Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 517(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 517(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
“Enough counsel for one night,” the king ordered. “Have the men double the watch. Tharne’s spy will not cross my gates unseen. And, Tavish, I have yet to hear from the spies we have in Drogath these many months. Make contact with them and see what can be learned. Promise them a hefty sum for remaining faithful and remind them what fate awaits if they choose otherwise… their heads on a spike.”
Tavish knew it was no false warning. He had seen such orders carried out, heads left on spikes until nothing was left of them, no more than memory and the fear those images left behind.
Tavish inclined his head. “As you wish, my king.”
The king’s expression hardened as he looked at the rain-smeared window, to the darkness beyond. “If the gods grant me no protection, then I will make my own.”
Tavish said nothing. He knew that look in his king’s eyes, a glint not of faith but of obsession, the kind that built kingdoms… and destroyed them.
Chapter Two
Village of Birkfell
Leighfeld Region
Home of the Healers
* * *
Elara woke with a start.
For a moment she lay still, her breath shallow, the wool blanket twisted around her legs. The room was dim, the hearth low, its embers pulsing a dull orange glow, painting the walls in uneven light. She listened, her heart quickening, her senses sharp, but heard nothing except the faint hiss of cooling ash.
Then, as she began to think she’d dreamt it, the sound came again.
Distant. Faint. A rhythmic pounding that might have been thunder, except it was too steady, too deliberate.
Drums.
She sat up, her pulse matching the beat as she murmured, “Nay, please. It cannot be.”
Then, as quickly as it came, the sound was gone, swallowed by silence so complete, it made the hairs at the back of her neck rise.
She drew a breath, steadying herself. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard, or dreamt, something that wasn’t there. And each time, what she’d heard had come to pass. A fever spreading through the village. A storm that flattened the western fields. A traveler found dead along the road. She’d spoken of it to no one. To be different was one thing but to be thought marked by the sins of Driochmor was another.
She pushed the thought aside and swung her legs from the bed, her feet touching the cold stone floor. The chill sent a shudder through her, though it helped clear her head.
She hurried on her boots and into her brown wool skirt and pale green, linen blouse, and fastened her leather belt around her waist, though not before attaching her collection pouch to it.
“Like a healer with her healing pouch, an herb-scribe never goes anywhere without her collection pouch.”
Elara smiled softly, recalling her words to the elderly Maelis when she first arrived at Birkfell.
Maelis had long been a healer in the village and bore the wealth of knowledge to prove it. Her hands, though gnarled with age, were still deft. Her eyes were as smooth and polished as river stone and her shoulders showed no sign of hunching.
She had been excited to meet Elara, an herb-scribe, a scholar of the natural world, trained to study plants, trees, roots, and foliage, record their appearance, properties, and seasonal changes, test new herbs for usefulness, or danger, compare findings across villages, and advise healers on the proper use and preparation of local flora. Though not healers themselves, herb-scribes’ work formed the foundation upon which healing knowledge grew.
Elara and Maelis had formed a fast friendship since her arrival there almost eight months ago, and she cherished it.
She crossed to the small hearth, adding more wood to wake the fire and set a pot of water to boil. She threw in a few curls of dried draemroot and a pinch of yarrow, habit more than need.
As the flames caught, she watched them dance across the hearth stones and thought of how the people of Birkfell had welcomed her with smiles and appreciation and an undercurrent of suspicion. She couldn’t blame them. She was different from them, having silver hair and amethyst-colored eyes. A rarity in the kingdom. Some whispered it was an omen, of what, no one dared speculate, but as weeks passed into months the whispers faded until they were heard no more.
She lifted her hand and absently wound a strand of her silver hair around her finger, the color stark against her pale skin. Different. Always different.
She hurried a comb through it, and plaited it, the long strands soft and pliant in her hands.
Steam rising in soft curls and the gurgle of bubbling water alerted her that her brew was ready. She reached with a padded cloth to lift it from the fire, then froze.
There it was again.
Drums. Distant but distinct.
Her heart felt as if it stilled. She dropped the padded cloth on the table and crossed the room to the door, unlatching it with an apprehensive touch. The hinges gave a soft groan as she slipped quietly outside.