The Royal Series Book 2: Finding Freya

Maverick watched as Grant hurled his goblet against the wall. The wine splattered across the stone, dark-red liquid trailing slowly, inching its way toward the floor.

Maverick had noticed Grant slipping further away, and he knew each passing minute was sheer torment for the king.

It had been three days since Emilia had fallen into a coma, and she had yet to wake. The prognosis was grim, but Maverick knew Grant still clung to a fragile sliver of hope.

To make matters worse, the doctor had informed the king that Emilia was pregnant—and the likelihood of her carrying the child was almost nonexistent, as they were unable to feed her. In truth, it was starvation that would likely kill Emilia.

The physician was fearful of attempting even liquids, warning she would likely choke. Maverick had been forced to talk the king out of hanging the poor man in a fit of frustration.

His pregnant, unwed lover lay unconscious, clinging to life, while he sat here in perfect health—walking, talking, breathing. Yet when Maverick peered at his best friend, he looked like a ghost draped in his own skin.

A man carved from sorrow rather than flesh.

“Grant,” Maverick said softly.

The king turned to look at him, the firelight casting shadows deep into the hollows of his face. He did not appear to have changed clothing since the night Emilia had collapsed.

“What?” Grant muttered, turning back toward the wall.

“You cannot go on like this,” he said gently, inching toward him with caution, worried he might startle him.

Grant ignored him.

“Some of the servants were talking, and…,” Maverick began. “Well, there was something they thought might help.”

“Like what?” Grant grunted. “We’ve tried everything.”

“You won’t like it,” he said, each word carefully measured, worried about his reaction.

“Just say it,” Grant hissed. “You think I haven’t heard it all? I had a fucking healer in there yesterday with smelling salts and incense.”

“Well, Beth came to see me,” Maverick began. “She… Well, she’s from Ocartese. You know, the village over in the mountains? The one with the huge waterfall?”

Grant snorted. “I know that village. It’s the one with all the witchcraft and superstitious shaman hocus-pocus.”

“Exactly.” Maverick planted his hands firmly on his hips and looked at him intently.

“So you think we should…” Grant laughed darkly. “What?”

“Well, you’ve tried everything else, right?” he asked.

“Good God, you’re more insane than I am.” Grant stood to reach for another wine goblet.

“We should try. I’ve heard some stories,” Maverick said, throwing his hands out in front of him. “Please.”

“Fine, send them in,” he spat, filling his goblet to the brim.

“That’s the thing,” Maverick said. “We have to bring her. Something about needing their own land… Something about spirits and connections.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Grant snapped.

“The doctor approved the move. He said it shouldn’t make her any worse—we just need to be gentle,” Maverick said. “So are we okay to do this?”

“What will they do to her?” Grant asked, taking another long sip of his wine. “Do they dance around a fire or some ritual nonsense?”

Maverick shrugged. “I really have no idea. But just so you know, the village is not keen on outsiders.”

“Outsiders?” Grant laughed. “I’m their king. They are my people. We are not outsiders.”

“The village is very insular, and they won’t just go around helping anyone,” he replied. “The only reason they’re even offering a hand is because Beth pleaded with them.”

Grant laughed again. “Fine. We’ll take her tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”

“Grant…,” Maverick said. “It is already morning. The sun’s just come up.”

The king stumbled toward the window and squinted outside. He grunted and returned to his seat.

“How about I take her?” Maverick offered. “I’ll bring a few guards.”

“No one leaves this castle with her unless I’m present,” Grant said, his voice full of venom. “I let her be harmed once, and it won’t happen again.”

“Fine,” Maverick said quickly, throwing his hands up in surrender. “But can we go now? Time is…vital for Emilia.”

Grant nodded.

“Let’s sober you up,” Maverick said, standing behind him to rest a hand on his shoulder. “Have a bath. You stink.”

Maverick rushed around the castle, gathering guards and urging the doctor to move Emilia to a carriage quickly. He watched intently as they loaded her in, supporting her with soft pillows and wrapping her in a warm blanket.

Her appearance worried Maverick. She looked weak and frail. If she weren’t breathing, you’d think she was dead.

Her ivory skin was now as white as bone, a stark contrast to her jet-black hair. Her eyes were sunken, and dark circles had begun to form around them.

She had always been a petite woman, but now she looked sickly—traces of her slow starvation had begun to show. He wondered if she was trapped there, encased in her own body.

Hearing everything around her, but unable to move or speak. He shook the thought away. Thoughts like that were not helpful for anyone.

