Contents
Cover
Title
Other Works
Full Title
Copyright Page
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
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Coven Queen
Also by Jeramy Goble
Science-fiction/space opera:
The Akallian Tales Trilogy:
Souls of Astraeus (fall 2013)
Games of Astraeus (summer 2015)
Fates of Astraeus (spring 2016)
Coven Queen
Jeramy Goble
Coven Queen is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Jeramy Goble
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author or publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Noachian Books
North Carolina
Noachian-books.com
Noachian Books and the portrayal of a flooded Martian silhouette, with stone tablet insets,
are trademarks of Noachian Books
Edited by Laura M. Hughes
Printed in the United States of America
jeramygoble.com
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Book & jacket design by Jeramy Goble
Cover art by Ivan Vujovic - vujovic.artstation.com
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Goble, Jeramy.
Title: Coven queen / Jeramy Goble.
Description: Maggie Valley, NC : Noachian Books, 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017914145 | ISBN 978-0-9990435-0-9 (hardcover) | ISBN 978-0-9990435-1-6 (pbk.) | ISBN 978-0-9990435-2-3 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Women heroes--Fiction. | Witches--Fiction. | Warlocks--Fiction. | Witchcraft--Fiction. | Magic--Fiction. | Fantasy fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Fantasy / Dark Fantasy. | FICTION / Occult & Supernatural. | GSAFD: Fantasy fiction. | Occult fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3607.O26 C68 2016 (print) | LCC PS3607.O26 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23.
First Edition
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For those who see the light in the dark.
Prologue
NO MEMORY pesters me more than the night I first slogged up the slopes of the Vacant Grave with my mother.
I can still feel her hand shielding my own against the crisp bite of winter as she dragged me up the mountain. Her skin’s warmth puzzled and fascinated me, but her brisk pace demanded most of my attention be focused on my feet. Her long strides forced me to shuffle and skip awkwardly up the rough mountain path, poorly kept and littered with loose stones that had crumbled down from the exposed dirt of the rugged trail. Tree roots stretched and arched across the width of the path, occasionally requiring me to hop over them and pray to the light that I landed on my feet.
But smooth steps or firm landings were never guaranteed. The lone guard at the trail's summit was neither tasked nor concerned with its upkeep, and so the torches along the path—those that still carried a flame—were few and far between. Though the abyssal darkness made the climb treacherous, the slight moonlight helped guide our steps.
The snow was less forgiving.
The snow frustrated me terribly, though I do not fault it now. The snow was a gift. In hindsight, it might even have been trying to deter us from reaching our destination. I struggled against it with every absentminded jerk of my mother’s hand. The footsteps of other recent climbers conspired with the whipping gales to compact the slick and icy trail. Dislodged clumps of muddy snow sounded like crinkling leather as we struggled to maintain our footing.
The distance to the top of the mountain is no longer a mystery to me as it was those many years ago, but I still vividly remember thinking that the frozen path would surely never end, and that the peak would never come. The fact that we were traveling alone made no sense to me, either. I wanted to repeat the questions I had offered my mother when we first set out. Where were we going? Why were we going? But the soft sniffs and whimpers from behind the hood of her cloak frightened me into silence. I held my tongue for the longest time. Perhaps I should not have, but I did.
Eventually, lit torches began to outnumber those that had burned out. As we drew closer to the peak, I found myself distracted by pulsing shadows cast by fires flickering just off the trail. I made out shapes of people, bundled in blankets and huddled together around their meager flames. Almost as quickly as I noticed the curious strangers in the darkness, I was ambushed by a putrid odor of stale urine and fresh feces akin to that which lingered around the livestock pens at the market. It was so overpowering that I vomited within seconds of being struck by it.
As soon as Mother felt me hesitate, she jerked my hand once more. There would be no rest.
The increase in lit torches and campfires at least made the ground easier to negotiate. The stench of human waste remained, though, intertwined with charred game and infrequent hints of wine—like the breath of the foreigners who came to visit and feast with my mother. The silence of the frigid darkness had been our only comfort; now it too was spoiled, by conversations and laughter from those camped near the top of the trail.
We crested the summit and my heart thumped with excitement as I assumed we were nearing our destination. But my anticipation returned to dread when I remembered that I didn’t know where we were going. I looked to my mother to see if she would finally fill me in. She didn’t.
The trail forked, split in two by a mammoth cedar. To the right, the most worn path ended in a tall, crudely-chiseled opening leading into the mountain. The path to the left narrowed before disappearing around and behind the entry’s outcropping. Next to the mountain’s threshold was a rusted brazier hosting a dwindling pile of coals and their pitiful flame. Above it, a modest cauldron hung from an iron spit. An Acorilinian guard crouched over to stir its contents.
Without warning, just before the fork, Mother yanked on my hood like one
