weapons’ tips crackled up in bright flames. A moment later, they became steady blades of fire. Everyone’s eyes fixed on the Justice. The only sound in the hall was the ominous hum from the energy lances, like an irate wasp looking for a target for her burning sting.

  “Cut his hand off,” Augustine said in a soft voice. “Looks like it’s pretty useless, anyway.”

  “No, Your Honour,” the man cried out as the Guardians dragged him outside. “Please!”

  Augustine turned off the crystal. Gradually at first, then as if nothing had happened, the festivities resumed. The renewed chatter drowned away the man’s desperate pleas for mercy. Forks clanged. Servants darted around. Men and women chatted with each other, their faces flush with wine. Most were holding a plate in one hand, a silver cup in the other.

  Styx felt Augustine’s prying gaze fall on her. Beaming her ruler a warm smile, she lifted her gem-studded gold cup in silent toast. May I soon be the one holding the Capital’s fate in my hands. Her gaze still locked with the Justice’s, Styx took a sip. Her wine tasted as bitter as their supposed victory. A victory that condemned the Capital to further war in a few years’ time. Resisting the temptation to spit, she plonked her heavy cup on one of the many small tables dotting the spacious hall.

  A woman’s nasal laughter cracked behind her, making Styx cringe. She wanted out of there, but her absence would be frowned upon. Mistakes like this were easy to make and hard to undo.

  Shoving her hands into her pockets, Styx glanced around. Her eye caught on a handsome Major, half-hidden behind a wide column. Parad. His uniform showed him to be one of the many Captains Augustine had promoted and medalled earlier, in a public ceremony designed to please the throng of idiots that called themselves the Capital’s subjects.

  Styx expected the man to be beaming with pride, but under his cropped hair his face was taut, his smart eyes resigned. Did he, too, understand they had squandered their best chance in a century? He put a small piece of buttered carrot in his mouth in a slow, calculated movement, then patted his mouth carefully with his napkin.

  Not someone who likes to lose control. A half-smile tugged at Styx’s lips. Someone like me, then.

  A woman approached Parad, holding by the hand a handsome boy with olive skin and endearing, almond-shaped eyes, no more than five years of age. The boy’s short, charcoal hair showed off his thin, triangular face, making it clear this was Parad’s son, Cyrus. He would become taller than his father, Styx guessed, although Parad’s straight posture, typical for career soldiers, made him appear taller than he really was.

  The man’s face brightened when he saw his family and his mouth broke into a warm grin. The boy rushed to him and wrapped his arms around Parad’s leg, then swung around and leaned against it. He spread his own, thin legs and crossed his arms, like a bodyguard challenging anyone foolish enough to disturb their family’s bliss. Parad tousled his son’s hair, then rested his hand on Cyrus’s shoulder.

  Augustine cleared her throat loudly enough to startle Styx. She rushed to the Justice’s side. “Will you be needing me, Your Honour?”

  “That will be all for tonight,” the woman murmured with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Enjoy yourself.”

  “Thank you, Your Honour.” Styx bowed deeply, along with everyone else in the room.

  As soon as Augustine disappeared behind a dark curtain, the doors to the kitchen flung open and a string of servants burst into the room, each carrying a heavy silver tray spilling over with delicious treats. Instead of enticing Styx, the mouth-watering smells that wafted into the hall turned her stomach. She pushed the doors to the corridor open and fled the hall, unable to stand those idiots for another moment. She should have stayed to overlook the festivities, she knew, but her bedroom beckoned her like a pleasant dream’s warm embrace. She needed to consult with her advisor. He had to help her.

  She marched down empty corridors, the banquet’s cacophony dying away with each step, until she reached her room.

  “Where are you?” she muttered under her breath as soon as she slammed the door shut behind her. Darkness engulfed her, adding to the welcome sense of isolation.

  For a split second she sensed more than heard a low-pitched hum. She winced at the sudden throbbing in her head. The little remaining light in the room disappeared altogether, a vaguely humanoid hole of blackness swallowing it. It emerged from the shadows in the far corner of the room, emanating a mixture of dread and comfort. No face could be discerned and its proportions were all wrong for a human. The arms were thin and so long they almost touched the ground, much like a tree’s branches. Shadowy, ethereal fingers formed and disappeared at the ends of the elongated limbs. Styx briefly tried to count them but soon gave up, as old ones vanished and smoky new ones appeared in their place. The only feature on its head was two fiery, mesmerizing eyes, while the rest of the creature could be more felt than seen, as if it were part real, part imagined.

