His Lost Princess: A Fairy Tale (Tales of Euphoria Book 2)

  His Lost Princess

  A Fairy Tale

  Ella Ardent

  Circe Books

  His Lost Princess

  By Ella Ardent

  Cover by Kim Killion

  Copyright 2016 Ella Ardent

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright preserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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  Contents

  His Lost Princess

  Tales from Euphoria

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  The Plume & The Phoenix

  Also by Ella Ardent

  His Lost Princess

  Tales of Euphoria #2

  In the lost realm of Euphoria, royalty command all to serve their pleasure, but passion is the greatest power of all.

  Can Charming win his Bride?

  Royce discovers his legacy and falls in love with a mysterious maiden at his coming-of-age ball. When morning comes, the lady has vanished, and he learns that his newfound status as crown prince will be secured with an arranged marriage. But Royce wants only his mysterious maiden as his bride. Can he find her before all that was found is lost again?

  Tales from Euphoria

  1. Her Dark Prince

  2. His Lost Princess

  Chapter 1

  Royce

  It was two weeks before the Yule that my mother sent me to the mill.

  She said she needed flour. I doubted that to be true: there was still half a sack of it in the cupboard. Since she had started to buy bread from the baker instead of making her own, I knew that was enough to last us at least until midwinter. But the weather had been poor and we had spent a lot of time in the hut together. I imagined that she was as ready for a break from my company as I was for one from hers.

  My mother was concerned with some matter, for she was introspective and disinclined to talk. I found it hard to believe that she was worried about Argenta, who would be crowned queen of a neighboring kingdom soon if she hadn’t been so already, but maybe my mother missed my sister.

  I did, a little.

  In contrast to my mother, my mood was merry. I was filled with anticipation. My birthday is at the Yule, which usually means that one celebration gets lost in the other. But this year, I would be twenty years of age, which made me a man in the eyes of the law. I hoped desperately that there would be a celebration to remember. If not, I might well make my own. Even if there were no festivities to be savored, I was convinced that in a few short weeks, my life would change.

  Irrevocably.

  I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t be silent and I couldn’t sit still. My mother might well have been intent to be rid of me, so she could brood in peace.

  So, I seized the coin she offered, glad of the excuse. I borrowed the village plow horse and wagon and set off for the mill with a whistle upon my lips.

  I hoped that Malcolm the potter was busy in his shop and that his lusty sister might welcome me. In our small village, in the middle of a kingdom that wasn’t much more populous, it was only sensible to choose partners with care. All maidenheads belonged to the king, and the maidens were deflowered at his choice—only a fool touched the property of the king in Euphoria. But the potter’s sister was a widow, and though Malcolm didn’t approve of Helena’s choices, she and I had spent many a joyous afternoon together.

  It was a glorious winter day, the sky crisp and blue, the snow crunching under my boots. I thought of the fire that always blazed in Helena’s chambers and was resolved to finish my errand with all speed. The horse was frisky and we set off at a good pace.

  I stopped when I saw Black Ellie. We’d known each other all our lives. I even remembered her beautiful mother, just a little. Ellie had always been quiet and disinclined to confide in others. When we were children, she’d mystified and fascinated me, with her pretty face and her aura of secrets. Once, we had shared what must have been the first kiss for both of us, and it had been both awkward and wondrous.

  But then her mother had died, and her father had remarried, and Ellie had become a drudge. Her secrets had become hers to keep. I couldn’t understand why any of them tolerated the situation, Ellie least of all, but it wasn’t my place to meddle. I felt sorry for her when I noticed her, but like many others in the village, I seldom did notice her.

  I did on this day. She was as filthy as usual, and bent under the weight of an enormous basket brimming with clothes. She had rags wrapped around her feet, but I could see that her toes were red from the cold.

  “You forgot your boots, Ellie,” I said cheerfully, for I knew that she had little cause for joy.

  “I won’t sit by the fire and wait for them to magically appear,” she said. There was amusement in her tone, not the bitterness that might have been expected from anyone else. That she showed such forbearance for her situation twisted my heart a little. “I tried that already and it isn’t a successful scheme.”

  “You don’t have any boots?”

  She shook her head.

  “Shoes?”

  Again, she shook her head.

  “And your father knows?”

  “Of course. He hasn’t been struck blind.”

  I was outraged that Felix permitted her to walk in the snow without boots, when her sisters were lavishly adorned in all situations. What could Black Ellie have done to have deserved such a life as this?

