Saphyre Snow Read online

  Copyright ©2012

  Saphyre Snow by Marcia Lynn McClure

  www.marcialynnmcclure.com

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, the contents of this book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed in any part or by any means without the prior written consent of the author and/or publisher.

  Published by Distractions Ink

  P.O. Box 15971

  Rio Rancho, NM 87174

  Published by Distractions Ink

  ©Copyright 2006, 2009, 2012 by M. Meyers

  A.K.A. Marcia Lynn McClure

  Cover Photography by © Konradbak/Dreamstime.com and

  ©Danielkrol/Dreamstime.com

  Cover Design by Sheri Brady

  2nd Printed Edition: February 2012

  All character names and personalities in this work of fiction are entirely fictional,

  created solely in the imagination of the author.

  Any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.

  McClure, Marcia Lynn, 1965—

  Saphyre Snow: a novel/by Marcia Lynn McClure.

  ISBN: 978-0-9852740-7-8

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012931785

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Dewey and Peggy,

  My beloved mother-in-law

  and cherished father-in-law…

  What adventures we had with Saphyre Snow, did we not?

  Thank you for the gift of your love and support

  and most especially for bringing such an astonishingly wonderful man into the world…

  for he has been the pure making of my happiness!

  Prologue—Saphyre Snow

  The cool frosted moonlight of early winter lent a beautiful and blue shimmer to the falling snow. There were those who had witnessed the rare and miraculous event before—the soft and quiet splendor of indigo-laced frost drifting from a clear sky, as if the diamonded stars in the heavens sprinkled small, lustrous sapphires from their fingers to bejewel all the still earth. Indeed it seemed the soft blue moonlight and indigo frost whispered to the woods and meadows—breathed of a secret—a secret something of extraordinary worth. All who beheld this pageant of nature’s artistry believed it to be a herald of benevolence from above—a remembrance that moments of peaceful respite were of far more merit than wealth. All who lingered in the blue moonlight, all who felt the cool radiance of the sapphire frost sweet upon their faces, knew respite and hope. Thus, this quiet, beautiful rarity of occurrence—the serenity borne of the blue light and frost—became known among the people of the Kingdom of Graces as the sapphire snow.

  Indeed, the sapphire snow was uncommon. No man could call down from the heavens a cool blue moonlight and downy flakes of frost. Even the king of the kingdom could not summon the mystical sapphire snow. Thus, as is often the way with rare events, it was on one of these uncommon evenings—an evening of beauty and peaceful wonder, of blue moonlight and indigo frost—that a young mother gave birth to an uncommon child. On this evening of serene enchantment—of blue frost and indigo moonlight mingling to blanket the earth with beauty—the princess Saphyre Snow was birthed.

  All those living in the Kingdom of Graces wept with happiness; each subject, common or noble, rejoiced when King Jordan announced the birth of his granddaughter. A good king, beloved of his people, King Jordan was resplendent with merriment himself at the birth. The lovely Queen Penelope was at the king’s side when he himself heralded the coming of the princess Saphyre Snow. The babe’s father, Prince Michael—only son of King Jordan and Queen Penelope—stood at the casement with his king father and queen mother as the king offered proclamation to the people of the Kingdom of Graces of the birth of a new royal. Prince Michael’s graceful and beauteous young wife, the Princess Felice, listened as all the kingdom cheered their joy at her daughter’s coming. Yes, the birth of Saphyre Snow was the most blessed event in the kingdom—a kingdom beloved by her king and queen, who were loved their subjects in return.

  The father of Saphyre Snow, Prince Michael, was sole heir to the throne of the kingdom. A good and handsome prince beloved by all his father’s subjects, Prince Michael owned much honor. He had commanded legions, warriored well in battled, and owned titles for doing so. Still, perhaps most wondrous of all, Michael had won the heart and hand of the Princess Felice of Avaron.

