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  The Avant Champion

  Rising

  CB Samet

  Contents

  Map of Crithos

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  A Note to the Reader

  Also by CB Samet

  Acknowledgments

  Sample Chapter

  C.B. SAMET

  Illustration by Victor Guiza

  outskirtspress

  DENVER, COLORADO

  This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

  The Avant Champion Rising All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2016 C.B. Samet v2.0

  Cover Illustration by Victor Guiza © 2016 Outskirts Press, Inc. All rights reserved - used with permission.

  This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quota- tions embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Outskirts Press, Inc. http://www.outskirtspress.com

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4787-7736-6 Hardback ISBN: 978-1-4787-7749-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016907874

  Outskirts Press and the “OP” logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Created with Vellum

  For Jack,

  My Rock My Champion

  Map of Crithos

  Turn your soul

  Toward Mother Moon,

  Let the demons

  Fall behind you,

  Turn your heart

  For the good of all,

  And the demons

  Cannot harm you.

  Turn your soul

  Toward Mother Moon,

  Let the demons

  Fall behind you,

  Turn your heart

  For the good of all,

  And the demons

  Cannot harm you.

  1

  All things considered, it was a good day to die. The warm sand pressed against my hands and knees, and the roaring of high tide resounded on the distant rocks below the cliff. The setting sun cast elongated shadows, like weary, stretching tendrils before the slumber of night. Sea salt and wood smoke scents floated through the air. I looked at the burning embers near me—a dying fire. Blackened, burnt wood intermixed with gray ash sprinkled with fading amber light.

  I didn’t want to die, but I could see no other option. My purpose was to die—on this day, at this moment, by the hand of Evil.

  18 Days Earlier

  I should have been grateful, really. I was grateful to have a job, even if it wasn’t ideal. Knowing that there were people without jobs meant I should really appreciate having one. And I should appreciate my brother, Paul, for getting me the job. This was an advantage to being the younger sister of the finance minister of Queen Rebekah of Marrington. One of the disadvantages was always being reminded of how grateful I should be, which Paul managed to do whenever we crossed paths since I started my new job.

  After gazing across the great ballroom to the dining hall, I looked back down at the schematics in my hand. It appeared that all of the busts were properly arranged, as were the floral decorations. I pulled a handkerchief out of my skirt pocket and brushed off a spot of dust from the queen’s counsel’s balding bronze head.

  Leaning over to one side, I breathed deeply the sweet scent of pink roses set against a background of gold and silver draperies. I crossed the polished floor to the dining hall, thinking of that sweet smell and what I would give for a pastry right now just as sweet.

  Having not eaten since breakfast with all the preparative work for the ball, I could already imagine vast trays of mouthwatering food splayed across the buffet table. The dining hall was grandiose, with five enormous windows, a balcony, and five glimmering chandeliers. It would soon be filled with hundreds of people for the night’s annual celebration of V-Day.

  Reaching the Queen’s vacant chair, I dusted the rich mahogany one last time and made sure that Her Majesty’s water glass was located within arm’s reach of her seat. Gingerly, I touched the plush maroon cushion. How strange and frightening would it be to sit before hundreds of people as a leader, a ruler, a queen?

  “Right everyone. Spit spot, best behavior,” Leonard called out to the crowd of servants. We gathered around him for one last meeting before the grand event. He was a lean man with a thin, crooked nose and sagging cheeks that dangled below his jawline like a bulldog.

  Marcy leaned toward me whispering, “It’s the same pep-talk nonsense before the ball every year. ‘Spit spot. Best behavior everyone.’” She smacked on a piece of licorice and rolled her eyes. “He’s completely elliptical.” Loose strands of brown hair had escaped the two tight knots drawn behind her ears.

  I suppressed a grin at her insult.

  Tuning out Leonard’s droning voice, I looked around at the bulging room. It was filled with tidy, pressed black-and-gray uniforms stand- ing at attention. The waitstaff was in white, the greeting staff in navy blue, and the Queen’s assistants in black. Since I had only been there a few months, I scarcely knew a dozen servants. Nevertheless, a common theme seemed to prevail among them: they all performed to the best of their ability in hopes of some recognition and promotion. In doing so, they created a perpetually priggish, competitive environment.

  Marcy was different though—more like me. This was a temporary job to get us by until other opportunities rose. Mine was the opportunity to have money to finish my studies at the University. We had no intention of a lifetime commitment of servitude to Her Majesty, however remarkable she may be.

  After the servant assembly, we had a half-hour break to eat and ready ourselves for the onslaught of hungry, thirsty guests eager to revel at court with the Queen.

