Hero of Arcadia Read online

  Contents

  Description

  Dedication

  1 Freefall

  2 Inferno

  3 Invasion

  4 Enlisted

  5 Treason

  6 Checkmate

  From the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Jone fell.

  An endless Abyss devoured her, leaving her lost and alone in a choking wasteland. Broken and abandoned, Jone wanders, unsure if she’s alive or dead.

  But none of that matters.

  As long as she draws breath, there is hope. And people who need her, human and inhuman alike. With only the aid of the capricious spirit that resides in her head, Jone must find a way out—and find herself—before her homeland is lost. Before her followers lose faith in her completely, and her magic fades forever.

  Secrets from an alien land offer guidance. A most unlikely ally offers salvation. And a tangled web of plots and betrayal threatens to overwhelm her.

  But even if she rises above those who seek to destroy and use her, what will Jone do when she finally comes face to face with the most powerful woman in the world?

  Hero of Arcadia is the fifth book in Eternal Queen’s Skies, a genre-bending series of novellas by Annathesa Nikola Darksbane, author of the Dying Ashes series. Gaslamp and Steampunk fans will enjoy the floating islands, airships, and cultural anachronisms, while fans of action and adventure will love the daring battles and exciting chases. Those hungry for an edge of romance in a plot that stands on its own, with an interest in polyamory or harem—and definitely lesbians with steamy sex scenes—will find all they desire in this series of delicious tales about Jone and her sexy lovers.

  Join our mailing list at www.DarksbaneBooks.com for a free book plus updates and future release announcements and more!

  Reading Order:

  Call of Arcadia

  Knight of Arcadia

  Champion of Arcadia

  Survivors of Arcadia

  Hero of Arcadia

  Savior of Arcadia

  To Esmeralda.

  Never give up, never behave, and never let them see you cry.

  1

  Freefall

  Like Arcadia, Jone burned.

  She burned as she fell without end, in a sky that had long since turned from blue sky and wispy clouds of steam to a world of cinders and smoke.

  Jone burned, but she could not die.

  Skin charred, hair tried to wisp away into vapor, but her body regenerated too quickly. Her eyes watered freely, blinded by heat and caustic smoke. Pain scrambled her thoughts.

  But far above, her followers were deserting her, continuing what had begun during her long fall. They no doubt thought her dead, and she was too far away to reach for further aid, or to send them a sign. It was only a matter of time until—

  —suddenly, it stopped.

  The heavy charcoal clouds parted.

  Black earth marred by bleeding orange scars rushed to meet her.

  A terrific impact terminated her endless fall and crushed consciousness from her mind.

  o o o

  To her surprise, Jone woke.

  She dimly remembered the last instants before impact, before the tremendous not-sound of her collision with the ground had...

  Wait. The ground?

  ...Where am I?

  Slowly, unsteadily, she picked herself up, staring at the hard-packed, flame-seared earth. Curtains of thick gray smoke traced with flame and swirling cinders clogged her view, billowing upward in a cruel parody of the steamy gray clouds she knew. Rivers of seething flame, some small, some large, crawled across the black, baked ground, the air above them dancing like a mirage.

  Strangely enough, she didn’t feel hot.

  Terror clenched at her insides. I’m…. This is the Abyss. It has to be. That’s where I am. I’m dead.

  Where, then, was Gatekeeper Jones? Isn’t he supposed to collect fallen souls, to lock them away or put them in their proper places? After all, she had defied him once, even if through no intent of her own. Perhaps now she no longer merited his attention, or maybe with the war, he was simply busy elsewhere. I wonder how the war is going up there. I wonder if Arcadia will survive my foolishness. My failure.

  I wonder what I’ll say if I see my friends again soon.

  Despite her dismay, Jone wobbled and moved forward. She couldn't feel her legs. Where to? Something moved at the corner of her vision, but her head wouldn’t turn to look at it. Instead, she shifted to look at a looming shadow nearby, half concealed by smoke and the drifting distortions of intense heat.

