All Petronella wanted was to do her duty as a queen and provide an heir to the throne of famine struck Epera. She never expected the price of failure would be her life.
When help arrives, she grasps it, even if that means a perilous journey into the heart of forbidden Oceanis, where the old gods and magic still rule. With her husband's soldiers snapping at her heels to bring her to justice, and time running out for her dying kingdom, Petronella finds her life was never what it seemed and now she needs to find the truth.
Because a patient and implacable enemy is emerging from hiding, ready to claim the long-lost magic in Epera and twist it to his own evil purpose. If he is successful, the light of magic in Epera, and the rest of the world, will vanish forever.
As the pieces of her life fall into place, Petronella knows it will take more than duty to save her kingdom, but can she find the courage to claim her crown?
What will it take to become the true Queen of Swords?
All Petronella wanted was to do her duty as a queen and provide an heir to the throne of famine struck Epera. She never expected the price of failure would be her life.
When help arrives, she grasps it, even if that means a perilous journey into the heart of forbidden Oceanis, where the old gods and magic still rule. With her husband's soldiers snapping at her heels to bring her to justice, and time running out for her dying kingdom, Petronella finds her life was never what it seemed and now she needs to find the truth.
Because a patient and implacable enemy is emerging from hiding, ready to claim the long-lost magic in Epera and twist it to his own evil purpose. If he is successful, the light of magic in Epera, and the rest of the world, will vanish forever.
As the pieces of her life fall into place, Petronella knows it will take more than duty to save her kingdom, but can she find the courage to claim her crown?
What will it take to become the true Queen of Swords?
 Epera, Castle of Air, Year of the Mage 1571
The queen, his love, his heartâs desire, lay dead amid a tangled wreckage of bloody sheets. Her sunny chambers, recently reverberating with the moans of a woman in childbed, and the murmured encouragement of her anxious women, were quiet and shuttered now. A pungent memory of struggle and pain, the reek and tang of birthing, fogged the space. Beeswax candles flickered in the gloom of the shrouded room and added a cloying layer of warm honey over the copper taint of blood. The young woman herself stared blankly at the rich emerald hangings of her matrimonial bed. No-one had yet dared enter the chamber. She lay as she had died, her golden limbs twisted, an expression of pure surprise on her olive-skinned, oval face. Thick braids of honey blonde escaped their turquoise ribbons and rippled in waves across her pillows, but her gentle aqua eyes and serene expression had frozen forever. Blankets awry. the cradle prepared to shelter a sleeping, tender child, stood still and abandoned by the fire. Empty. The fire crackled. A coal shifted. Rubbing dark eyes red-rimmed with dust and fatigue, the young man standing in the discreet servantâs doorway to the queenâs bedchamber shivered as he blinked away his confusion. A ladder rack of red creases climbed his right cheek, bruised from hours of pressing against thick oak panels as he tried to make sense of what was happening beyond his sight. He ran a swollen tongue across lips parched with thirst. Food and water had not crossed his mind when word of the queenâs travail first whispered through the enormous stronghold. He had run. Abandoned the courtiers and gossips who spread word of her infidelity as he planned. Avoiding the servants, heâd fled like a black rat along little used passageways and corridors to wait. A silent, secret witness. Crouched in the shadows as the queen panted and moaned, a hoarse grunt of triumph and the shrill cry of a newborn had greeted his eager, straining ears just a few minutes ago. King Francis arrived and dismissed her household. There had been shouting, muffled through the dense wood. Cries of protestation. Denial. Hidden in the shadows, the young manâs lips curled with satisfaction. A blinding flash of light momentarily illuminated the dim passageway through the cracks between door and frame. Then another hoarse sob, and the door slammed as the king departed. Straightening from his cramped posture, the young man had smoothed his robes and squared his shoulders, ready to offer his love comfort upon the tragic murder of her child. He had planned for her to be alive. His queen, his goddess. She would turn from old King Francis in hatred. He would offer himself to her and worship her for the rest of their lives together and this time, she would not refuse him. And now this. She was dead. He had failed. Fingers damp with the sweat of pure panic clawed ebony hair from his face. Somehow, he forced himself to release his hold on the door handle. His feet sunk into the soft comfort of expensive carpet specially ordered for the queen from the rich lands of Argentia, in the East. Knees shaking, he took a tentative step into the room and crept across the silent space to turn the ornate key of the door that led to her outer chambers. If