  Hair as dark as midnight and eyes as violet as the velvet curtains of twilight, Felice of Avaron was an exquisite beauty, both of body and of spirit. The daughter of a king and queen in a far-off land, Princess Felice had been greatly sought after. Many men had battled for a mere chance at gaining her favour. Yet Felice of Avaron was bred of a long lineage of honor—and of true love. Descended from a mighty line of a great kings and noble queens, Felice of Avaron did not give token of favour in light manner. Nevertheless, upon first sight of Prince Michael of the Kingdom of Graces, the Princess Felice of Avaron had known at once where her heart would ever remain. Thus, Prince Michael of the Kingdom of Graces gave full his heart to she who filled it, and a betrothal followed forthwith.

  On their wedding day, the Princess Felice gifted her young husband a token—a favour of such profound worth that all who witnessed the giving of the gift knew the heart of the beautiful Princess Felice would never waver. The favored gift was a sword, forged long ago, generations before, by a master craftsman. The sword was named the Crimson Frost and had been forged in honor of a great knight who had once lived and walked the earth in such glory and honor as to birth eternal legend—a knight who had risen to king, a king who had sired progeny, progeny from whence descended Princess Felice and the babe princess, Saphyre Snow.

  Thus, though Prince Michael was handsome, it was every subject of the Kingdom of Graces hoped that the babe, Princess Saphyre, might grow to be as beautiful as her mother—that the strength and honor of the royal family might mingle with the legendary power and beauty of the Princess Felice’s ancestors to craft as rare a princess as was rare the miracle of nature’s artistry for which she had been named. It was not long before the king and queen, Prince Michael and Princess Felice, and all the subjects of the Kingdom of Graces began to see that the wee princess would indeed inherit her mother’s beauty. As Saphyre grew, it was certain to all who looked upon her that she mirrored her mother’s beautiful image and countenance. Hair as black as silken ebony, skin as soft and as fair as porcelain, and lips as sweet and as red as any ripe cherry or fragrant rose were those of Saphyre Snow—an immeasurable and truly ethereal beauty. Yet perhaps the most striking feature of the Princess Saphyre was the color of her eyes—as deep and as bright a blue as any sapphire on earth, with such a spark of life in them as to enchant any who might own the blessing of her gaze.

  Further, it was certain to all who knew her that her mother’s strong ancestry had fared well in her blood. The child Saphyre Snow owned a rare gift of empathy and compassion. An obedient child, she was yet strong of will and did not linger in despair. All who looked upon her admired her, all who spoke with her felt joy, and all who were privy to her company in any manner loved her.

  Thus the young princess grew in love and happiness, cherished by all her family and every soul in the Kingdom of Graces. Beautiful and happy and safe lived the princess Saphyre Snow—for a time.

  Seven Souls

  Saphyre paused, leaning against a strong pine for support. The crisp, spiced scent of the forest—of tree bark and leaf litter blanketing the ground—did little to soothe her. Brushing a strand of ebony hair from her tear-stained face, the princess attempted to catch her breath before pressing on. Her bosom ached from breathing the cold night air. She looked to her arm—to the wound there administered by a m
ean-spirited holly branch she had intruded upon while running through the wood. The lesion, though not profound in size and no longer bleeding in profusion, yet stung painfully. Saphyre winced and determined to ignore the discomfort. She was cold and frightened and alone, without any conception of how she should proceed. No time had been allowed her—no time to consider or plan. She had known only the necessity of escape, and she had fled. And she must yet elude—run—keep far from what lay behind her—pray it was not yet following.