  I knew she wouldn’t tell me.

  If she even knew.

  “I’ve always said that the fairy godmothers in Euphoria are more lazy than should be tolerated,” I said. “They should be cast out of the realm or made to do penance.”

  “Or given some more chores to make them appreciate all the advantages of their lives.”

  That sounded as if she was repeating the words of another.

  I eyed her, but she kept her head bowed. It occurred to me that I hadn’t seen her face clearly since her father’s remarriage. That had been ten years before. He’d been quick to take a wife after the death of Ellie’s mother, and there were those who wondered at the time when he’d come to regret his hasty decision. It didn’t appear that he ever had.

  Maybe he had been struck blind.

  We continued together and I realized we took the same path.

  If my guess was right, there was one thing I could do for Ellie.

  “Off to do laundry in the river?” I asked.

  “There’s always more to be done, and sunshine like this shouldn’t be wasted.”
<
br />   The river ran shallow downstream of the mill, and the women of the village used the flat rocks there for their washing. “You’ll have competition for the best spots today.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

  There was a weariness in her voice, combined with resolve, that fed my compassion. I jumped down from the wagon and scooped the basket from her back easily. She staggered a little in the absence of its weight. She was tiny, I realized then, only as tall as my shoulder and delicate.

  “Let’s make part of your day easier, at least,” I said and put the basket on the empty wagon. The horse never missed a step, for the additional weight was nothing to the creature.

  “Don’t let them see!” Ellie hissed, scandalized by my actions. She looked up and down the road, but we were outside the village and quite alone.

  I couldn’t resist then. I locked my hands around her waist and lifted her to the wagon, depositing her there then clicking my tongue to the horse. I might have marveled again at how small and fragile she felt, but the stench of her was such that I almost flung her away from me. She smelled as dirty as she looked. Did she sleep with the pig?

  “Royce!” She protested my assistance, not my quick deposit of her.

  I walked alongside the wagon, keeping my distance from Ellie. The smell was enough to bring tears to my eyes. “It’s probably the only rest you’ll have today. Enjoy it, Ellie.”

  To my surprise, she gripped the side of the wagon. “You have to let me off before we reach the mill. I don’t want anyone to see.”

  “Why not?” I grinned at her. “Afraid they’ll tease you?” I could bear any teasing that I had affection for Black Ellie, but the suggestion clearly worried her.

  “I know they’ll torment me. Please don’t make it worse, Royce.”

  My amusement was dismissed by the discouragement in her voice. I studied her but she kept her face averted, her posture telling me more than I wanted to know. “Why?” I asked, knowing she would understand.

  She sighed and pleated the threadbare cloth of her skirt between nervous fingers. “Bella likes her own daughters better. That’s only natural, isn’t it?”

  “Someone has to like them better, I suppose,” I said, hoping to coax her good humor again. “I guess the task falls to a mother when no one else will do it.”

  “Royce!” Her tone was chiding. “Someone will hear you.”

  “And blame you for my words?”

  Her silence said it all.

  And that made me angry. “They’re miserable wretches and you know it, Ellie. Blondina is bad, but Maligna is worse. I’d wish for them to be married off with haste, but I doubt any man foolish enough to take even one of them could be found.”

  “They’re not so bad.” There wasn’t any conviction in her voice.

  “Cling to your illusions. I think they’re foul.”

  I heard welcome laughter in her voice. “Then I shouldn’t mention that you were talking about them today?”

  I laughed aloud. “Spare me that ordeal, please. I’ll be teased about keeping company with you, but not with them.”

  “Then let me off before the mill, please, and don’t tell anyone you gave me a ride.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Ellie,” I teased and she kicked her feet, a playful gesture that made me glad to have helped her even a little. “Now, tell me something you like about the Yule.” Everyone liked the Yule and I was determined to lift her spirits a little while we were together.

  There was a smile in her voice when she replied. “I like that people give gifts to each other and are merry. The world seems very good at the Yule, as if only goodness can happen on that day.”

  “I suppose I should be flattered then, since my birthday is on the Yule.”

  She laughed then, and I felt triumphant. “And there is proof that my impression is right,” she said and I was startled. Did Black Ellie have romantic notions about me? I recalled that kiss once more and how it had heated me right to my toes.

  I might have pursued her, and courted her hand, if she hadn’t changed so completely.

  “You’re the only one to have done something nice for me in longer than I can remember, after all.” She jumped off the wagon and reclaimed her basket of laundry, just before we went around the bend in the road before the mill. “Thank you for your gallantry, Royce. I do appreciate it.”