someone checked, they would think the king had locked it. For a few moments, he could be alone with her. He turned to her body on the bed. A wild and maddened voice in his head urged him not to disturb her. Not to wake her up. He swallowed as he covered the few feet to her resting place and stumbled to his knees at her side. Her betrothal ring lay slack on her finger, its light dulled. He reached for it, but his fingers trembled away in aversion. Not his. Not his. She had never been his. Rage finally penetrated the blank mask of shock. Francis. Francis had done it. He should have killed the child. Not her. How could he have killed her? His wide mouth opened on a scream made more terrible and soul destroying by its very silence. His handsome head rolled to the painted ceiling, and he howled like a wolf, but soundlessly. As he always had. When his falcon died. And his hound. And his mother. On and on, the silent screams flooded the chamber from panelled wall to elaborate painted ceiling, his fine features blurred and distorted, his chest ached with the weight of crushing grief. He gasped for air. For absolution. For time to go backwards. He rocked. Shuddered. Gaped. Afterwards, something hard, jagged and heavy settled in his hollowed-out chest. It felt like a stone. A rock. A boulder. The man who staggered to his feet was not the same hopeful soul who had entered the quiet space a half inch of candle ago. He left her chamber a man remade. Misery and grief tugged his face. Compressed to a tight line, his lips would never more curve to a smile, his wide shoulders hunched against a world that held no lustre for him. Had no proper place for him. Cursed and powerless in a world where magic ruled. Shaking with fury, he slammed his fist into his hand as he strode the stone corridors of the gargantuan castle to the soaring, austere Throne Room, the epicentre of power in the ancient stronghold where the courtiers jostled for position and status and exchanged razor tongued gossip as deadly as swords. The gods, in their wisdom, had denied him their magic. Old King Francis had demeaned him. Queen Gwyneth had refused him. His powerful family scorned him as a weakling and a failure. A blot on their ancient name. They would regret their actions. The royal line of the eagles with their gods and their magic would end. He would see to it. Â
Chapter One Epera, Year of the Mage 1603
Candlelight glinted on the remains of the evening meal. A warm glow lingered on the greasy legs of gnawed fowl and made shining puddles of spilled wine that pooled the boards like old blood. Members of the nobility, clad in velvet and fur against the weather, crowded the four long central tables in the Great Hall. The immense, intricately carved fireplace in the middle of one wall, piled high with flaming logs, caused those sitting closest to it to mop perspiration from their cheeks. Those of lesser rank or slower to attend shivered in the draft from the ill-fitting windows that flanked the outer wall. The king and his family ate at a long table on a narrow platform facing the rest. The same candlelight illuminated shining faces, calculating expressions and wine flushed cheeks. Courtiers toasted each other with clashing tankards and tossed gnawed bones aside, ignoring the hopeful dogs and skinny peasants who watched for scraps. Voices swollen with alcohol echoed around the Great Hall like the raucous chatter of crows. Old Girdred with his harp warbled almost unnoticed in his usual corner by the massive fireplace while a troupe of tired jugglers performed a series of lacklustre tricks to the less than attentive audience. Smoke, burnt meat, stale ale and rotting vegetables formed a pungent backdrop to the poisonous gossip that coiled through the air. Clad in sumptuous blue velvet and crowded between the men at the top table, Petronella, Queen of Epera, massaged a dull headache as she regarded her meal. Her stomach begged for food, but her throat had constricted along with the rising tension in her shoulders. Picking a morsel of stale bread from her silver plate, she placed it in her mouth and chewed, trying to ignore the speculative glances that rained on her from the feasting nobility. She shifted to her right as her husband, King Arion, leaned into her. His eating knife waved in the location of her ear as he argued his point with the oily and war hungry Count of Dupliss on his left. Dupliss perched in his chair like a stork, a stick like dapper figure dressed in black. He trimmed a piece of meat from the bone, cut it into precise pieces, and arranged it in its own gravy as he listened with courteous attention to the king. âWhat can Oceanis expect other than war if they persist in raising their prices? We cannot feed our people with what we now produce. The granaries are almost empty, and all Merlon does is sit on his plentiful arse while we fight for scraps in the rain.â Dupliss replied to his king, his lowered voice unheard in the din. Petronella turned her own blade in her hand, handle over tip. War. Still. Arion thought of little else these days. For a clever man, his mind ran on one extremely well-oiled track. Or two, if she included his obsession with her ability to bear a child. The thought of her failure in that regard made her stomach clench. Stifling nausea, she waved away a tray of gilded partridge offered by the skinny serf who bowed in front of her. Her husband glared at her. She shrank away, refusing to meet his gaze. âThatâs the last of the partridge. You should eat it.