  Without thinking, she started that way.

  Perhaps this is my punishment. Perhaps the Gravekeeper would simply ignore her—not that she was exactly eager to be locked away forever for defying him, either.

  But as it had been in life, she found she’d rather know than be left to wonder.

  The shadow approached. Jone tried to steer away from it, to circle it and determine its nature and origin, but her feet defied her. The ruins of a lofty structure suddenly parted the smoke and smog, a tumble of cracked, flame-marred stones. What once must have been some sort of graceful tower, or temple, or elegant watch-keep was now a scattered field of rubble, thousands of smooth-worn stones the size of her torso. Only a few of those charred stones still stood, stacked upon each other, a vague blueprint of what they once had been. It looked as though the structure had been long ago crushed by the mighty boot of a storied giant.

  Or, on closer inspection, blown apart by a massive explosion.

  Fire scars and fractures traced the heavy blocks that passed her by as she drifted closer. She tried to stop and examine one, but couldn't. What's going on? As she approached, a similarly massive door barred her way forward, set solidly into the remaining stonework.

  It was slightly bent, warped by heat, and barely ajar. The once intricate carvings on its towering brass face were warped, figures and symbols that had long ago run like wax. Jone tried to stop, to search for another way into the ruined shelter.

  Her body wouldn't obey.

  Sudden panic spiked. Her body moved on its own. The door filled her vision.

  Jone reached out with long arms and wickedly clawed hands to pry it open.

  She recoiled—though she could not move—and screamed.

  No sound came out.

  The ebony-clawed hands froze.

  “Jone? Jone! You’re still alive?”

  Jone’s silent scream stumbled to a stop. The voice echoed from just in front of her.

  No, from her.

  She knew that honey-toned Voice, knew it almost as well as she knew her own.

  Rote? Is...that you?

  “Jone?” Charcoal-skinned fists clenched tight. “Not again. I didn’t want to go through this again.” Slender arms and clawed hands reached out once more, trailing smoke, and casually tore the door open several inches. Metal screamed against stone. “I can’t. So if you’re still there...say something.” Rote’s voice dropped to a whisper, so low Jone was surprised she could still hear it. “Please. Don’t be just one more ghost in my memories. Not again.”

  Rote! I’m here! ...Wherever here is… Jone tried to force herself to look down to confirm her suspicions, but failed. Can you hear me?

  For a moment, her body didn’t move, and Jone’s hopes rose. They fell again immediately as Rote hissed in frustration—or was that despair?

  And her body broke apart into smoke.

  Jone’s perceptions reeled as her physical form burst into a swirl of ash and vapor, a churning cloud that swept through the cracked door and into the empty, black interior.

  Despite the darkness, Jone found she coul
d see just fine.

  An instant later, her form congealed in the center of an empty, shattered rotunda, the once-great dome overhead broken open to show seething clouds of choking gray. Atop a cluster of broken stones and ancient, dirty glass, Rote re-formed and pulled vaporous legs up to her chest, then buried her face in them and wept.

  It’s… Everything’s reversed, somehow. My body’s gone. Jone would have swallowed the lump of terror the realization invoked, if only she could have. I’m in Rote’s head instead. Somehow. But she can’t hear me like I used to hear her.

  The spirit coiled around itself, arms wrapped tight around legs just above where they trailed off into smoke instead of calves and feet. Jone felt the subtle shudder as she...vibrated, projecting dismay, an alien expression of an all-too-relatable feeling.

  I have to get through to her. I have to let her know she’s not alone. But how? The bodiless Arcadian cast about for solutions, but found herself mostly limited to Rote’s senses and field of view. That can’t be the end of it. Rote always knew what was going on around me. I only survived so many fights because she was able to warn me of trouble… There has to be a way.

  Jone tried to frown, but nothing happened. She couldn’t blink or shift or clench her fists as a wave of disorientation rolled in, her inability to express herself or even act leaving her feeling helpless and trapped. She could feel Rote’s form vaguely as if it were her own, but the sensation was distant and disconnected, and her strange “body” moved as it pleased, ignorant of Jone’s input.

