Shards Of The Glass Slipper: Queen Cinder Read online

  Contents

  Title and Blurbs

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue Little Foundling

  Chapter 1 A Grave Journey

  Chapter 2 A Legend

  Chapter 3 Lord Dendroba

  Chapter 4 An Underground Movement

  Chapter 5 There Was An Old Woman

  Chapter 6 Queen Cendrillon

  Chapter 7 A General of What Army?

  Chapter 8 The Shards Of The Glass Slipper

  Chapter 9 A Transformation

  Chapter 10 A Mermaid’s Kiss

  Chapter 11 An End World Awakens

  Chapter 12 Alas, Alas For Hamelin

  Chapter 13 A Safe House

  Chapter 14 White Rabbit In The Hall Of The Queen

  Chapter 15 Little Miss Muffet

  Chapter 16 Bloodthorns

  Chapter 17 Fae Gaia

  Chapter 18 Witch’s Honor

  Chapter 19 To Meet A Prince

  Chapter 20 The Arrival Of Queen Alice

  Chapter 21 Stepmothers And God-mothers

  Chapter 22 Jack And The Beanstalk

  Chapter 23 A Sleeping Beauty In A Glass Coffin

  Chapter 24 Beware The Jabberwock

  Chapter 25 Goldenhair

  Chapter 26 The Cheshire Cat

  Book II Queen Alice promo and excerpt

  About The Author

  Syrenka/Mermaids13 Promo

  Deconstructing Tolkien ad

  Jack promo

  Alice promo

  Snow White Promo

  Cinderella promo

  Goldenhair promo

  Dendroba promo

  Phillip promo

  Shards- Music inspired by the novel

  back matter

  Shards Of The Glass Slipper:

  Queen Cinder

  by Roy A. Mauritsen

  E-Book Edition

  Praise for Roy Mauritsen’s novel, Shards Of The Glass Slipper:

  “SHARDS OF THE GLASS SLIPPER is fantastic! I loved seeing beloved characters used in new ways in this magnificent epic.” -Sarah Beth Durst, author of Into The Wild and Drink, Slay, Love

  “Roy Mauritsen is a worthy writer with real talent AND a unique vision,

  a combination rare and important.” -Janet Morris, Hugo nominated author of Beyond Sanctuary & The Sacred Band

  “Don't miss this groundbreaking work!

  Roy Mauritsen's Shards Of The Glass Slipper is a fun, unique, and entertaining twist on fairy tales you've come to love. Mauritsen breathes new life into the classic fairy tales, and provides an extraordinary and invigorating take on fables which is sure to be enjoyed by young and old for years to come." -Edward J. McFadden III, author of Deconstructing Tolkien and The Black Death of Babylon

  “The Brothers Grim meet The Lord Of The Rings in Roy Mauritsen's fairy tale epic SHARDS OF THE GLASS SLIPPER” - Patrick Thomas, author of the Murphy's Lore series

  “...clearly a love letter to The Brothers Grimm and Lewis Carroll.

  The characters are simultaneously new and familiar, and many will enjoy that.” -Darin Kennedy, author of Pawn’s Gambit

  “Shards is a dark, lush, full-throttle fantasy epic that presents a bold re-imagining of classic characters.” -David Wade, creator of 319 Dark Street

  Acknowledgments

  It seemed to me in the process of writing this novel that in fact no book is truly written by one person—well, maybe a few literary greats out there, but at best even that is highly suspect. There are many that help to shape a book along the way. From feedback of agents and critique groups to editors and writer conferences, and friends, family and coworkers, the story is influenced by many, but in the end it is the author who must sit alone and forge the work, sifting through ideas, suggestions, and opinions to marry it with the vision that started long ago with a single, crazy idea to write a novel.

  I’d like to take a moment to acknowledge some people for their love and support and for their help along the way: My mother, my dad, Diane Mauritsen, Diane Raetz, Patrick Thomas, Stephanie Wardach, Darin Kennedy, Patricia Doty, Tamara Winfrey, Stuart Ott, Chris Bound, Marty Leibolt, Judy Kovaleski, Chris Vega, Tricia Servino, David Wade, Ellen Kaskoun, Felix Santiago, David B. Schlosser, Kristan Cioffi, Peter Carrolla, David Johansson, and Ken Hulse.

