Revenant- The Undead King Read online

  Revenant: The Undead King

  Records of the Ohanzee Book 5

  By Rachel R. Smith

  Works by Rachel R. Smith

  Reflection: The Stranger in the Mirror

  (Records of the Ohanzee Book 1)

  Reflection: Harbinger of the Phoenix

  (Records of the Ohanzee Book 2)

  Reflection: Thorn of the White Rose

  (Records of the Ohanzee Book 3)

  Reflection: Dragon’s Bane

  (Records of the Ohanzee Book 4)

  Revenant: The Undead King

  (Records of the Ohanzee Book 5)

  Text Copyright © 2018 Rachel R. Smith

  Cover by West Coast Design

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are imaginary. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-9963892-8-0

  11012018

  Dedication

  To Shia Lyn, for your endless friendship and encouragement.

  Though we live half a world apart, we are as close as friends can be.

  (If I could give you one of Tao’s umbrellas, I would.)

  Table of Contents

  Prologue-The Walking Dead

  Chapter 1-An Unexpected Return

  Chapter 2-Faron Manor

  Chapter 3-Late Again

  Chapter 4-Marah

  Chapter 5-A Vague Memory of a Dream

  Chapter 6-Overwhelmed

  Chapter 7-Lamps and Limits

  Chapter 8-The Phoenix

  Chapter 9-An Exchange of Threats

  Chapter 10-Shatter

  Chapter 11-The Watcher in the Wall

  Chapter 12-Tactics

  Chapter 13-Fire Wall

  Chapter 14-Sun, Moon, Stars

  Chapter 15-Crystals on Canvas

  Chapter 16-Vengeance

  Chapter 17-An Urgent Message

  Chapter 18-Breakthrough

  Chapter 19-Broken Swords

  Chapter 20-Parting

  List of Characters

  The Prophecy

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The Walking Dead

  Echidna

  Echidna’s hands trembled as she held the blade of her trimming shears to the orchid’s stalk. She’d thought that spending the morning in the greenhouse would calm her nerves, but try as she might, she simply couldn’t stop herself from shaking. Though the recent snowfall meant that news from Nyx had slowed, there were still plenty of rumors circulating out from the city. And that is exactly what the news reports were—rumors. She refused to believe there was any truth to them whatsoever.

  Or, at least, she wanted to refuse to believe them.

  The task was becoming more difficult with every passing day. Ever since her arrival at the estate, Casimer’s letters had come with unfailing consistency—two each day. Then, last week, a day came when only one arrived. Echidna had written off the change with little concern. Her husband was a busy man. A king could not be expected to always find time to write. But the following day came and went with no letters, and the next, and the next as well. Every time another sunrise and sunset came and went with no letters at all, the terrible rumors became harder to ignore.

  A knock came at the greenhouse door. The gentle rapping was barely enough to rattle the door’s loose hinges, yet in her current state, the suddenness of the sound was enough to startle Echidna. Her shaking fingers tightened reflexively on the trimmers and lopped off the elegant flower’s stem near its base.

  Staring down at the fallen stalk in vexation, she muttered a curse unbefitting a lady of her station and then quickly pasted a serene expression on her face. Turning toward the entrance, she said, “You may come in.”

  A servant stepped in and bowed low. Echidna needn’t worry about controlling her facial expression, for the man kept his eyes trained on the floor. “My Queen, the mail has arrived.”

  “Have any letters arrived from the King today?”

  Somehow, the man’s shoulders dipped even closer to the ground. “No, My Queen.”

  “Very well,” Echidna said, making sure her voice betrayed none of her emotions as she waved dismissively. “You may go.”

  Once the door closed behind him, she took an unsteady step forward and braced herself against one of the worktables. There were too many rumors of the Heiress of Chiyo avenging her parents and returning to Niamh, too many rumors that Casimer had suddenly and inexplicably withdrawn from public engagements, and too much time had passed since the arrival of his last letter. Echidna heaved one deep breath after another as the reality of the situation stripped away the denial that had been separating her rage and her grief.

  There was only one thing that all of it could mean.

  Little Heiress, do you think you know something about revenge? She gripped the benchtop so tightly she could feel the impression of the wood’s grain beneath her skin. If you want bloodshed, I will paint the streets of Niamh red.

  Just then, someone opened the door to the greenhouse again, and this time, they didn’t bother knocking or waiting to be admitted.

  Echidna whirled around, not caring who was about to witness her fury. “How dare you enter without—” she screeched, but the rest of her reproachful words died in her throat. That regal stature, that black hair, those blue eyes in that familiar face…the sight of him made all of her wrath evaporate in an instant.

  She ran across the greenhouse and flung herself into her husband’s arms. "The rumors said that you were dead!" she sobbed into his chest.

  Casimer grunted in pain at the contact. “As you can see, I am most definitely not,” he said as he gently pushed her away.

  Echidna took a reluctant step back, confused. “What’s wrong?”