  Crumpling to her knees, full careless of the moist pine needles, leaves, and other forest spoils littering the wooded ground, Saphyre buried her face in her hands and bitterly wept. How could such things be? How could it all have come to such a dreadful spectacle? She thought of her mother and wished with all her heart she had not died. The queen had passed from earthly life the year previous, and oh, how Saphyre missed her! How she missed her mother’s loving embrace, her wise counsel, her beautiful smile. Saphyre shook her head, brushing the tears of pain and fear and frustration from her cheeks and chin. Her mother had died, and her father had altered entirely. He was so thoroughly changed—so very altered in countenance. Her father’s wits had been complete about him before her mother’s death. Everything and everyone—the whole of the kingdom—had been happy and safe. It seemed to Saphyre the Kingdom of Graces and all its subjects had begun to weaken as a whole. Upon the death of the beloved Queen Felice, the kingdom began to transform, taking upon itself a dark countenance—a countenance in similitude to the one it had begun to exhibit shortly after the death of Saphyre’s grandmother years previous. In this, even King Michael had changed. Gone was the tender, loving father Saphyre had known. In his place there lingered a stranger—one who frightened Saphyre, struck her with feelings of uncertainty and vulnerability. Thus, how desperately Saphyre missed her mother now. How desperately she longed for the sense of safety and hope her mother had ever exuded.

  Saphyre raised her head, closed her eyes, and listened. Sometimes, if she endeavored with great determination, she imagined she could almost hear her mother’s voice on the evening breeze—nearly feel the soothing touch of her gentle hand. Yet the caution-call of a black crow in a nearby tree startled Saphyre. There was not time to linger in recollection or regret, for an ominous evil yet pursued the princess Saphyre Snow—fairly nipped at her heels.

  Leaping to her feet, Saphyre ran—fled further into the depths of the forest—for darkness was fast falling. Saphyre knew she could not endure another night in the frigid forest uncovered and unprotected from the elements—and anything else choosing to prey upon her. Autumn threatened to come early to the Kingdom of Graces and all the forest surrounding. Saphyre knew this night would be colder and crueler even than the night before. Near frantic, she looked about for a cave, a tree with a drooping branch, anything that might provide her shelter for the night. Yet there was nothing, and so she pushed onward—onward until she thought her feet could carry her no further—onward until she could see nothing through the dense forest now blocking the moon’s light. The night was cold—near frigid. Saphyre’s arms and legs burned with weariness borne of unfamiliar striving. Such a weariness was upon her as to cause her to wonder if she might not simply drop in her own footsteps.

  Then, of a sudden, a large and weathered structure—veiled in night’s shadows—loomed before her. It seemed a ruin of some sort—still, a ruin with remnant walls. And even remnant walls would provide some shelter. She wondered for a moment what other creatures had considered the same—perhaps taken up residence within. The ruin broke the canopy of tall trees, and by the moonlight, Saphyre could see it looked to be the vestige of an old castle keep. Saphyre then remembered. As a child, she had heard tales of a once great castle of the Kingdom of Graces. It was said the castle was lost—destroyed by an ancient war battled generations before. She wondered whether this ruined keep was perhaps all that remained of the place—the legendary castle of which stories were now rarely told. Saphyre frowned as she gazed at the moss-covered stones and a weathered, yet quite solid, oaken door. She fancied the keep must once have been a great stronghold indeed, for anything that could cling so long to pure existence must surely have known strength beyond understanding. Reaching out, Saphyre placed a hand against its mossy outer wall. She was assured then—it was indeed real. She had not fallen asleep, exhausted from two days of running aimlessly, to find herself dreaming. The musty velvet moss grew thick on the outer wall, further testament of a vastly aged edifice.

  Through an opening in one damaged stone wall, Saphyre tentatively entered the ancient keep. Without the forest of trees to impair, blessed moonlight beamed in through the near vanishing ceiling and roof. A ceiling there was, yet once massive beams were now rotted, and moonlight streamed through great holes and cracks. Saphyre closed her eyes, thankful for the full moon, for it gave her enough light to look about. Several doves startled as she stepped further into the keep. Saphyre gasped as they took flight, escaping through the damaged roof. She stood quite still as her gaze fell to a fire pit in the center of the room. Dying embers there breathed more warmth than Saphyre had felt in two days, and though the prickle of the hair at her neck, the whispered warning in her heart, admonished caution, she could not resist moving nearer, dropping to her knees and rubbing her hands over the still-glowing cinders.