  Many thanks to the rest of the fans who support me on Facebook. This book simply would not have been possible without the love and support from my wife, Caren.

  This book is dedicated to the spirit of accomplishment, of not being someone who only talks about doing something and does nothing, but being someone who steps up and does it—of not giving up and not believing the naysayers who say you can’t, but listening instead to the one voice saying go and do it. There is a satisfaction of finishing something you started. It is a significant accomplishment to even start a thing, but it is a greater achievement to see that thing completed. It is far more important to reach the end once you start than to ever begin at all. That is the only way to truly accomplish self-confidence, integrity, and growth as a person.

  I’ve grown and learned a lot through this journey of novel writing. I’ve learned not just about fairy tales but about myself—what I’m capable of—and about the technical aspects of writing and storytelling. I’ve learned about friendships, from some that have existed over years and decades, to those that have recently flourished via the Internet. I’ve learned you cannot spell-check a blank page. I’ve learned the only way to write a novel is to sit down and start writing one. And lastly, I’ve learned that happily ever afters are only the beginning of someone else’s once upon a time.

  -Roy Mauritsen

  Prologue

  Little Foundling

  Syrenka had left home when she was fifteen, desiring to travel and see exotic places; however, her legs and a broken heart had turned those dreams to distant memories. She had aspired to tell stories of daring adventures, but now resigned herself to the solitary life she led.

  These days, she looked forward to time with her only friend, Goldenhair, who would visit Syrenka’s beach cabin on occasion and spend the day with her. Goldenhair would sometimes help her with projects, or bring Syrenka books to teach her to read and write. How Syrenka loved the tales in some of those books. They told of places she longed to see, people she longed to meet. She knew they were only stories, but they were also her escape.

  These friendly visits seemed as much a welcome change for Goldenhair as they were for Syrenka. Together they would sit over tea as Goldenhair told piecemealed stories of the troubled times that existed outside of Syrenka’s little world. Syrenka listened intently as Goldenhair spoke of heroes and generals, evil queens and witches, and other astonishing news of the kingdom. Syrenka recalled one tale in particular, more so than any other story; it was the tale of how the King of Marchenton and his son led an army up a mountain and into the clouds, never to return. Dark times had befouled the land shortly thereafter, and it seemed a curse had fallen over the kingdom ever since.

  Goldenhair was not with Syrenka today, though, and what had begun as an overcast afternoon on the beach had turned into an angry, howling storm by nightfall. Syrenka was happy on such nights to sit in bed and read one of Goldenhair’s books. The orange glow from a lantern provided ample light and a sense of warmth and peace. She read her story quite contentedly, interrupted intermittently by the storm when the rain battered the windows or the howl of the wind blew by.

  The roof creaked loudly as an especially strong gust struck Syrenka’s little cabin. She looked up, her brow furrowed with irritation. Noisy tonight, Syrenka thought to herself, annoyed by the disturbance. She turned back to her book, but realized she
had already read that page. The wind rose again with another howl that carried the sound of waves crashing on the beach. Syrenka looked up until the noise subsided, and then once again went back to reading.

  She flipped the page, sighed, and finally plopped the book on her blanket. Meanwhile, the rain continued to pound on the roof, accented by booms of thunder and bright flashes of distant lightning.

  Syrenka debated going to sleep or making a pot of tea. The coals from the fireplace were still warm and the kettle above them was probably hot enough. She looked over at her cold and uninviting wooden wheelchair, and then at her canes. Neither choice appealed to her, nor did she relish the thought of the pain she would incur by walking over to the fireplace.

  Syrenka was not elderly; in fact, she was far from it. She was not yet thirty by her measure and had a very athletic build, but her legs had become debilitated and it was quite painful for her to stand and walk. She could if she had to, but doing so felt like a thousand daggers stabbing at her legs and feet. Even worse, if she stood for any length of time, her legs and feet were prone to bleeding.