  The creature’s first visit flashed in her head. She had been but a child, hiding under her bed to avoid the insults of an abusive, drunken mother. She had never known her father and the fact that she, a nobody, had become Justice Augustine’s personal aide, a position coveted by the most powerful families on Pearseus, spoke volumes about the creature’s uncanny ability to sniff out opportunities and steer Styx toward her destiny.

  A whisper, barely audible, filled the room, like leaves rust
ling in the wind. “I heard your call,” it said, as if in answer to her question.

  “Thank you.” She paced the room, ignoring the hammers banging against her temples. “I need your help. Augustine will ruin everything.”

  “Yes.”

  Her heart beat faster. “Yes, what? Yes, you’ll help me?”

  Burning, crimson eyes studied her. What is it thinking? She licked her dry lips. “Yesterday, Justice Augustine signed a peace treaty with the Loyalists. She thinks she’s saved us. That she’s brought us peace.” Styx sneered. “People are calling it the Peace of the Eclipse, thinking yesterday’s eclipse was an auspicious omen. I think we should have got rid of the Loyalists once and for all. Those bastards only opted for peace because they have their backs against the wall. All they understand is fear and power. They’ll now lick their wounds and attack again at their leisure. It may take them a few months or a few years, but attack they will.”

  “Yes,” the whisper repeated. The creature stirred as if bored.

  Styx ground her teeth. “She committed treason. A crime punishable by death.”

  The eyes half-closed for a moment, as if the creature was thinking. “You plead for my justice.”

  “Yes.” She reached to the nightstand and filled a plain clay cup with water from a jug in measured movements. Her steady hand hid the thumping in her chest. “Will you help me?”

  “Yes.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. For a moment she thought she had misheard. She took a sip, her eyes studying the creature. Every gift has a price, she reminded herself. “And in return?”

  A hushed cackle made of screaming whispers filled the air, causing a chilly shiver to shoot down her spine. “You kill Cyrus.”

  Her breath caught. “Parad’s son? Why?” Her eyes narrowed, her mind searching for a trap. “You serve Themis, Goddess of justice. Has the boy done some wrong? Has his father?”

  “No.”

  “Why are you asking this of me, then?”

  The eerie cackle stopped as abruptly as it had started. “It’s your life or his.” The red eyes faded, as if she had only imagined them.

  “Wait,” she hissed. Her head spun. “Wait!”

  She pressed the base of her palms against her temples. As a Justice, you can serve the Capital; save it from Augustine, a voice whispered in her head. You can defeat the Loyalists; end the war once and for all.

  Her eyes scanned the room, her heart almost stopping in her chest when she failed to see the creature. Have I wasted my chance? “I’ll do it,” she shouted at the empty walls.

  The burning eyes materialized right in front of her.

  She jolted back in alarm and swallowed, hard. “Does it have to be now?”

  “No,” the voice whispered. “But before he turns eighteen.” Its tendrils caressed the nightstand leisurely, almost lovingly. “Find it. Slip it in Augustine’s wine, and I’ll take care of the rest … Your Honour.”

  Your Honour! The words made her wince. Then she frowned. Find what? She pried the drawer open. Inside, someone had placed a round red pill, the colour of the creature’s eyes. It seemed full of promises as she picked it up and examined it in the low light, rubbing her fingers against its smooth surface. She raised her eyes back to the creature, but found herself alone in the room. Your Honour!

  Part One

  “All earth was but one thought—and that was death,

  Immediate and inglorious; and the pang

  Of famine fed upon all entrails—men

  Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;

  The meagre by the meagre were devour’d”

  George Gordon Noel Byron

  295 AL

  The Marshes

  April 10, Lehmor

  The twin moons were both full: an unusual occurrence and a potent omen. Things would change tonight; for better or worse, he did not know. He had decided to ignore the auguries and take his Wind Warriors on a raid. A week ago, one of the patrols had been routed by a group of Fire Clan warriors, led by a young woman. Rumour had it she was Moirah, their leader’s daughter. It fell to Lehmor, the son of the Wind Warriors’ leader, to win back his tribe’s pride, and he prayed to the Lady to run into the woman tonight. He had a lesson to teach her.

  The Marshes, as the Newcomers called their home, were largely a misnomer. Dense thickets of woods covered the sparsely populated area, and he slid under a fallen tree, grabbing the slippery trunk to keep his balance. Black clouds smeared the night sky, hiding the moons and making movement tricky. They had left their horses at the wood’s entrance, to continue on foot on the narrow path towards the Fire Clan’s village.

  Lehmor froze in his tracks as the fine hairs on the back of his neck tingled, a sensation that usually meant he was being watched. Had a Fire Clan scout spotted them?

