Seven sons are given a kingdom to rule, but must first learn to rule themselves, and the curse that they have inherited.

PROLOGUE

"We are the whisperers. We are the fallen. We are the desperate and the damned. And we are within you, mired in the darkest pits of your mind. We wait for our opportunity to strike, and leave your lives in havoc. And we are coming."

Indeed, they were coming, King Henry Blackwell thought as he stroked his soft, white beard.

His eyes peered across the empty, candle-lit chamber, gazing intently at one of the seven candles as the white wax melted away from it.

He could feel the death creeping into his old bones. His days grew fewer, and his penance would soon have to be paid. It was too late to save himself, he knew, as he shuffled uneasily in his silver throne. With a yawn, he rubbed away some of the sleep that had been gathering in his sharp, blue eyes. But maybe there was a way to save his sons, and his kingdom. There had to be a way.

Henry’s weakened and wrinkled hands moved their way to the top of his head. Once there, they pulled away the golden crown from atop his flowing, white scalp. Bringing it down to eye level, Henry took a moment to study the simple, elegant brilliance of it. It was a fine piece of workmanship, a thick golden circlet that came up into seven equal points, a ruby engraved into each of the points.

And then it hit him . . .

Seven points. Seven sons. Seven Kings.

That was it! Seven Kings!

Some of the heavy burden that his heart had carried for so long fell away as at long last, Henry could see a small ray of hope in the distance. To chose a single heir to the throne would put the full weight of the curse onto just one man, but if it were divided among all seven of his sons, perhaps they could find a way to fix it.

The candle lights flickered, then fell from existence, leaving Henry alone in the darkness.

"They will fall as well," A deep, soft voice whispered.

Henry shuddered and squeezed his eyelids together tightly. It had been so long since he had heard that voice.

"They shall not!" Henry barked out as his mind worked to quell the tightness in his stomach.

"Oh, but they will," The voice whispered back. "We will take them in time, as we will take you."

"Leave them alone! This is not their fault! It is mine!"

"The dead do not deal in "fault," dear King. And neither does the devil. We will have them, in time, as was our arrangement."

Cold sweat broke out over Henry’s forehead. His body trembled terribly as he thought back to that day nearly fifty-years-prior. He remembered the screams of the men that lay dying in the courtyard above him as he made his way through the tangled maze of catacombs beneath the castle. He remembered the screams of his bodyguards as they fell to their deaths just a few feet ahead of him, murdered by something unseen. Lastly he remembered the words he uttered in order to spare his own life, as well as the lives of those in his kinddom.

"You will pay us homage," The ghostly whisper reminded him, almost as if it had been reading his thoughts. "You will give us what we ask of you."

"Leave me be," Henry shouted as tears of terror streaked down his pale, wrinkled cheeks.

No answer came from the ghostly visitor, and Henry shut his eyes again, gasping as he tried to calm his nerves.
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