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Kingsblade. Rise of the Raven Queen.
Her kingdom is in ashes.
She's supposed to save it, but there's one problem.
She doesn't remember she's the queen.
She doesn't remember anything at all.
With war looming on...
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Y E A R 1 4, T H E F I R S T A G E
Back when kings hated socks
King Éoran Karanor's shoulders slumped as he peaked around the corner of the Great Hall. There were so many to go. Still, it was better than the bureaucracy and endless hearings that awaited him back in Cahlinmir. The last interesting case he'd dealt several months before was a spat between two sisters who both claimed to be the mothers of a baby that, if Éoran were to be honest, did not favor either of them.
Yes, it was better to be here in the Great Hall, working with the lively crew who formed the still-new Order of Águila, staring into souls and hearing Elindir's voice boom in his head every half hour or so, than to be pushing his signet ring into hot wax seals for royal correspondences in the palace.
Funny name, he thought, "The Great Hall."
When Gilda had told him about it the first time, he had imagined something a little more majestic. As he had told Haniil more times than he could count, it was not that great. Or even hall-like. Better to call it "The Large Cave," but no one seemed to take his suggestion seriously.
He wiggled his toes inside a thick pair of colorful cotton socks that the cadets from the Burrows had made. He felt like a traitor to his own feet. The children had looked so happy when they had given him the damn things with their dirty faces looking up at him with so much fondness. It would have been a sin to refuse them. Although, Éoran was still unsure if the greater sin was surrendering, after so much time, to the cobblestones.
Perhaps he could hide them away and only use them in the Hold. But he already liked socks so much better.
I can actually feel my toes most of the time, he thought with a mischievous grin. Seems almost indecent.
Plus, the children had been so great at harmonizing to the old Altani ballads he was teaching them. How could he disappoint his best pupils? The cadets in the Burrows were the best singers, he'd decided, in all the Order.
The skills of the cadets of--what was the house's name again? There were so many to remember.... Ah, Nightingale. House Nightingale, he recalled. Yes, the voices of the cadets in the Burrows are altogether much more pleasant than those of the cadets of House Nightingale.
Éoran had spent every night with them so far. They'd sit and watch the shooting stars or build a fire and sing along while he strummed his lyre until his fingers ached and his palm cramped. Éoran had already vowed to practice more so the callouses he'd worn on his fingers during his time as a minstrel would come back. People had to do what he said, right? He was the king, after all. If he wanted scheduled time to play his lyre, then they would simply have to deal with it.