  Once the festivities began, we alternated hour after hour, kneeling or standing at Her Majesty’s side. It was such a relief when she asked for something, a glass of water, a sniff of potpourri, a chocolate truffle, so that I might move just a little. Aside from that, she did not dance, nor eat, nor converse, nor interact except to occasionally nod or wave when it seemed appropriate. Her face was covered in thick white makeup—a mask—beneath which her expression was stoic, passively interested or disinterested in the room; it was hard to tell.

  In all my life, I had never been to such a party. Certainly, I never imagined getting a front seat to such extravagance. The smell of food in the distance was at once delightful and torturous. There were twelve geese, adorned with celery and carrots and baked to a golden brown, and five pigs bathed inside and out in a cilantro, garlic, and ginger paste, roasted to a delicate crisp exterior and moist, meaty interior. Silver bowls filled with turnips simmered in lard decorated the table accompanied by an array of fresh vegetables and cheeses. The last table was filled with the most delectable of all—truffles made from fine imported chocolate, mouthwatering candied pecans, and delectable fudge squares. It was a magnificent feast for a magnificent celebration.

  The dancing patrons wore lavish dresses or pressed petticoats with shined shoes that sparkled like glass. Their movements were fluid and fl
awless, a choreographed masterpiece. I possessed no such talent for dance, but then no such activity in my life called for it. I didn’t attend balls, nor seek courtship with gentlemen who would be wooed by such a talent. It seemed frivolous, and yet more appealing than my current station.

  Looking down gratefully at the white satin pillow I had to kneel upon, I distracted myself with a piece of lint on my black dress. As magnificent as everything truly was, I was no more than a speck of lint on the evening’s activities.

  The long festivities were drawing near to an end, and I welcomed the thought of closing my eyes while horizontally positioned on my cool linens. After a near twenty hours without sleep, I could have slept on the ballroom floor contentedly, but my mattress in the basement with the other assistants beckoned me.

  “You are Paul’s sister, Abigail, are you not?” It took a moment for me to realize that the Queen was addressing me. She had hardly spoken a word all night.

  “Yes, mum,” I mustered.

  I had watched Paul in and out of the dining room all night, his tall, lean build adorned in a black suit with burgundy trim. He conversed with various dignitaries and bourgeoisie, but was far too engrossed in business to dance or really enjoy the evening. He must have walked past the table of food a dozen times and not once stopped to eat. It was so like him to turn a celebration event into a business affair. We were terribly unalike. I coveted the dancers, and he didn’t even notice them.

  I looked up from my subservient position at the Queen’s imposing figure and stern expression. The pale makeup crinkled slightly at the wrinkles around her gray eyes.

  “You will accompany me in my carriage back to my quarters,” she stated.

  I blinked and then glanced at Marcy, who gaped at me with wide eyes. I didn’t have to look at Penelope to feel her burning glare. I remembered being told when I first started that there was great honor in riding with the Queen, but only the senior assistants achieved such a feat. Penelope had been here for years and talked of little else but her status as the “chosen one” who was always selected for “special tasks” by the Queen, whatever that meant. Usually, her self-gloating stories began with a flick of her thick, curly hair followed by directing her pointed nose toward the sky, saying, “The Queen wanted me, personally, to ...” That was my cue to stop listening.

  I didn’t think the Queen even knew who I was, much less that she would put me in the predicament of being the most envied and despised assistant because of favoritism. I had no desire for such an accolade. Feeling my palms sweat, I could do nothing more than bow obligingly and turn my gaze back to the ebb and flow of the beautifully adorned and brightly colored dancers before me. I sighed, just slightly, and hoped that it had gone unnoticed.

  As the Queen stood and walked down several steps to the ballroom floor, the music silenced and the crowd stilled. I stood, legs aching, and followed her out the large double oak doors. A merciful breeze graced my cheeks. I closed my eyes briefly and inhaled the sweet smell of roses.

  Her carriage awaited us, a rich mahogany wood with royal purple velvet velour. The style resembled her plush throne. The wood was polished to a brilliant shine and the velvet brushed free of dust and dirt. Pulling its mighty weight were two magnificent white steeds, equally as spotless. I wanted to reach a hand out and feel their soft, groomed hair as it glistened under the light of nearby lanterns.

  Were their manes as silky smooth as they looked?

  I hadn’t touched or ridden a horse in almost two years. I had spent four weeks in Aithos, horse canyons to the southeast. It was a beautiful, arid country inhabited by the Caballus Clans, people who bred the finest horses in all of the Queen’s land. They wore dazzling red tunics and capes and inhabited the canyons near the river.

  As part of a study abroad program, I was there learning geology. I spent most of the days with my class measuring and observing rock sediment in the canyon walls, but at night I would sit at the Caballus Uni Clan hearth, drink their creamy cactus wine, and listen to their tales.

