The Undying King
Contents
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ABOUT GRACE DRAVEN
The Undying King
Grace Draven
The stories are told in whispers, even after so long: of a man whose fair rule soured when he attained eternal youth. Imprisoned by a sorceress wife in a city out of time and place, he has passed into legend. Few believe in him, and fewer would set their hopes on his mercy. But Imogen has no choice. To break the curse that’s isolated her since birth, she’ll find the Undying King—and answer his secrets with her own.
The Undying King - Copyright © 2009 - 2016 by Grace Draven.
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 publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Artwork ©2016 by Isis Sousa
Dedication
For Mel and Lora, in the 11th hour.
Thank you,
Grace
CHAPTER ONE
Wrapped in concealing wool and tight gloves, Imogen slumped in her chair by the bedside and waited for her mother to die.
The air stank of old blood and sickness, made even more pungent by the sweltering heat generated by the fire in the hearth. She gazed at the room’s single window edged in an early spring frost. The small hours before dawn passed in quiet darkness, and she imagined the coolness outside, the crisp scent of pine and the first hint of perfume from the white daffodils rising from lingering ribbons of snow on the low hillocks surrounding the dale.
Niamh loved daffodils, not for their herbal properties but simply for their beauty. Even now a generous spray of them stood in a pint mug on the rough-hewn table. Imogen had gathered them the previous day after chopping wood for the fire. She’d marveled at their pale petals against her black gloves. The few times Niamh had awakened from a pained sleep, she’d looked to the flowers and smiled weakly. Imogen swore she’d harvest every daffodil in the surrounding county if it meant her mother might forget, for just a moment, the agony wracking her wasted body.