  She fought down panic, but only barely. Rote might have inhabited her body for decades longer than she could remember, but this was the first time Jone had ever felt possessed.

  Was this her experience all along? Helpless, for all those years? Trapped inside me, trying to get me to listen? The sad thought anchored her for the moment. If the irritating spirit could endure this for so many years to help Jone, to save her own people, then how could she not do the same for a few minutes? Rote needed her.

  And she needed Rote.

  The disembodied soldier settled back into her own mind, into the feeling of determination that she could no longer express, and pushed at the boundaries that confined her.

  And suddenly, Jone was outside herself.

  The Arcadian’s mind reeled again as the sensory input poured in, without the senses to filter it. For a moment, she saw and heard everything around the vibrating spirit—in all directions, all at once. It all blurred together, a chokingly thick draught of information beyond her ability to interpret. The shifting of cinder-filled clouds, the individual flecks of ash on the wind. Every cracked stone and texture on the blackened floor flooded her thoughts, accompanied by the crackle of flame and the sizzle and groan of the baking earth that continually shifted and shuddered below her.

  Jone steeled herself against the flood of stimuli, falling into a meditative trance as she’d been taught so long ago. One by one, she shut out the sensations, snuffing them or reigning them in until she could handle what remained.

  What was left was far less alien. She found she could shift her focus, and with it her viewpoint, much like looking around. Or she could turn her attention to certain sights or sounds and expand her senses to follow them by shutting others out completely. It was certainly strange, but the more she did it, the more sense it seemed to make and the more instinctive it became.

  It was also tiring.

  As she felt the effort begin to strain her—somehow—Jone turned her attention inward instead. Certainly, if she could shift her attention outward, she could focus more deeply on—

  Abruptly, she felt everything Rote felt. Their bodies were as one. Jone felt the flow of energy and particles that made her up tremor with loss, from her solid horns to the shifting vapor that comprised her half-tangible legs. Her shoulder and side ached, a swiftly fading echo of the tremendous impact that would have killed any mere human outright. A mighty core of suppressed fire burned deep within her breast like a heartbeat. She felt strong, far beyond what her frail human body had ever possessed.

  But she also felt fragile. Distress and feelings of failure fluttered at the edges of her thoughts, a set of borrowed emotions. A slideshow of memories played in her mind’s eye. A familiar trio of even mightier spirits swirled about her tiny, smoky form, held her close as a savage claw carefully wiped a sooty tear from beneath her onyx eye.

  Then she cowered in terror, forced to watch as those same three were crushed to death under the metal feet of massive war-golems.

  Sorrow swelled. The scene shifted. A young Jonelise played in a forgotten garden, helping seed a long-gone field. An older Jone held still by traitorous arms as the Queen’s Hand rammed a blade through her heart. Silent screams as her friend’s voice faded away and rough hands tossed her inert body into a dirty hole in the earth. Then darkness. Solitude. Enough to last forever; enough to swallow anyone whole—

  Forcibly, Jone pulled herself away from the brink of that darkness and free of the spiral of Rote’s memories. With a shift of focus, she found she could watch the memories pass by like shadows without allowing them to suck her in. The spirit’s emotions were more difficult to handle; they felt somehow more primal than her own, and the sensation of loss threatened to crush them both.

  Rote? Rote! She anchored herself against the flood of her friend’s feelings and called out, but somehow knew she wasn’t reaching the spirit. But it had to be possible; after all, Rote had heard her when she’d screamed.

  So maybe she just wasn’t being loud enough.

  Carefully, Jone let her awareness spread throughout Rote’s body, then mind, while still trying to keep their thoughts and feelings separate. It was daunting. Finally, she found what she was searching for: the feeling of another presence there with her.

  She promptly gathered her will and screamed at it.

  “Rote!”