  They often talked of the revered Gunthi monks tucked away in a remote canyon at the river basin. They were a holy tribe who separated from the Caballus three thousand years ago and lived in seclusion. Living near the Aqua Santo, a sacred river, the Gunthi monks drank from it, and it was said their eyes turned as blue as the water. The water was rumored to give them extended life and the ability to prophesize. The Caballus proudly talked of some of these prophesies, which were entertaining tales of bold rulers and fearless warriors, those who had come and fulfilled their destinies and those whose destiny still awaited them.

  The Caballus also had their own tales. They believed that of every thousand horses, one Princeps was born. Heralded as a divine and intelligent creature, it was said to choose its rider and provide lifelong companionship. It would die when its human died, only to be reincarnated after a thousand horses were born.

  Although I was not seduced by such a romantic tale, I was pleased to be introduced to Phobus, a magnificent chestnut steed with black stockings. His wide brown eyes were separated by a crimson star on his forehead that gave him a noble air. I rode him alongside the Caballus on weekends—or during the weekday when I occasionally skipped class.

  As my knees gripped the smooth leather saddle, the muscles of the large steed flexed beneath me. His hooves bore into the ground, kicking up fresh dirt as he galloped across the prairie. He showed me their far-stretching plains and wide starlit skies. I would have loved to take him back to Oxville with me, but I was only a college student and could not afford the luxury of boarding a horse. Besides, it would have been cruel to deprive him of the beauty of his home.

  Now, as a temporary servant, I still could not afford to keep a horse and would have to settle for coveting the Queen’s horses.

  As I climbed inside the carriage, I glanced back at the black carriage behind us where Paul, staring at me with a perplexed look, was waiting to board. I tried to shrug back at him, since I was as baffled as he was, but I wasn’t sure that he saw the gesture in the dim light of the lanterns.

  I sat meekly beside the Queen, diligently trying not to touch her elegant red dress. Two of her most intimidating bodyguards sat across from us, staring impassively at the wall behind us. It was comical the way their large bodies were compressed together to fit in the space on the seat that was really only wide enough for one of them. Since body- guards and servants kept different quarters and mess halls, we were not friendly or familiar. Perhaps this was intended. They were stiff and impassive, seeming to mirror the Queen’s disposition.

  As the carriage began to roll, I listened to the rhythmic click of horse hooves against the cobblestone. Since we were seated facing the rear, I watched the grand pavilion, with its shimmering lights, fade into the distance. It would be a 500-meter ride from the ballroom to the Queen’s quarters, and what a beautiful scene through the decorated grounds lit with streams of dancing lights that cast colored shadows from the arching trees above the path. I couldn’t help but lean just a little out the window to take in the beauty of it all.

  In the distance, I could see Paul’s carriage and imagined that he was wondering as much as I what I was doing in the Queen’s carriage.

  I looked around at the courtyard. It was vast and elegant and surrounded on all sides by the castle’s enormous buildings. The real beauty of the castle belonged to its grounds, or inner ward, though I may have had that perception because of my preference to being outdoors. The northeast corner of the courtyard was an open dining facility surrounded by immaculately groomed bushes sitting atop lush trimmed grass.

  The northwest corner contained awe-inspiring statues depicting famous mythological heroes from millennia past. The southeast corner was the grand pavilion outside of the ballroom, and the southwest corner contained the Four Horse Fountain and Marrington Chapel. Within its walls were housed the Queen, the court and the ministers, as well as all of their meeting halls and business rooms, ornately furnished with dark mahogany wood and
regal draperies. There were figurines and expansive collections of artifacts from centuries of diplomatic excursions across the world. I knew them intimately, since I dusted them weekly.

  With a sudden chill, the light from the lanterns all abruptly extinguished and the line of carriages came to a halt. I heard the horses neigh with unease. My eyes adjusted to the moonlit darkness, and I could see Paul’s carriage once again in the distance around the bend, just at the last gate leaving the pavilion. It was black under the light of the moon, looking more like a box cage than a carriage.

  Shadows came to life as tall, lanky, dark figures appeared on either side of Paul’s carriage. Their general form was similar to human, with two arms and two legs, but their body and limbs were thinner, and they appeared taller than any man I had ever seen. My stomach lurched in alarm. Whatever they were, their stealth and demeanor conveyed the danger of a predator.

  Long arms stretched and opened the doors on both sides of Paul’s carriage, and silently and swiftly, the passengers were lifted out and swallowed whole. The horrible figures vanished into the dark shadows as quickly as they had appeared.

  I shook once, not believing my own eyes, but too frightened to scream. My heart was pounding with spasms threatening to spread to the rest of my body at any moment.

  I turned to the only other person who sat in a position to see what I had seen. The Queen shot me a look of caution, shutting my mouth before I could speak. She had seen, I knew, and if it were possible, her pale face seemed even whiter. Although her eyes were not as wide as mine, her pupils had dilated, the way I had seen an untamed filly’s eyes when cornered by a would-be rider. Yet, she kept her composure.