  Saphyre glanced about her once more, wondering who had built the fire, knowing it must have burned hot and bright only hours before. Still, her overwhelming weariness and need for warmth numbed her sense of caution, and she remained kneeling before the fire, warming herself as best she could. She mused that whoever had built the fire had long since taken his leave. Surely it was safe to linger for a few moments more, to perhaps lie down on one of the nearby logs and rest a moment—only a moment. It was all she was in need of—only a few moments of respite. Would not it be safe to merely close her eyes—for just a moment?

  No sooner had Saphyre closed her eyes, however, than she began to dream—to dream of the nightmare her life had become. Her dreams were disordered—lovely visions of her mother, followed closely by ghastly ones of her mother’s death—moments spent in the safety of her father’s arms, mingled with visions of her father, the king, battling perplexity, struggling to maintain the strength of his mind. Visions of her grandfather King Jordan were in her dreams—of the great man he had once been—of the love she had once known for him. Vile visions of her step-grandmother intruded—her step-grandmother, Queen Carmen—of her great beauty coupled with obsessive vanity. Even visions of Kornelius were somehow provoked—of handsome Prince Kornelius, the subject of every young woman’s dreams.

  Every young woman in the kingdom would faint away with the bliss at having caught Kornelius’s eye. Yet not Saphyre. Kornelius was vastly handsome, strong, and perfect in manner—a bit too perfect in Saphyre’s opinion. There was nothing unique about his perfectly pressed, perfectly flawless attire, nothing overly masculine in his perfect posture and perfect behavior. Yes, he was perfectly comely—tall, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, with the lightest fair hair and darkest green eyes. Still, he did not appeal to Saphyre’s heart, and she was sickened as she wandered through her discomfited dreams that Kornelius should be the suitor her father had chosen for her.

  Saphyre next dreamt she was standing in a forest, sunlight radiating warm and happy. Kornelius stood before her, beckoning her to come to him. But Saphyre did not wish to go to him and instead turned to find herself staring into the gaunt, angular face of the huntsman! He stood before her dressed in the green of a huntsman’s cloak, his eyes narrowed and his appearance being overall that of a roughened man to meddle not with. Oh, the expression he wore spoke of concern—guilt, fear, and self-loathing. But the knife in his hand—the knife stained and dripping with blood—told of his true intent. The fact he had released Saphyre—shouted at her to run, to run for her life and never to return to the kingdom and father she loved so—his freeing her did not atone for his initial intention.

  I
n her dreams, Saphyre turned back toward Kornelius, but he was gone. In his place was only the darkness of the forest. The trees themselves seemed to threaten harm. Yet there was no choice given the princess Saphyre Snow—no choice but to run—to enfold herself in the uncaring embrace of wooded darkness.

  In her dreams, the huntsman continued to shout at her as she ran—shout at her as he truly had. “Run, Princess! Run away!” he called. “Never to return! For returning will find you slaughtered like an unsuspecting deer, your heart cut out, and the beasts of the forests feasting on your flesh! Run!”

  Saphyre gasped, her heart pounding with remembered fear. She sat up, screaming at the first sight her waking eyes beheld! At first, she thought she was yet dreaming, still lost in the nightmare with the huntsman. Quickly, however, she realized she was full awake—though another nightmare was upon her then. There, crouching before her, was a man—at least a thing that had once been a man. The beast before her glared at her through blue eyes—chilling blue eyes. Yet it was not his eyes that held captive Saphyre’s attention. It was not his eyes that caused her to cry out in terror. Rather it was the immense deformity on his face. The blue-eyed man glaring at her owned only hollows where his nose should have been—two large, gaping hollows surrounded by remnants of flesh! She noted the man must once have owned a nose, for the majority of the bridge of it indeed remained. Still, the flesh around his nostrils was gone, leaving the two open hollows. It was pure terrifying—to awaken from a nightmare to behold such a dreadful face.

  Saphyre covered her mouth with one hand to keep from screaming once more.

  “Hush, child,” a voice said—but not the noseless man’s, for his lips did not move as he continued to stare at her.