He turned to see Grant stumbling from the front of the castle. A guard quickly ran to catch him before he fell. Maverick had seen Grant in some serious states before, but this one was like nothing he’d ever witnessed.

The man had lost all hope.

The guards ushered the king into a separate carriage. Maverick decided to join him—to make sure he didn’t drunkenly fall onto the road. The journey would be a long one, so he hoped Grant would have time to sober up a bit before they arrived.

He slid in next to the king and nudged him. “We need to keep pushing and hoping, Grant. You’ve done everything you possibly could—but this could be it. The thing that saves her,” he said.

But each word Maverick said was a pure lie. He didn’t believe in magic or fairies or any sort of witchcraft and healing.

Yet Beth had insisted she had seen miracles occur in Ocartese—and although he thought she might be slightly insane, like the rest of her village, he decided anything was worth a shot. They’d brought in doctors from around the land who had tried everything imaginable.

What else could they do?

The journey was long, made even longer as the carriage stopped a few times so Grant could vomit out the contents of his stomach. Maverick had a servant travel along and bring plenty of water and bread to help sober him up.

So far, he was becoming more coherent.

“I feel like shit,” Grant moaned, leaning his head back, water in hand.

“That’ll happen when you get that drunk,” Maverick chuckled. “We’re getting close now. Do you feel any better?”

Grant nodded. “I’m not drunk anymore—just hungover.”

He turned to look at Maverick. “Did I really agree to let you drag me to some voodoo village to try and help Emilia?”

“Yup. That’s why I asked when you were blind drunk,” Maverick said with a wink.

“This is surely a waste of time,” Grant said, looking out the carriage window at the village in the distance.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Maverick said gently. “Only one way to find out.”

“Don’t these people wear those…odd outfits?” Grant asked. “The ones with the patterns? It’s one of the only villages I don’t recall ever visiting.”

“I’ve heard things here and there,” Maverick said with a shrug. “But they pay their taxes and don’t cause trouble. I’ve personally never had a reason to visit before. They like to be left alone.”

They had reached the entrance to the village.

“Wow,” Maverick whistled. “That is not normal. Nor expected.”

Unlike most villages, which had a simple fence around the perimeter, this one had taken the time to fully fortify itself. Tall stone walls towered high enough that the view of the village was completely blocked.

Two tall towers were connected to the front gate, and archers stood on top, staring down at them—fully focused and ready for an attack. Their bows were already drawn.

“Holy shit,” Grant said. “That’s some serious security.”

“It makes sense that the Pillager never bothered to come here,” Maverick whispered, as if they could hear him.

The carriage rolled to a stop at the gate, and two women in robes stepped forward, followed by five more women, fully armored in thick tan leather with swords drawn.

Maverick pulled himself out of the carriage, and Grant followed. He stepped toward the two robed women and held his hands up to show he was unarmed.

“I am Sir Maverick of Greensbriar. I have arrived, and I’ve brought your king,” he said, nodding behind him as Grant approached.

The first woman pulled down the hood of her robe, revealing long silver hair, wrinkled skin, and dark-blue eyes. She wore a white robe, heavy with age yet uniquely beautiful, adorned with intricate silver patterns embroidered along the sleeves and hem.

She gave a quick curtsy, her robe brushing the earth beneath her, as the woman behind her copied her movements.

Maverick could already tell she was the leader. He saw it in the way the women around her seemed to look to her before they curtsied, as if asking permission.

Maverick squinted at the patterns on her robe, trying to make out the symbols. Was it a language?

Grant now stood next to him.

The woman knelt before Grant and looked up at him. “Your Majesty,” she said.

All of the women followed her lead and knelt to the ground as well.

“What is your name?” Grant asked as they all stood.

“I am Cora, the leader of this village,” she said.

“A woman?” Grant smiled.

Cora nodded. “Yes. We are all women.”

Maverick shook his head. “All of you?”

Cora tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes.”

“How—” Maverick began.

“Enough,” Cora cut him off. “Where is she?”

Maverick was slightly taken aback by her abruptness. He led her to the carriage that held Emilia.

The woman peered inside. When she saw Emilia, her face became intense and thoughtful. She then flattened her hand and held it a few inches from Emilia’s face before closing her eyes.

She began to hum softly.

Grant looked over at Maverick and whispered, “I told you.”

“Pity,” Cora said.

“What do you mean?” Grant asked quickly.

“She’s a strong one,” Cora said. “It would be a pity if she died. A true waste. Come quickly. I’ve arranged for one of our best healers to tend to her.”