The Rock of Ivanore (32 page)

Thank you to Peggy Tierney at Tanglewood Press for loving
The Rock of Ivanore
as much as I do and for making
my dream a reality. A special thanks to Kathy Everts and Tristan Elwell for lending their artistic talents to this endeavor, and to Lisa Rojany Buccieri for her wonderful editing. Thanks to Lauren Wohl and Rebecca Grose for their marketing and publicity skills and the rest of the team at Tanglewood.

Finally, I give thanks to my Heavenly Father and his son Jesus Christ for their tender mercies and for placing such wonderful opportunities and people in my path. Everything I do is always for them.

Laurisa White Reyes spent many years writing for newspapers and magazines before mustering enough courage to pursue her dream of writing novels. Aside from her obsession with books, she also loves musical theater and fantasizes about singing on Broadway (one dream she does not intend to pursue). She lives in Southern California with her husband, five children, four birds, three lizards, two fish and one dog.

Please visit her website
www.laurisawhitereyes.com
and her blog
www.1000wrongs.blogspot.com
.

Coming in 2013

THE LAST ENCHANTER

Book II of The Celestine Chronicles

 

 

 

 

ord Fredric, ruler of Dokur, stood in his private chambers, staring out the window toward the sea. Below him in the bay, the recently decimated navy was busy rebuilding its ships. The harsh sounds of the cutting and hammering of wood, the shouts of men, and even occasional laughter came to him on a crisp, salty breeze. Fredric breathed it in. He was satisfied with the Navy's progress and convinced all would be ready by winter's end. When the time was right, Dokur's ships and her crews would set sail for the mainland to exact vengeance on those who had invaded them only a few short months earlier. The attack had come without warning, the carefully calculated plan born of the worst kind of betrayal. Fredric's own son had led the Hestorians to these very
shores, and Dokur had nearly fallen by their swords. Surely their enemy would expect retribution and would be preparing for the attack as well.

Fredric heard the door behind him open. The gentle clinking of crystal against silver was the only introduction the visitor needed.

“Is it time already?” Fredric asked without turning. “I would like a little wine to soothe my nerves before bed.”

The attendant, a young dark-skinned man named Arnot, filled a goblet and handed it to his Lord with a slight bow. Fredric held the goblet between his ring-laden fingers and lifted it to his nostrils.

“From the local vineyard. A superb choice.”

He downed the contents and then replaced the goblet on Arnot's tray.

“I fear I have grown too old for battle,” said Fredric, crossing the room to his bed. “These eyes have witnessed too much bloodshed, too much suffering.”

He held out his arms while Arnot removed his scarlet robe and replaced it with a linen nightshirt. Once Fredric was dressed, Arnot went to the bed and pulled back the coverlet.

“Your bed is prepared, my Lord.”

Fredric stepped forward and rested his hands on the edge of the mattress. “My stomach,” he said. “It bothers me so.”

“Perhaps you should rest, sir,” replied Arnot.

Fredric leaned against the bed, but he did not lie
down. He rubbed his stomach with his right hand. Then he raised it to his forehead where a sheath of perspiration had formed.

“I am not well tonight. Ah,” he continued, sighing, “such is to be expected at my age.”

Suddenly, Fredric clenched his teeth together and his hands balled into fists against the mattress. He groaned as his entire body began to tremble. Fredric seized the quilt in both fists and pulled with such force that the fabric tore. A moment later he dropped to his knees gasping for air.

“I am in pain,” he managed to say in a desperate voice. “Fetch my physician!”

Arnot remained where he stood, his back against the colorful tapestry that hung ceiling to floor against the wall. He stared at Fredric with unsympathetic eyes.

“Arnot,” called Fredric, reaching for the attendant with both hands. “Please! You must help me!”

A faint smile appeared on Arnot's lips—so faint that Fredric wondered if his eyes were playing tricks on him. When the attendant finally moved from his spot and crossed the room to the door, Fredric felt relieved that help would be found. He lay down on the floor, too weak now to lift himself into the bed.

“Tell my physician to hurry,” he whispered. “Tell him I am very ill.”

Arnot placed his hand on the door handle and looked back at Fredric. The smile on his lips was now unmistakable, and there was a definite look of pleasure in his face.

“You are not ill,” he said coolly, as though the news were inconsequential. “You have been poisoned.”

Then Arnot slipped through the door and shut it quietly and securely behind him.