The Awakened Prince Read online

  The Awakened Prince

  Royals of Cardenas Book 2

  Elise Marion

  The Awakened Prince

  Elise Marion

  Copyright 2019 by Elise Marion

  Edited by Elizabeth Williams, ALAREON MEDIA LLC.

  Cover Art by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

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  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, laces, or people, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

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  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Historical Notes

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  Prologue

  Cardenas, 1866

  THE SOUND OF polished boots against gleaming marble floors echoed down the seemingly endless corridor. Its cadence held a sense of urgency, impatience even, and all who heard were wise enough to stand aside, though they did not forget to bow or curtsy to the man moving swiftly past them. His strides were long and purposeful, his face devoid of all outward emotion. Those who knew him best would be able to tell that nervous fingers had mussed his light blond curls. Otherwise, he kept the well of emotions threatening to erupt at any moment to himself.

  Mouth pressed into a grim line, he increased his speed once rounding a corner, almost to his destination. The footman who’d come running into his study had brought exciting news. The information was so phenomenal that if anyone else were privy to what went on behind the closed door of his brother’s bedchamber, they would wonder why he did not leap for joy.

  It was what he had been hoping for, praying for, waiting for. Perhaps this was why he refused to get his hopes up. This seemed too good to be true, and he wouldn’t believe it until he saw it for himself.

  He neared the tall oak door leading to his brother’s chamber and paused, uncertain what to expect. The servant’s message had been panted out between short breaths, since the man had run across the entire length of the palace to find him. He was certain he’d heard correctly, but perhaps he hadn’t. Maybe he’d gotten it wrong.

  During his short reign, King Damien Rothchester had learned a great many things. One of those lessons was that he could not govern everything. This was a daunting thought for one who could command an entire army or fleet of ships with a single word. He had authority over much, but had never been able to control the things that really mattered.

  He’d awaited for this day for so long, and now that it was here he felt uncertain how to proceed. Would his brother retain his memory? Would he be angry at Damien for having to take the throne in his stead? Would he be anything like his former self, or merely a shadow of the man he’d once been?

  There was only one way to find out.

  He lifted his hand to the knob and turned, pushing the door in slowly. Then, he poked his head through the opening and peered into the room.

  On the bed lay Serge, propped upright by pillows with his eyes open for the first time since he’d slipped into a coma one year ago. He had lost a considerable amount of weight, and his hair had grown well past his shoulders. An overgrown beard shadowed the lower half of his face.

  But, even from his distance, he witnessed the clarity in his brother’s eyes, a glimmer that showed the same good humor and intelligence as before.

  Damien’s heart swelled and tears sprang to his eyes. Every emotion he had ever known welled up within his chest, threatening to spill forth in a chorus of prayers and cries of thanks to God.

  The sound of a woman’s soft sobs alerted him to the presence of another in the room. Damien had been so immersed in studying the face of his long-lost brother and thanking the Heavens, he hadn’t noticed that his sister-in-law sat on the bed with Serge, arms wrapped around his neck. She sobbed audibly, shoulders shaking as she held on to Serge as if she did not want to let go.

  Damien knew the feeling. The two of them were the only people left in the entire palace who had held on to hope. They’d refused to believe he would not awaken someday, and now he finally had.

  “Serge,” he murmured, stepping into the room and closing the door.

  Both occupants of the room glanced up at the sound of his voice and smiled. Isabelle stood, hands clasped together as if in prayer. Serge seemed to try to move, but scowled as he found himself unable to, his head lolling as if his neck failed him, arms and legs twitching as if he tried to move but could not.

  “He came to a few minutes ago,” Isabelle said, sniffling and swiping at her pale blue eyes with the back of her hand. “One moment he was just lying there, and the next he was sitting up in bed, looking at me.”

  She grabbed Damien’s arm and propelled him toward the canopied bed, since his legs seemed to have stopped functioning on their own. He followed, feeling as if he floated instead of walking, his mind detached from his body.

  “He doesn’t know how long it’s been,” she whispered “He’s weak and cannot move much, but speaks without trouble.”

  Damien’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach, and he repressed the urge to sigh aloud.

  Serge had not yet glimpsed himself in a mirror, but when he did, he was sure to understand just how long he had lain unconscious in his bed. He loathed having to be the one to tell him what had happened—as he had hated the burden of being known as the only surviving Rothchester heir after the massacre that had torn his family asunder. They’d gotten the secondborn back, it seemed, but at such a heavy cost.