  She was gone before I could reply, striding down the path to the river with new purpose, as if she’d had a night’s sleep instead of a few minute’s rest. I quickly lost sight of her in the briars that lined the river, for they were thick with snow and ice.

  I stared after her for a long moment, my curiosity stirred. On another day, I might have followed Ellie, but I heard the sound of horses galloping closer. It sounded like a large party and only a royal party would both include so many horses and ride with such abandon. I stepped to the side of the road, urging the horse and cart off the road, for I knew the price of obstructing the course of an important individual.

  The procession came into view, rounding that bend just as I was clear of the road. The horses were white and majestic beasts, prancing even as they raced onward. Their manes and tails flowed behind them, and I saw that there was a carriage of blood red ornamented with gold, pulled by half a dozen of the horses. Behind were smaller carriages and a trio of carts. The horses pulling these were also white but slightly less fine. The red and gold livery was that of Imperium, Euphoria’s neighbor to the east and south.

  The party was led by a knight who sat tall in the saddle of what was the most majestic of the horses. His armor gleamed gold in the sunlight and his helmet was tucked beneath his arm. His skin was darker than mine, darker even than that of the villagers who worked in the fields, and a pearl as large as my thumb hung from his left ear. He spared me the barest glance before leading the party past me. I glimpsed a woman in the carriage, a beauty with skin of a golden hue, then the rest of the procession passed in a blur. The smaller carriages carried courtiers and attendants for the lady, and the wagons were loaded with baggage. The last wagon appeared to be filled with casks.

  I watched in awe as they passed, knowing I’d had a glimpse of the aristocracy. The hoofbeats didn’t slow near the village and I guessed that they rode directly for the palace. I wondered idly whether the king anticipated the arrival of guests, then urged the horse back onto the road.

  I had flour to fetch for my mother.

  Perhaps Helena would have some tidings to share.

  I didn’t linger at the mill. I never do. My father died in this very mill when I was three years of age, not long after Argenta was born. Ever since, I’ve felt as if the place is haunted by him, and the hair prickles on the back of my neck whenever I cross the threshold. I hear the whisper of old and half-forgotten conversations, of arguments and accusations, of memories I can’t quite remember and never manage to forget. I shudder once, to my very marrow, right on the threshold, and I can’t wait to leave.

  It was exactly the same on this day.

  The miller smiled and waved, quick to send his son for the flour I requested. I refused to look toward the grinding millstones, the sound and vibration of them more than sufficient to make my gut clench. I declined to linger in conversation, seizing the excuse of another villager’s arrival to be on my way.

  Even if the villager brought news of the party from Imperium and speculation on the reason for their arrival, I preferred to speculate with Helena.

  Away from the mill.

  I took a deep breath of the cold air when I was back on the road, and found myself home again with greater speed than anticipated. I intended to take the flour to my mother and then visit Helena, but my plans were to be changed.

  My mother, if anything, was in a more foul mood than when I departed. She was chopping vegetables for a stew, her gestures so fierce that I feared she might lose a finger.

  “There!” she said, pointing to the table with her knife. The blade shook
in her fury and her eyes blazed so brightly that I didn’t immediately follow her gesture.

  What had angered her so? “Are you well?”

  “I was well, until he came.” She waved the knife, then turned back to her vegetables.

  Clearly, she would tell me no more.

  I looked. There was a box on the table, a box so at odds with everything in the hut that was our home that it might have come from another realm. It was gold and shone in the shadows, looking precious and exotic. It was a jeweled box, maybe the size of my hand in each dimension, crowned by a red, faceted gem on the lid.

  It had to be from the palace.

  Until he came.

  She meant the king.

  She was the only person in the village who dared to speak of him in a disparaging tone. More than once I had wondered why there were no repercussions for such impertinence.

  Instead, there was a gift.

  “Why did the king come here?” I asked. “Did he ride to hunt?”

  “In a way.”

  There were days when my mother seemed to speak in riddles. I had long ago learned that she would tell me what she thought I should know when she chose to do so. I put the sack of flour in the cupboard and made to leave.

  “Don’t you mean to open it?” she asked, her words making me halt.

  My gaze strayed to the box.

  “It is for you.”

  For me?

  My mother scraped the vegetables into the cauldron and set it on the hook over the fire so abruptly that it splashed. The stock sizzled on the flames, and she cursed, then wiped her hands on her apron and confronted me. “Open it, then.”