  “Every rumor has a small grain of truth within it,” Casimer answered with a wan smile on his face. He unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a set of stitches holding closed a puckered wound just a few inches below his heart. "There is very little difference between dead and gravely wounded to the rumormongers, but the distinction makes all the difference in the world to me."

  Chapter 1

  An Unexpected Return

  Charis

  The sitting room of the University President’s house was not a large space nor was it a particularly grand one. As a matter of fact, it was rather modest, and the furniture certainly hadn’t been updated since Charis’ parents moved in, over two decades ago. Charis didn’t consider any of these qualities to be problematic, however. Age and wear had given the sofa’s cushions an unrivaled ability to conform to whatever reading position she wriggled into, and the room’s small size meant she could sit anywhere and still be close to the fire. All in all, it was a delightfully cozy place to read—and that was precisely what Charis intended to do this evening.

  Humming contentedly, she placed her favorite mug on the end table alongside a plate of jam-filled tartlets and pulled out the book she had tucked under her arm. With her father working late and Amon not expected to return for several more days, there was nothing to keep Charis from poring over its pages late into the night. She settled herself on the sofa with her back against the armrest and used a strategically positioned pillow to prop the book in her lap at the perfect angle.

  An hour passed where the only sounds in the room were the quiet t
icking of the mantle clock and the crackling of the fire, punctuated occasionally by the rustle of a turning page. The mug of black currant tea gradually went cold, untouched and forgotten, while Charis was too immersed in a world spun from imagination and dreams to notice.

  Even the sound of an approaching carriage went unregistered as her preoccupied mind failed to distinguish the clip-clop of hooves from the tick-tock of the clock on the mantle. She heard neither the jangle of the reins when the driver brought the horses to a stop nor the thump of suitcases being dropped to the ground.

  She heard nothing at all until the driver rapped on the front door. Though the knock was not any louder than normal, it boomed like a thunderclap through the otherwise quiet house. Charis gasped and sat bolt upright, sending both the pillow and her book plummeting to the floor.

  “Just a moment,” Charis called out, her throat tight from the sudden shock. No guests were expected tonight, and it couldn’t be her father at the door. If he had returned early, he would have let himself in. Muttering under her breath, she scooped up the book to hastily check for dented corners or bent pages and then breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing that no damage had been done.

  A second round of knocking rang out, this time louder and more insistent.

  “I’m coming,” Charis snapped. Whoever it was on the other side of the door, their impatient knocking was rapidly turning her surprise into irritation. They’d better have a good reason for interrupting her relaxing night and nearly scaring her to death.

  She stomped to the entryway and flung open the front door without pausing to see who or what awaited her on the other side. A litany of terse greetings danced across her tongue, but before she could utter a single syllable, a cloaked figure lurched over the threshold, sending her stumbling backward. The unfortunate book tumbled to the floor for the second time that night as she threw her arms out to keep the person from crashing into her.

  “A-Amon?” she squawked, catching sight of his familiar features beneath the cloak’s hood. “What’s happened to you? Have you been hurt?” The questions spilled from her mouth one after another with nary a breath in between.

  Her concern was not wholly unwarranted. Amon had been seen at the palace with Nerissa and the Ohanzee, so there was no doubt the Senka were aware of his involvement in the king’s death. Knowing it would only be a matter of time until his townhouse and his belongings were seized by the crown, Amon had slipped back into Maze to warn the members of his organization and secure all the assets he could.

  That had been nearly two weeks ago, prior to Nerissa taking her oaths as the Blood of Chiyo. And now, here he was, returning days earlier than planned, slumped and disheveled in her arms.

  “I can’t…” His hoarse response was so soft it would have been inaudible if his forehead weren’t resting on her shoulder.

  Charis fought back a rising sense of dread as she guided him to the entryway bench. It didn’t seem like he was bleeding, but his heavy cloak made it difficult to tell for certain. “What can’t you do?”

  There was a pause while she helped Amon ease himself down. Once he was in a seated position, Charis knelt in front of him, resting her hands on his knees. “What can’t you do?” she repeated.

  He turned away and coughed into the crook of his arm. “I can’t answer that many questions at once,” he finally rasped, gazing at her with a lopsided grin from beneath a mass of tousled black locks.

  Indignation rocketed Charis to her feet, and she loomed over him with her hands on her hips. “You were acting like you could barely stand on your own. I was genuinely concerned about you!”

  “I didn’t mean to worry you. I’m fine. I’m just exhausted from traveling.” Amon turned his head to cough again, but this time it welled up from deep within his chest in a series of wet, rough hacks.

  Charis’ eyes widened as comprehension of his strange behavior struck her. “You are not fine. You’re sick!”

  A tentative “ahem” interrupted her tirade. Charis turned automatically toward the sound, only then noticing that the front door was still wide open. Her cheeks reddened slightly at the realization that they weren’t alone.

  The footman gestured toward Amon’s numerous suitcases, which had been stacked on the porch. “I’ll leave these here.” He tipped his cap and hurried back to the carriage without waiting for a response.