  “I’m glad to see you Damien,” Serge said, his gaze falling on Damien. “But Isabelle told the footman to go and fetch Lionus. Where is he?”

  He turned a questioning glance to Isabelle, who gave him a helpless shrug. “I told him to go and find His Highness immediately.”

  Serge did not yet know that Damien was now His Highness.

  He cleared his throat.

  “There is something you should know,” he said, taking another step toward the bed. “Much has occurred that you should be made aware of.”

  Serge’s smile faded as he looked first at Damien, then at Isabelle, who suddenly seemed unable to look him in the eye. Now, he sensed the tension thrumming through the open air between them, picking up on their unease.

  “What’s going on? Where’s Lionus? I … I remember the attack and being hurt. But after that it’s all a dark blur.”

  Damien pinched the bridge of his nose, uncertain where to begin, or whether Serge could handle the truth of what had happened in his weakened state.

  “You have been … ill,” he hedged.

  “Ill?” Serge asked, furrowing his brow in concentration as he seemed to try to remember. “How long has it been? A few weeks?”

  There was no use h
olding back, he supposed. He had much to say, a lot of which Serge would not be happy to hear. But, it was better that he hear it all at once. Much like pulling a tooth, it would be excruciating and Damien would have to do it swiftly. The sooner it was over, the sooner his brother could begin to heal. He took a deep breath and plunged ahead.

  Chapter 1

  6 weeks later …

  The sprawling grounds surrounding Rothchester Hall stretched out before him, undulating with rolling hills. The pleasant coolness of a fall afternoon touched his hands and face, a soft breeze running its fingers through the overlong strands of his hair.

  As Prince Serge Rothchester took it all in, everything appeared as it always had. This place was home, though it might make an imposing spectacle to others. The familiar copse of trees in the distance, the iron gates in the distance, the gurgle of a nearby stream. All of it seemed untouched, unchanged over the time he’d been asleep.

  And yet, everything had changed. He had closed his eyes shortly after his father’s death and opened them a year later to find that nothing would ever be the same again.

  His eldest brother was dead. It was a fact that Serge had rebelled against in his mind, convinced he was right despite startling evidence to the contrary. His youngest brother, his twin, had filled him in on everything that had occurred while he lay in a coma, his body healing itself from grievous wounds sustained in a battle his family had lost.

  It made no sense—to be told he’d slept through an entire year. Yet the evidence of it couldn’t be ignored. He’d been unable to move his limbs on his own those first days, and when he finally managed it every muscle in his body had screamed in protest. He’d convinced his valet to bring him a hand mirror so he could see himself, then had promptly shut his eyes against the sight. He’d grown emaciated, being been fed sustenance in liquid form according to those who’d nursed him.

  Even though he was anxious to be out of his bed at last, he’d been forced to spend weeks there until finding the strength to rise to his own two feet. While those around him had coddled him for fear he’d be hurt again, Serge wanted nothing more than to try to get back to normal. Or, as close to normal as one could be under such circumstances.

  When he’d finally found the strength to walk on his own, he’d taken to pushing his boundaries farther each day. He’d walked the corridors of the palace, then ventured into the gardens and the front courtyard. His exertions required far more effort than they once had, but he pressed through his fatigue, striving to regain his strength.

  When setting out for today’s walk, Serge had left the palace with one destination in mind.

  He now stood in the family cemetery, where generations of royalty had been buried. Green hills dotted with lush trees surrounded the gated burial ground, and patches of red, brown, and gold leaves lay here and there.

  Even knowing his family would not lie to him about something so significant, he’d needed to see for himself. He had to lay eyes Lionus’ final resting place before he could accept that his brother had died.

  It did not take long to find what he’d come for, the old, crumbling monuments eventually giving way to the section of the cemetery where those most recently lost were buried. Among them he found Lionus, his grave marker a stone’s throw from that of their father. Bile rose up in his throat at the sight of the headstone, the letters carving out Lionus’ full name and years of his birth and death too clear to be mistaken.

  He knelt before the smooth stone and reached out with his hand to touch it. It remained cold—even more so than the air around him, and proved as hard and unrelenting as this truth he found so difficult to accept.

  Yet, he’d seen it happen, hadn’t he?

  After his father had been poisoned by his treacherous nephew, whom no one had known was really his illegitimate son, Serge had thought no pain could compare to the emptiness he had felt then. Adare Rothchester had been a good man, as well as a great king, with more love for his sons than any child could have wished for.

