Knights rebirth, p.1
Knight's Rebirth, page 1
Knight’s Rebirth
By
Sarah Ashwood
Knight’s Rebirth
Copyright © Sarah Ashwood
Editing by J & J Editing and Marketing Services
Cover art by Stephanie Burdine at Agape Author Services
Interior Design by Savannah Jezowski at Dragonpenpress
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Excepting brief review quotes, this book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the copyright holder. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, real events, locations, or organizations is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Dear Reader,
Mercy
About the Author
Works by Sarah Ashwood
Aerisia
Chapter One
Dedication
To my husband, Steven Blackwell
“Once in a while, in the middle of an ordinary life…love gives us a fairytale.”
Melissa Brown
Maybe he’s not a knight who faces down dragons, but he puts in countless hours at a difficult job for our family, which is just as brave. I’m so proud to be his wife, and I think we’ve got a pretty good real-life fairytale romance going on.
Here’s to happily ever after.
Prologue
Once upon a time there was a faraway land, a beautiful kingdom. Its name was England, and it was part of the British Empire, ruled—as it had been for many years—by the famous Queen Elizabeth.
In this kingdom, a young visitor from a distant land across the sea, a land called the United States of America, made an amazing discovery. Her name was Casie, and she was working as a member of an archeological team excavating the ruins of an ancient castle decimated by war, nature, and time, when she discovered a hidden room that led to a secret library. In this library were many exciting, fascinating books and manuscripts that would set the historical, literary, and archeological worlds abuzz for many years. But the most amazing item of all was that which Casie discovered and put back for herself.
It wasn’t much to look at, not like some of the other items in the secret library. Still, when she held the red leather volume in her hands, its pages tinged with gold and its cover embossed with the same, the little book appealed to her. No, it more than appealed to her, it spoke to her.
“Casie,” it called, “Casie Dillard. Keep me. Read me. If you do, I will change your life, just as I once changed his.”
His? His who? she wondered. Then thought, I must be going crazy. I’m thinking a book is talking to me!
She was about to lay it aside, to be picked over and studied along with all the other items in the room, when it called her name again.
“Casie. Casie Dillard.”
Her head snapped up. Where’s that coming from?
“Casie?”
The young visitor whirled with a gasp, only to see one of her team members standing in the crumbling, arched doorway.
“George!”
“None other,” the young man replied, shouldering into the room.
George was from the ancient kingdom of Britain. To the American visitor, everything about him was British, from his accent, his primness, and his habit of drinking hot tea instead of coffee to his droll sense of humor. Not to mention his name: George Stanton. How typically British. How boring.
Needless to say, Casie was not overly impressed with George, although he was nice enough in a bland sort of way.
“George—did you just call me?” she stammered.
Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s what I’m hearing.
“I said your name just now.”
“No, I mean before that. Did you say my name, my whole name, and then something about a book?”
Puzzlement clouded the brown eyes shielded by wire-framed glasses. “What are you talking about, Casie?” Then those same brown eyes lighted upon what she clasped in her hands. Instantly, their typical sleepiness dissolved into something else entirely. “Blimey! What have you got there?”
For some reason, inexplicable even to her, Casie did not want to share. She didn’t want boring ol’ George seeing her prize, her secret discovery. In fact, the longer she clasped it in her hands, the less she wanted to let go. It was as if some sort of spell had been cast over her—possibly by the book itself. A spell that made her protective and possessive, attributes she normally didn’t display.
But George had seen it and refused to be dissuaded.
“It’s just something I found in here,” she answered coolly, trying to pretend the book was really of no consequence. But when her British team member started to reach for it, she snatched it away.
“Uh-uh-uh!” she warned. “First, you have to promise not to tell anyone else about it. Not until I’ve had a chance to look it over.”
“Why?”
Although clearly puzzled, the young man appeared more eager than ever.
“Because…because I said so,” she explained lamely. “I found it, and I want to be the first one to study it. Promise, George. Promise, or I won’t let you see it.”
George merely shrugged, too much of a gentleman to do anything except let her have her way.
“As you like, Casie. Now, may I see it?”
He held out his hands. Reluctantly, Casie slid her precious volume into them, watching him closely for any sign…
It only took a moment. She saw the flicker that passed over his generally unruffled features, the way his sandy blonde head snapped up. Casie didn’t have to ask. She knew he’d heard the voice too.
By unspoken agreement, the pair agreed to keep the little volume to themselves. Whereas Casie had originally been reluctant to let George in, she now found him indispensable. It turned out he knew a great deal concerning languages and dialects, both ancient and modern. It took some hard work and many hours of research, but eventually he was able to translate the gold letters that marched proudly across the front of their treasure.
Rebirth of a Knight, they said. Or, as Casie liked to think of it, Knight’s Rebirth.