  Charis glanced from the luggage to Amon and then closed the door. She couldn’t blame the man for wanting to make a swift departure. Everyone in Niamh knew the symptoms of the coughing sickness, and even with a cure readily available, no one wanted to be exposed to someone with the illness any longer than necessary. The trunks would be safe enough on the porch for now—there were more immediate concerns at the moment.

  “Let’s get you to bed,” she said.

  He shook his head weakly. “No, I need to see Nerissa right away. I have learned something she and the Ohanzee will want to hear about immediately. That’s why I returned early.”

  Charis knelt in front of him again and instinctively reached out to push the disheveled locks of hair away from his eyes. His forehead was feverishly hot and beaded with sweat. “You might want to see Nerissa, but she’s not going to want to see you until you’re healthy again. Rest for tonight.”

  Amon shook his head again. “I’m not sick. It’s merely a cough. I’m just tired from the journey.”

  Yes, you are; no, it isn’t; and no, you aren’t, Charis thought in response to each of his protests, though she didn’t voice her opinions. There was no point in arguing with a sick person. Especially one as stubborn as Amon.

  “Fine. Why don’t you lie down for a little while? Once you’ve had an hour to rest, then we’ll go to her,” she suggested, though she had no intention on following through. The information Amon had was obviously important, yet there wasn’t any reason it had to be delivered by him. Charis had her own way of getting in touch with Nerissa. She would tell him how once he was settled.

  Amon let out a weary sigh. “I guess a short nap won’t hurt.”

  “Finally, you see reason. Now let me help you to your room.”

  “I can manage on my own,” he protested. “I don’t want to get you sick too.”

  I thought you said you aren’t sick, Charis wanted to say, but she kept that sentiment to herself as well. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to him. “If you’re worried about me, then keep this over your mouth when you need to cough.”

  Somehow he managed a roguish grin despite his feeble condition. “You still have my handkerchief.”

  “This is one of mine,” she scoffed. After seeing that cocky smirk, she wasn’t about to admit that she did keep his with her; it was just too precious to actually use.

  Charis helped him take off his cloak and then tucked her shoulder under one of his arms to assist him up from the bench. They tottered down the hallway, their steps almost comically out of sync. When they finally reached his bedroom, in spite of all his previous objections to the contrary, Amon flopped onto the bed without the slightest hesitation.

  “Which drawer do you keep your nightclothes in?” Charis asked, feeling oddly self-conscious as she went to his dresser. She had rummaged through his belongings before, but her feelings toward him had been different back then.

  “I don’t need to change clothes. Once I take a nap, I’ll be alright.”

  “Amon,” Charis said, pausing to make sure she had his attention, “you’re not going back out tonight. I have another way to get your message to Nerissa. It might even reach her faster this way than if you went to Faron Manor yourself.”

  Amon stared up at her blankly for a second, then he laughed. It was a weak, mangled laugh that rapidly dissolved into a fit of coughing which he muffled with the handkerchief, but it definitely started as a laugh.

  Charis folded her arms across her chest and raised one eyebrow. “What’s so funny? Or has the fever taken your brain?”

  He swung his legs over the edge of th
e bed and sat up slowly. “I’m laughing at my own foolishness. You are her closest friend. I should have known you’d have a way to get in contact with her.”

  “Naturally,” Charis replied smugly, which elicited another chuckle from Amon.

  “My nightclothes are in the second drawer from the top.”

  “So you’re finally willing to stay in bed and rest?”

  “I don’t think I have much of a choice,” Amon conceded.

  “You really don’t.” Charis pulled a set of pajamas from the dresser and turned around to hand them to Amon, only to find him already unbuttoning his shirt, exposing the smooth, olive skin of his chest. She felt her face flush at the sight. “Change into these, and I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she said, thrusting the clothes at him before rushing from the room, her pulse matching every hurried step she took.

  She grabbed a basin and clean cloth from the linen closet and headed toward the kitchen, taking a brief detour to return to the sitting room. There, she placed two glow lamps side by side on the window sill—the signal she and Nerissa had devised. When the Ohanzee doing rounds saw them, they would come to retrieve the message.

  With the most pressing task completed, she continued to the medicine chest in the kitchen. Inside the brass-trimmed box, among the various leftover tinctures and salves with yellowed labels, was one bottle with its wax seal intact. For Treatment of Coughing and Fever, the pristine label read in large letters.

  Though no one in the household had become sick when the first wave of coughing sickness spread through Niamh, Charis had purchased this bottle from the apothecary to have available—just in case. Her father had chided her at the time for purchasing medicine that someone else may have needed more, but she remembered all too well the pain of losing her mother so many years ago. There was no way she would risk losing any more loved ones to illness if she could prevent it. She gripped the vial tighter in her palm. Tonight it seemed her foresight had paid off. Having this available now meant Amon wouldn’t have to wait until morning to take the first dose.