â Arion stabbed his knife through one skinny bird and transferred it to his plate where it languished, uneaten, as he turned back to his councillor. The servant slunk away with his burden to the lesser tables. Petronellaâs lip trembled as she marked his progress across the room, scanning vacuous faces as they ate and drank. The Lady Violet de Grym, dressed in red velvet and ermine against the constant cold, helped herself to yet another goblet of deep red Argentish. She swayed as she leaned over the board, fumbling for the flagon, already drunk enough to fill a fountain. Her copious bosom swelled in a dramatic attempt at escape from her fur trimmed bodice. As she had undoubtedly intended, her charms had attracted the besotted attention of the nearest six gentlemen, none of them her husband. One of them nudged the decanter nearer to her with a flourish and a leer. At another table close by, a sweating governess struggled to remove the kingâs ten-year-old bastard son from the company. He resisted her, fists flailing. Blood bloomed from the womanâs nose as he scored a direct hit. Petronella glared at him, but the boy continued his campaign, shouting obscenities, until Arion snared his attention and nodded at the door. The child tossed his blond head and left the room with his narrow shoulders squared and his governess scuttling in his wake, a kerchief held to her bloody nostrils. The noise level in the room intensified with their exit. Petronellaâs father, Lord Falcon, a long-standing senior member of the Kingâs council and his former tutor, leaned across her into the argument. His broad shoulders crushed her against the hard back of her wooden chair. She inhaled the familiar scent of musk and dust that lingered in his robes as she tried to avoid him, and squashed her anger as his furs tickled her nose. Her eyes bored his powerful back with disgust. His disrespect would change soon enough if she bore a child. Huffing a sigh, her mind drifted to her bedchamber where an old copy of Ye Arte of Conceivinge lay tucked under her pillow, awaiting her attention. Her tutor, Mistress Eglion, had sourced and smuggled the volume to her under a mound of Arionâs shirts awaiting embroidery. The sense of failure tugged at her once again, and her listless spirit drooped as the meal progressed and the din increased. If Jana sat here as queen, babes aplenty would crowd the nursery by now, all bearing her russet hair and their fatherâs black eyes. The kingdom would be thriving. Perhaps the book held something to help her. Something she had yet to try. Lost in her thoughts, she snapped back to bitter reality when a tremendous scream filled the air. Overwhelmed and drowned out, Old Girdred fumbled mid phrase and dropped his harp. A distracted acrobat landed on the feet of his partner and they both crashed to the stone flags. Props spilled with a clatter. In the sudden quiet, curious eyes turned to Lady Violet and the unfortunate servant with his now empty platter. The remainder of the fowl jutted from the well of her cleavage and oozed a sticky trail of grease down her bodice. A snicker of laughter, soon hushed, snaked through the company. The lady in question gasped in outrage as she plucked roast meat from her bosom and threw it at the man who grovelled on the stones at her feet. He snatched at the spoiled food. She kicked out at him, and he staggered upright, stammering ragged apologies. Fear paled his narrow face, white as the lace trimmed sheets on her bed. Dark eyes surrounded by shadows. Already a skeleton. âYour ladyship, I am so sorry, I tripped.â His voice trembled forwards, aimed at the floor. His hands shook so much the gathered food spilled once more to the flags. Knees knocking, bladder clenching, Petronella tried to rise from her seat. She shoved at her father, but he braced himself against her, one heavy arm pinned across her lap to ensure she kept her place. The carved wood dug bruises into her spine. Arion stood. His towering form cast shadows across the boards in the flickering light of the torches. âWe do not waste food in these hard times. Bring him here.â His command rang like iron wrapped in ice. Lord Falcon sat back in his chair, a tight smile on his thin lips. His snapping black eyes bored a warning into hers. She pressed a boneless hand to her chest, where her heart beat an erratic tattoo. Goose flesh pricked the hairs on the back of her neck and her constant headache intensified. The courtiers fell so silent the lash of rain against the stained-glass windows and the spitting of the great fire stole centre stage. Content to ignore the drama now sheâd created it, Lady Violet picked up a discarded rag and dabbed furiously at her ruined gown. Two of the kingâs men at arms shouldered their burly way to the servant and dragged him, like a sack of second-hand cloth, to the dais. The king looked down his nose at the man as he hung between them, his eyes narrowed on him like a hawk on prey. The young manâs eyes darkened with terror as he struggled, his puny strength no match against the men who held him. His terrified gaze roamed the ranks of the highborn arrayed in silent judgment before him and snagged with hers in mute, desperate appeal. Petronella knew, suddenly, exactly what would happen. Her head thumped. She swallowed, her throat dry as ash. âMy Lord,â she said. âShow mercy to your people.