After the title was deciphered, the rest fell more or less quickly into place. The two of them became obsessed with their find, and spent hours poring over its pages. Pleased with its captive audience, the book no longer spoke to them, but neither of the pair could forget its sly promise.
I will change your life, it had sworn, just as I changed his.
Initially, neither Casie nor George had the slightest idea what this strange vow meant. But, as chapter after chapter of the book was translated, copied down, and saved in a file on Casie’s laptop, the meaning became clear. Casie and George were so impressed by the story they were unfolding, that they soon forgot it was scientifically impossible.
Secretly, both began to wonder if, in the dim ages of earth’s past, the world described in Rebirth of a Knight had actually existed, and if the people in that world had lived and breathed just as the two of them now lived and breathed. Secretly, they questioned whether or not true magic really was an impossibility. After all, hadn’t the book spoken to them, just as it did to the man in its pages? Wasn’t its spell cast over them too, making them forget everything and everyone besides it?
And each other.
It was Casie who noticed it first, noticed how all the things she’d once found so uninspiring and unattractive in George no longer seemed to matter. How they actually had a lot in common when they got to know one another, and how, as he chuckled over certain passages of the little scarlet volume, he did have a sense of humor. Those brown eyes were not as sleepy as she’d once thought, not when lit with animation as he worked feverishly to translate the next page. Nor when they gazed at her. When they did that, they were soft with admiration and…something else.
It was George who, upon their reaching the description of the first kiss between the man and woman, said to her, “Do you think one kiss can really change so much? Do you think it can bind people together like that?”
And it was Casie who replied very softly, “I don’t know, but I’m willing to find out.”
Who made the first move they never could decide. All the American visitor knew was that one moment she was sitting beside her colleague, poring over an ancient manuscript, and the next she was in the arms of her fairytale prince. True love’s first kiss was, indeed, all it was cracked up to be, she decided, as her heart melted into a puddle of love for George Stanton.
In the end, the book’s prediction came true. George left that faraway kingdom of Britain, traveling to another realm across the sea with the young woman who was now his wife. During the ensuing winter months, while Casie’s stomach rounded gently with their first child, the two finished transcribing Rebirth of a Knight, and readied it for publication.
In due time, it was released to the world. Some accepted it with open arms, others with doubts, criticism, and speculation. For years to come, the world’s leading scientists, philosophers, doctors, and professors would debate the authenticity of the tale, some rejecting it out of hand but others pointing out the strange, hitherto unknown language in which it had been written. Debates would rage, but they could not touch the young couple whose lives had been so profoundly altered.
The author’s wish at the conclusion of his tale had come true for them. In the grand style of the best and most of famous fairytales, George and Casie were to live happily ever after. As would the twins Casie delivered the following spring, twins whose names had been selected long ago.
Buck and Mercy.
Chapter One
Of Dragons and Princesses
My name is Buckhunter Dornley, and I am dead.
Dead? You may laugh if you wish. You may write off this statement as a jest or a joke. Or you may simply choose to ignore or disbelieve it. I’m sure most people would. Still, perhaps you should wait before making this decision.
The more I see of life, the more firmly convinced I am that the majority of the populace are content to live their lives in a box of unoriginality. The unknown frightens rather than appeals to them, so they say that this cannot happen and that cannot possibly exist. Once, I too was such a person. There were things that frightened me, so I fled them as swiftly as I could.
Do not allow yourself to be like that. Do not ever be afraid to investigate the unexplored, to set sail on a wild sea, to climb a soaring mountain, or prove by faith that the impossible is possible.
In the end, you must do as you see fit with my strange, unexpected words. It hardly matters to me, for I am, as I have told you, dead. And the dead do not care what others think.
The summer sun’s hot rays beat relentlessly upon my chainmail and armor. Inside their metal depths, I would have been baking like a loaf of brown bread, had I not been dead. Despite my deceased state, I felt salty sweat trickle down my protruding spine, my papery skin, and shifted uneasily in the saddle. Beneath me, Stalker, my enormous red-roan steed, caught the vexed bent of my spirits and shifted too. I calmed him with a pat to his wide, strong shoulder, while casting a glance towards the royal box towering over the tournament grounds.
There she sat, so beautiful I felt it like a jolt to my cold, dead bones. Mercy was her name. Her Royal Highness, Mercy Elizabeth Candice Graceknot, princess of the realm. To me, however, she was far more than a long name and a mere princess garbed in silver and blue, the azure veil attached to her golden crown fluttering coquettishly in the breeze. Far more than heavy blonde hair, ocean blue eyes, a pert, upturned nose, and the sweetest smile you’ve ever seen.
For her, I sat on Stalker’s back, awaiting my turn to enter the lists. For her, I wore this heavy armor that bore down my slumped shoulders and made my brittle legs quiver with exhaustion. For her, I kept the visor of my helmet closed. Once she’d loved my face, or so she claimed, but I didn’t think she would favor it now. And this too was because of her.