  No, she did not like walking.

  Syrenka was warm and comfortable in her bed. It gave her a sense of normalcy and security, and they were these simple feelings that she cherished. She leaned over, lifted the glass of the lantern, and blew the candle out. Darkness enveloped the room except for the dim glow of coals from the fireplace, and Syrenka settled down to sleep as the storm raged outside.

  Not more than an hour later, a great gust of wind tore across the beach, howling with terrifying strength. It was an unsettling, unearthly sound, and it rattled the front door, jiggling the latch free. With a loud bang, the door slammed open and the rain and wind stampeded in.

  Syrenka’s eyes shot open and she drew a startled gasp. In an instant, she threw her blankets aside, grabbed her canes, and rose from the bed. Stabbing pains shot up her body as she hobbled to the wildly swinging door. Each step was agony.

  By the time she reached the door, the wind-driven rain had managed to drench everything in the cabin, including Syrenka. She leaned her canes against a table and fought the wind to shut the door. That is when she saw it.

  Syrenka’s exceptional eyesight quickly adjusted to the dark distance of the beach, and her gaze scanned the waterline for the figure that had caught her attention—a human shape pulling itself from the rough, pounding waves of the storm surge. A white shirt defined the form, so out of place on a night like tonight that she could do nothing but watch for a moment, just to ensure it was not her imagination.

  When a bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, she saw the figure again for an instant, but as her eyes refocused, it was gone. Another flash of lightning, and this time the figure was lying motionless on the beach.

  Syrenka was certain there was someone there. She could close the door. After all, had the driving wind and rain not blown it open that night, she would have been none the wiser. However, she did not close the door and return to her warm bed. Syrenka’s legs may have been weak, but her will was strong, and her heart was kind. She would offer help if help was needed.

  As she grabbed a cloak from a nearby hook, her hands paused over her canes, unsure if they would be more hindrance than help. She would not bring them, she decided. Instead, she grabbed a tall staff with a small glass lantern wrapped with cord and dangling from the top. Inside the lantern, she lit a candle wick and quickly closed the glass. She leaned heavily on the staff until the pain in her legs became bearable. Even after so many years of coping with the pain, it could still shock her with its intensity. Nevertheless, the pain once acknowledged, was something she could conquer. She pulled the cloak’s deep hood over her blonde hair and, with her head down, stepped into the storm.

  The onslaught of the heavy rain and wind railed against her body as she navigated the slippery wood planking across the dunes. Syrenka slowly made her way along the walkway from the relative safety of the higher dunes, down the steps to the beach. She took the stairs slowly, each step punctuated by sharp pain. The candle lantern bounced with every agonized step she took. Looking up from her path, she searched for the strange storm victim with the white shirt, but he was gone from her view.

  Syrenka groaned as she navigated the last set of steps. Scanning the beach methodically, she focused on what she was looking for. Near the water’s edge lay the crumpled shape of a man. The surf was churning, pounding heavily, and he was so close to it that she feared it would wash him away. She hurried in his direction, hoping she was not too late.

  When she reached the prone figure, Syrenka could see in the dim light of her candle that blood stained his white tunic. A large splinter of wood jutted from his shoulder. As if on cue, he rolled onto his back and weakly reached out his hand before letting it fall limply upon the hard, wet sand.

  Syrenka stabbed her staff into the sand and knelt down next to him. His eyes slowly opened to the light as she tugged at his shirt. Ripping a piece of cloth from her cloak, Syrenka pulled the chunk of wood from the stranger’s shoulder, as the man cried out in pain. She took the cloth and pressed hard against the wound. Then she grabbed the man’s hand and pressed hard against the cloth. Though semiconscious, the man understood enough to hold the cloth as Syrenka lifted his body so she could get her arms around him. Syrenka had always been strong, much stronger than she looked. Her dependence on canes and crutches had maintained a constant source of exercise for her arms and upper body as well.