â Arion turned to her, raking her with his glare. His eyes sparked like dark jewels in the candlelight. âYou go beyond yourself, Petronella of the Falcons.â His hand lifted. A flick of a wrist, a flash of shining silver across the gap between them, and the young man stared with horror at the blade embedded with pinpoint accuracy in the concave spoon of his fragile chest. A drawn breath from the avid courtiers and the guards let go. The unfortunate attendant crumpled to the floor. Arion gave them a curt nod. âTake him away.â He glared at the blade buried in the dead manâs chest. The slim handle protruded. A thorn, badged in blood that bloomed on the serfâs tunic like a poisoned rose. âAnd someone bring me another knife.â Heads down, his subjects obeyed. The king remained standing, cold as a statue, as his men dragged the former servant out, still twitching. The courtiers drew away from the grisly procession and returned to the meal, picking up goblets and refilling their cups. Conversation swelled once more and Girdred reclaimed his harp. Face frozen at the kingâs right side, Petronellaâs hand shook as she raised the dark, dry wine she favoured to her lips. The goblet knocked against her teeth. Heart drumming, her eyes scanned the crowd. Another eager suitor aimed an intrepid cloth at Lady Violetâs stained bodice. She batted him away. The acrobats picked up their juggling tools and resumed their routine. The table lurched as her husband regained his seat, reclaiming her attention. The familiar scent of decay surrounding him twisted her stomach. Eyes narrowed with spite, he turned to her. Rancid with stale wine and herbs, his breath enveloped her as he hissed in her ear. Stifling nausea, she turned her face away. âYou dishonour me,â he said. âQueen of this kingdom for ten years and yet to bear me a child. I will give you one last chance. Do not believe you are any safer than he.â Petronellaâs hand sprang to her mouth. Tears blurred her eyes as she forced herself to look at her husband. âForgive me, your majesty,â she said, âI suddenly feel ill.â She scraped her chair from the table. The king dismissed her with a bored wave of his hand, barely glancing at her as she withdrew, accompanied by the ladies of her household.
Petronella, Queen of Epera, must conceive an heir to ensure her famine struck Kingdom's survival. But her husband, King Arion, is a cruel, violent man who seems intent on war with their neighbouring countries. When she still hasn't become pregnant after ten years of trying, she knows her life is forfeit. Her soul, you see, is tied to the land she rules, and if she can't conceive, then the only way for her husband to ensure a legitimate heir is born, is to kill her, so that he may marry anew and coronate a new queen. As Petronella tries to navigate the backstabbing court, her own maidens included, she knows she has only two options. To sacrifice herself for the Kingdom's future, or escape and find a cure for her infertility. Will she have the strength of mind to do what she must and accept the forbidden magic that she possesses?
Queen of Swords is set amongst a backdrop of courtly intrigue, festering betrayal and morally grey villains. Its heroes and heroines are swarthy, beautiful and slightly stereotyped; damsels in distress, in need of rescue and dashing knights in shining armour types. While the tropes are often over-used, Cazaly does manage to wield them well and with skill - turning some of them on their heads. King Arion is a despicable character initially; but with artful story-telling, she has managed to make him at least understandable, if not likeable in places. His motives aren't black and white; it's not necessarily greed which drives him as such - more of a desperation to succeed.
What makes Queen of Swords unique, is that it's based loosely around the lore and art of tarot cards. Cazaly states that she wishes for the book to 'add flesh to the bones of the tarot court.' And it does, to an extent. But you have to have some knowledge of tarot to catch the subtle nudges towards it.
Although artfully and even beautifully written, Queen of Swords is some almost too descriptive. Cazaly writes long, flowing sentences filled with intense imagery, which slows the story down to an almost sluggish pace. It's a long book, with passages that meander like a lazy river, taking an age to get to the point. Indeed, if the book was an eighth shorter, with a little less description, it would have warranted a five star review. Unfortunately, the sheer amount of wordy descriptions for every single thing made it a challenge to read. If you're looking for a fully immersive read while you have nothing else to do, then Queen of Swords is definitely for you. Don't be put off by this three-star-review, it's purely because I prefer a faster paced tale.
S. A.