Mercy Graceknot, princess of Merris, the woman I’d once loved and sought to marry, was also the person who had slipped a dagger between my ribs and put me in this, well, dead state. There was no mistaking my assailant. I knew it was her, for she’d been in my arms at the time. In the midst of a passionate embrace, I had felt a sharp pain in my side and looked down to see a scarlet stream mushrooming from around the blade of a deadly needle dagger—so named because of the skinniness of the blade and its resemblance to the seamstress’s tool. Clutching the dagger’s hilt was a delicate hand I knew very well: Mercy’s.
“Mercy, what have you done?” I had cried, swaying on my feet, feeling the strength draining from my limbs along with the blood from my veins.
“Forgive me, Buck,” she’d answered, her face white and her lips trembling. Horror was in her eyes, horror both at what she had done and why she’d been forced to do it. “There was no other recourse. I was left with no choice. Please forgive me.”
With that, she withdrew the blade only to plunge it again and again into my side. Howling, I had tried desperately to twist away from her savage assault. My warrior’s instincts bade me fight back, draw my sword from its sheath and lop off my assailant’s head. But I couldn’t do that, I couldn’t. I could not kill Mercy. I could not harm the woman I loved, no matter that she was clearly resolved to kill me.
She ran me through seven or eight times before I collapsed. Where a blossom like her ever found the fortitude for it, I can’t say. Love, I suppose, which fortifies the frail. Not that anyone could accuse my Mercy of fragility—but one hardly suspects a sweet, generous princess of having the resilience to commit murder, either.
Finally, my knees buckling and my arms like lead, I had toppled. My vision swam as my head drooped in defeat.
“Why?” I’d gasped. “Why? I would have found a way…”
I made a final effort to stay upright, my hands groping feebly at the hem of her white gown, now drenched with my blood. “Why, Mercy, why…”
“Forgive me, Buck,” she had wept, pulling away from me. All means of support gone, I fell, face in the dirt, tasting gritty soil and coppery blood on my tongue. The last thing I remember as I passed from this life was her plea for exculpation ringing in my ears. “Forgive me, Buck. Forgive me...”
Coming back to the present, I marveled that I could recall all of this so clearly as I stared at her, sitting calm, collected, and composed at her father’s side.
How, I wondered, can she put on such a brave face when she knows the fate that awaits her? How can she look so peaceful with death waiting in the wings?
But that was Mercy’s way. She did not fret and worry as others might. She laughed at trials and scoffed at defeat. During times of blackness and sorrow, she waited patiently for sunshine to part the clouds. Her life’s mission was to make others happy, and she bore this heavy burden effortlessly. Taking the hardships of others onto her own slender shoulders, she carried them with the sufferer. She gave of herself, expending all of her energy in the pursuit of happiness—the truest sort of happiness which comes from making other people happy.
For this I adored her while I lived, and for this I adore her still. It is said the dead cannot feel, but I know that is a lie, for when I gazed at Mercy I felt a love so tremendous that my cold, motionless heart almost began to beat.
From the cliff-ringed pit three hundred paces away a growl interrupted my reverie. Low and sonorous, it rumbled across the jousting field, shaking the earth beneath our feet. Of every warhorse present, Stalker alone was unbothered by the challenge. He’d faced dragons on numerous occasions, and recognized the growl as belonging to an old opponent of ours, Triplehorn Wingback, an enormous male dragon with scales of green and a striped underbelly of red. Silver wings protruded from his back, and three silver horns adorned his head—hence the moniker. We’ve clashed with him twice, Stalker and I, and both times the match came to a draw.
Today, though, I promised myself, dead as I am, I shall make a fight with Triplehorn Wingback such as has never been seen, and I will win.
I had to win. For, you see, if I failed…my Mercy must die.
Dragons and the living dead aside, there was nothing in the world so terrifying as that.
Chapter Two
Of Curators and Wolves
I suppose I ought to return to the beginning of this tale. After all, you, my readers, are probably still confused by its opening.
How, you may ask, can a dead man tell a story? A dead man cannot speak or write. How, then, can he return from the grave to relate the circumstances of his past life, and why should he care to? Do the dead care for anything? After all, they are dead.
Those are good points, and all true. I am dead, but it is not true that I care for nothing. About some things I still care very much. I care for Mercy. I care for the fight I face with Triplehorn Wingback, and I care that all should know the truth of this account. Many lies have been spread concerning the matter, and before the end comes, I would give a full, verified reckoning.
So, if you care to continue reading, I shall tell you my story from the beginning. It is the story of a man, a knight, a warrior, and the woman he loves. It is the story of a renewal, a restoration, a rebirth.
These things being said, let us now begin…