  The man moaned as she lifted him up to her waist and planted her feet firmly in the sand, biting through the stabbing pain in her legs. Slowly, she began to drag him away from the water. Each forced step sent searing ripples of shock from her feet to her hips. Her eyes watering, Syrenka forced back her tears as she pulled the man through the tall grass of the dunes, bypassing the stairs and stopping only briefly to rest. Syrenka’s body screamed in agony, but outwardly, she was silent. She was of one purpose only, and each breath focused on that purpose.

  After what seemed like hours of excruciating effort, she dragged the unconscious, wounded man back to her house, and with great difficulty, she managed to maneuver him onto her bed. Once he was ensconced there, she stumbled backward with pain and exhaustion, and fell into her wheelchair.

  The relentless pain finally subsided to a deep ache as Syrenka rested her exhausted body. Looking down, she sighed. The wet sand on her feet and legs was matted with the blood that seeped from her skin and was running down her calves.

  Why did I do this? she thought to herself in anguish. Resting her head in her hand, she considered the injured, half-drowned man that lay in her dark room. Syrenka was not altogether surprised at her dramatic rescue. This was not the first time she had come to someone’s aid at the expense of her own. She allowed herself to rest in the chair, drained from her efforts and the pain.

  How many years had it been?

  Syrenka had actually met the Prince of Marchenton once long ago, on a rare trip to the local harbor village for supplies. This man seemed to look like him, but it must have been nearly fifteen years since she last saw him. She concentrated, trying to remember the time more clearly.

  The prince had just married and was touring the kingdom with his new bride. Crowds lined the streets, she recalled, and she became caught in the throng of well-wishers. In their eagerness to see the prince, the townspeople had pushed and shoved her as she tried to navigate through them. Suddenly, she found herself face down in the middle of the street, her canes and the supplies she had just purchased spilling in all directions. Worse yet, it had occurred right in front of the royal carriage.

  Utterly ashamed, Syrenka had watched the carriage halt before her, and both the prince and princess rushed out to help her. She remembered the beautiful princess in her grand gown helping to gather up the fruits that had spilled in the mud. The prince collected her canes and helped Syrenka, mortified as she was, to her unsteady feet.

  The crowd cheered their approval, but Syrenka was terrified. She
quickly snatched the canes from the prince’s hands, tears of embarrassment and frustration filling her eyes as she hobbled off, too ashamed to express her thanks.

  Syrenka stared at the ring on the man’s finger for a long moment. Is this some rogue or pirate who has stolen the prince’s ring? she wondered, or is this indeed our long lost prince? The man that now rested in her bed, though older and with more lines on his features, did indeed resemble the prince who had stopped to help her.

  With his wounds properly dressed and a special healing salve applied, exhausted sleep settled over her body. Her thoughts drifted to an even earlier part of her life, and she allowed her memories to turn to another prince she had saved.

  It seemed like a lifetime ago, and she smiled at the cruel irony of her situation. When she was far younger, she fell in love with a prince who broke her heart when he married another. The old pain of a distant memory ached in her chest. What had the prince called her then? Little foundling, she remembered. That was a long time ago, Syrenka silently reminded herself.

  She blew out the candle, wishing to snuff out those unwelcome thoughts. Leaning back in the large, well-cushioned chair she kept in the bedroom, she stared at the fire and pondered the night’s turn of events. Here now she had her own “little foundling.” Finally, sleep enveloped her and she dreamed of the ocean.

  * * *

  Syrenka awoke feeling like she had overslept, but with a quick glance at the window, she realized it was barely dawn. Her legs were quite stiff and ached terribly when she moved them. In the dim grey light of the morning, she could see the man sleeping soundly in her comfortable bed. She felt sure now that he was the prince, but decided to seek a second opinion.

  After a yawn and a long stretch, she slowly rose to her feet, the familiar pain returning to her legs. Awkwardly, she walked to her wheelchair, sat down, and then moved toward the main room, quietly shutting the bedroom door behind her. Navigating across the main room to a small desk, she withdrew a pen and a scrap of paper from a drawer to write a quick note. She paused for a second to be sure of her wording. If he was indeed the prince, it would change many things. After taking a moment to reconsider writing anything at all, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and committed pen to paper. Then she rolled up the paper and secured it with a bit of string.