  He could remember the night they’d been attacked on the road leaving the city. With the identity of Adare’s assassin still unknown, the decision had been made for the royal family to go into hiding. While he, Lionus, the Queen Mother, and Lionus’ bride, Isabelle, had traveled to a far-flung country estate, Nicolai and his hired band of mercenaries had awaited them, their purpose sure, their intent deadly.

  Serge and Lionus had fought together, each terrified for the women they protected, neither willing to stand aside and allow them to be killed. He recalled with an ache in his chest the moment Lionus had been felled by their half-brother’s sword. He remembered being held down by two men, stunned by a blow to the back of his head, forced to watch as Lionus was run through.

  He could still feel the white hot fury that had struck him like lightning, and his shock and dismay upon discovering the identity of the man who had killed his father and wounded his brother. He had fought with every ounce of his strength, until he was bound hand and foot, and lashed to the back of a carriage.

  After that, there had been only darkness. He could faintly remember flashes of pain so unbearable that his mind had retreated back into unconsciousness. In fact, he could recall reaching for wakefulness several times, only to be snatched back into obscurity when the agony of his injuries overtook him.

  He sighed and closed his eyes, willing himself to remember something … anything. As always, he could recall nothing other than snatches of conversation that seemed more like dreams than reality. There had been a great deal of pain, a heavy blanket of agony holding him in the darkness. Beyond a few bright spots, the entirety of his past year remained cloaked in shadow.

  He grunted in frustration and pounded his fist against the grass. It was difficult to face this truth and realize that every emotion he now felt, the people around him had already experienced and began to move on from. Anger, sadness, confusion, pain. It was all as acute now as it had been the night of the attack.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered to Lionus’ headstone. “I am sorry I couldn’t save you … that it couldn’t have been me who died instead of you.”

  Unable to abide it any longer—being here, fighting not to collapse into a weeping mess on the ground—he stood and turned back to the palace, looming high and proud against the clear, bright sky.

  He shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers and took his time, not wanting to overexert himself. He could pass out again, left lying on the grass for hours until he roused or someone happened upon him. It had happened before, not long after he’d first began taking these walks. Being carried back to the palace by concerned servants and fussed over had been most embarrassing.

  They treated him differently, the servants, everyone else. It had frustrated him to no end, until he’d come to realize that he was different.

  He still carried the scars that night had left upon him. His left leg—which had been broken in several places—pained him still, causing a noticeable limp. Upon leaving his bed, he had refused to accept the cane the doctors tried to force upon him, and felt that as a result his leg had actually grown stronger.

  His body carried a mass of scars left over from being dragged down the road—puckered lines that marred his arms, back, and torso like some sort of map. He could hardly stand the sight of himself unclothed, though it had as much to do with the amount of bulk he’d lost, his body now wasted away from its previous integrity. He’d had a Corinthian frame honed by years of riding, swordplay, and other activities, his shoulders broad, his chest wide and his legs powerful. All of it, gone in what felt like the blink of an eye to him.

  Only one scar showed when he was fully dressed. It haunted him when he glanced into a mirror, or even now, when he held his fingers up to his face to trace the jagged line tarnishing his otherwise unspoiled countenance. It ran almost the entire length of his face on the right side, slashing from just above his eye, diagonally to his jaw.

  Every time he looked into a mirror, he felt as if he stare
d at a stranger. It wasn’t just because of the scar, which had not ruined his appearance as much as it could have; nor was it because of his hair, which hung loose and untamed down to his shoulders when he had once kept it cropped short and neat.

  Something else was there, in the depths of his eyes. Pain. A deeply rooted agony he could not seem to cover up no matter how hard he tried. Even when he smiled, he knew it never quite reached his eyes. He wondered how long he would carry it before it healed just like the rest of him. Or, perhaps it would always be there, much like his injured leg and scarred face.

  He nodded to the footman who held open one of the double doors leading into the main hall of the palace. He appreciated the familiarity of the space, with its marble floors, high-domed ceilings, and towering arrangements of fresh flowers upon polished mahogany tables.

  He was relieved to find it quiet, save for the servants tending to their various tasks. Most observed him from beneath lowered eyelids as they stopped what they were doing to bow or curtsy as he walked past. At least they weren’t dropping things or stopping dead in their tracks to stare at him as if he were a ghost. It had taken a few days for them to grow accustomed to seeing him roam the corridors again.

  He headed toward the family dining room with a meal in mind, his stomach practically howling even after such light activity. It seemed a year without solid food had made him ravenous. He could never seem to get enough to eat.