  “Ahhhhh!” The spirit shot into the air like lightning, an electric current of alarm running through her body. Energy rippled along too-solid claws as Rote bristled, searching for danger. Then she stopped and hung in the air, frozen. “...Jone? Is...that really you?”

  “Yes! It’s me!” She focused her will behind every word, projecting them forcefully at what she assumed was Rote’s consciousness. “I’m alive! I’m just trapped inside—”

  “Ha! Hahaha!” The spirit cut her off with a cascade of laughter, mirth and relief that rolled through her in waves and washed away the static tension. Rote spiraled and spun in the center of the broken rotunda, arms wrapped tight around herself like a hug. “You made it! It worked!”

  “Yes! Wait! What worked? Why did we—”

  The spirit cringed, and Jone paused. “Could you turn that down about ten notches? You’re deafening in here.” A claw tapped at the base of one sleek ebony horn.

  “Sorry!”

  Rote winced again.

  Jone tried projecting the thoughts directly at her friend, but without as much fervor and insistence. “Sorry!” she shouted again.

  The spirit sighed.

  “I can't stop yelling!” Jone apologized. “Help!”

  “Believe it or not, I noticed.” The spirit spun slowly in a circle, then settled back to the crumbled stones below. It seemed that to Rote, gravity was more of a suggestion than a rule. “The list of things you’re bad at is getting a little long. Maybe you should have stayed dead?”

  Jone felt the prickle of the creature’s sarcasm and silently projected irritation right back.

  Rote lifted off the ground a few inches. “Wait! More like that.” Her honeyed voice contained a tingle of eagerness. “At me, but not right at me. Get it? Unless you’re trying to melt my horns off, I guess.”

  In response, Jone let her irritation run its course, then directed her thoughts more generally at Rote’s presence. Better? Nothing. She pushed more insistently. “Okay! I got it! How’s this?”

  “No.” The creature tugged at her horns, covering them with her hands. “Not really that way
either. That’s only better by comparison of how awful you were before.”

  Now it was Jone’s turn to sigh. Silently. But she didn’t stop trying, and over the next couple of minutes she steadily improved until she could direct her thoughts at her...host...without Rote obviously wishing she could muffle her.

  “I guess we’ll just mark this down as one more thing you can’t do.” The spirit flitted higher into the air as the ground shuddered and rumbled underneath them. “Without my help, that is. You’re bearable now.”

  “Well, I’m just glad you can hear me.” Jone felt a sudden wash of relief. “I was...honestly, I was getting pretty scared.”

  “Honestly?” The spirit hesitated; Jone could feel the moment of vulnerability in her thoughts. “Me too. So I’m just glad to have you back. Again.”

  Jone projected a warm happiness at her friend, a replacement for her missing smile.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Rote rolled her onyx eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head. Or your lack of a head. It just would have sucked if—”

  Without warning, a rolling boom resonated through the ground, followed closely by another, then another, and another, until Jone could no longer tell their echoes apart. This time, though, the shuddering impacts didn’t come from somewhere deep beneath the blackened earth—they came from above.

  “Rote?” The spirit was silent, unmoving, and alert. Her body thrummed with tension. “What is that? Do you know?”

  “Trouble,” she hissed in reply.

  It took Jone a moment to realize that the tremor that rippled outward from Rote’s burning core was one of fear.

  “Rote? What’s happening? What do we do?” Abruptly, Jone remembered that she was a stranger in a very strange land, and worry crept back in. “Rote?”

  “I’ll show you,” the spirit finally replied, her voice still barely audible. Jone felt her host summon her resolve, though it never quite smothered the fear.

  And then they were off. Rote bounded from the rotunda like an ashen storm wind, sweeping between the graceful curves of scarred buttresses and the remnants of tall pillars that hinted at the vast, broken building’s former glory. The spirit flickered and shot from one pile of rubble and half-shattered wall to another, always pausing for an instant to cautiously check her surroundings, but never long enough for Jone’s senses to fully catch up. Blackened ground, flame, smoke, and debris blurred past as they rapidly neared the source of the first, loudest impact. Then they stopped.