  Keeping perfectly still, his eyes struggled to penetrate the darkness surrounding him, every sense heightened. He sniffed the air and listened for a moment, raising his fist to stop his men from following. On bended knees, he snuck towards a clearing. A silent curse escaped his lips as one of his men, a young boy on his first raid, burst into the glade.

  A moment later, the woods came to life as ululating shadows armed with clubs and short swords jumped down from tall trees to charge them. He spun around to avoid a club aimed at his head, raising his elbow to meet the assailant’s ribs. They cracked under the force of the man’s momentum. Lehmor swung around and his fist thudded on the man’s flesh. The man crashed to the ground, unconscious.

  Lehmor whirled around, looking for the nearest enemy. His breath caught at the sight of a fierce, stunning woman with black, wavy hair and flame tattoos dancing on her naked arms. As the leader’s son, he had had his share of women, but he had never seen anyone like her. He stared at her silvery silhouette, illuminated under the twin moons that suddenly burst through a cloud.

  She thrust her palm at a Wind Warrior’s windpipe, sending him stumbling backwards, clutching his throat. Then she spotted Lehmor and their eyes locked as she approached. Her eyes sparkled with pride and excitement, lighting up the night like two stars. He marvelled at the way she slithered through the woods; graceful, yet dangerous, like a wild cat. It would be a shame to kill her. But kill her he would.

  When she raised her dagger, Lehmor swung at her with his curved knife. She avoided his assault before grazing his chest with her own blade. He had not anticipated her agility, and was shocked at her effortless fighting. She was as fierce as any of his warriors, he realised, with twice their speed. Trying to hit her was as futile as carrying water with a knife.

  He often boasted that no man could best him, and there was no way he would let a woman defeat him in front of his men. At the same time, the slow trickle of blood on his chest reminded him that strength alone would not win him this battle. Taking a step back, he forced himself to empty his mind and let the Wind spirit fill him. In his mind’s eye, he was wind fighting fire, his swaying torso a gentle breeze.

  A flash of insight hit him. She was probably used to men underestimating her, attacking with quick and clumsy charges, expecting an easy target. If he was right, she would be better at defence than attack. He changed his strategy to lure her into an attack, deliberately leaving his side exposed, pretending to drop his guard.

  His hunch was soon confirmed. A second knife materialized into her left hand, and she used both daggers for her next blow; a quick, dancing slash towards the middle of his body with her left hand, followed by a turning thrust with her right hand, aiming at his temple. He was quick enough to block the first and avoid the second. Dropping to the ground in a single fluid motion, he kicked her feet from under her. She crashed onto the ground, then jumped back up to her feet before he had a chance to finish his attack. Her startled eyes betrayed that she, too, realised belatedly that this fight would not end soon.

  With a loud cry, he charged her in a swirling motion; she parried and ducked under his knife. Everyone stopped to watch, jeering and urging them on, althou
gh the voices barely registered in Lehmor’s mind—he was lost in the fight.

  Either empty air or a counter attack met each blow, in an elegant display of skill. Knives blurred and met, appearing and then vanishing. Sparks mixed with sweat and drops of blood, both warriors lost in their lethal dance.

  In the end, Lehmor’s greater strength and stamina tilted the fight in his favour. As they stood facing each other, each waiting for the other’s next move, his breath was deep and relaxed, while hers was a series of shallow pants. Her eyes darkened at the realisation she had lost. She wiped sweat off her forehead. Their gazes locked. She straightened her back and lowered her hands, extending her chest and neck in a proud invitation for him to strike the fatal blow. Her eyes dared him to strike in a fierce display of her fearlessness before death. They narrowed in suspicion when, instead of the anticipated lunge, he sheathed his knife. He slipped closer, took her in his arms and kissed her, long and hard.

  She jumped for a split-second, froze for another, then opened her mouth and returned his kiss with a passion that matched the painted flames on her skin. It was a long time before they broke their embrace, while their warriors gaped at them, startled at first, then hooting and whistling. His heart pounded; one would think it was her who had initiated the kiss, not him. She had thrown him off balance and would probably never let him regain it, he reflected with a half-smile before diving in for a second kiss.

  Town Hall, Anthea, Western Democracies

  April 24, Teo Altman

  “Come!”

  The door to Teo Altman’s new office creaked open. A young guard let a lithe young woman in. The girl’s long, blond hair caught Teo’s attention, and he unconsciously sucked his gut in, putting on his best smile. “How may I help you, my dear?” His gaze tripped up on the soft twin orbs straining to escape her shirt. “I was about to have my dinner. Care to join me?”