by Shari Cross
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Acknowledgments
THE DIVIDED KINGDOM
BOOK 1
MASKED
SHARI CROSS
To my grandpa,
You believed in me from day one.
Though you were never able to read the book you were so proud of,
you were with me through every page.
Copyright © 2019 Shari Cross
All rights reserved.
“One thread pull’d
Unravels the rest.”
-Bianca Barela, The Wheel, 2019
Chapter 1
HER
391 A.D.K. (AFTER THE DIVISION OF THE KINGDOMS)
Sweat beads at my hairline, making me instantly regret wearing my cloak. Pushing it off my shoulders, I welcome the hesitant breeze that whispers along my skin. It’s hot today, too hot for early spring. I glance up at the sky and have to search for a cloud. When I find one, it’s peeking behind the snow-capped mountains in the west.
“Addalynne, are you listening to me?”
I turn to my brother, Gregory. He looks irritated. I wonder how long he’s been trying to get my attention.
“I didn’t hear you. You mustn’t have been talking loud enough,” I answer with a shrug.
“Yep. It was definitely that I wasn’t loud enough. It had nothing to do with you being completely oblivious to everything around you.”
“I’m not oblivious. You’re just not very interesting.”
Gregory tugs my hair. I turn and try to shove him, but he jumps to the side, out of my reach.
“You got lucky that time!” I shout at him as he runs ahead of me, laughing. I run after him, through the wild grass of the field, a fistful of dirt in my hand. He’s fast, but the tree line is approaching and so is the wall in front of it, which means he has to slow down, and within seconds I’m upon him. I reach up and rub the dirt in his hair. It falls like dust around us.
“I yield! I yield!” He laughs, and I smile with my victory. “You’re vicious today. It’s a good thing I’m not going into the woods with you.”
“Why not?” I practically whine as a scowl imprints on my face. If he doesn’t come, we can’t play King’s Schild.
“I told Walter I’d meet him at the Barren Fields,” he replies as he continues to shake dirt from his head.
“Fine,” I shrug, letting my gaze linger on the branches overhanging the uneven grey stone wall that separates the forest from the village. I wonder if that wall is as old as Sir Alsius. I imagine that the branches are wisps of his hair, the larger cracks in the stones his eyes: watching us and warning us to stay away.
“But you better not go any closer to the river than the Grey Tree,” Gregory again tugs on a strand of my black hair to get my attention.
I turn toward him. His eyebrows are drawn tightly over the concern in his brown eyes. “I won’t, but you know nothing ever happens.”
“Then why do you always insist on going there?”
“Because if anything does come close to the river, I am going to be the one to see it.”
I move through the forest breathlessly, trying to make no sound. I have to stay quiet or the enemy will hear me approaching. If they see me before I get to them, I’ll be killed.
I step around an oak tree and see them beyond the trunks of several willows. I reach behind me and grab the hilt of my sword, pulling it from its sheath. Holding it firmly in front of me, I creep toward them, marking the largest one as my target. If I can take him down, the rest will be easy.
His back is to me, and with the cover of branches and my quiet steps, he doesn’t sense me approaching. So close . . . one more step . . . I lunge forward, thrusting my sword into his back, and watch as the disturbed leaves rustle before falling to the ground.
The long branch I fashioned into a sword sticks awkwardly out of the defeated blackberry bush. Playing King’s Schild isn’t as much fun without Gregory.
I turn and head deeper into the forest, brushing my fingers along the trunks of the trees as I pass. The sound of leaves crunching under my feet fills the silence: a greeting from an old friend.
After several more minutes, the shimmering line of the Glass River emerges. My gaze settles on the Grey Tree, its dark branches reaching toward the river like long, crooked arms. Others think the Grey Tree is strange, with its tangled roots that grow above ground and its bare branches. It’s not dead, it grows this way, and that makes others superstitious of it. But not me. To me, it’s beautiful. Besides, it sits right on the edge of the Glass River, offering a great lookout point of the south.
I carefully walk across the roots, get a good grip, and make my way up the tree, settling onto a branch that provides the perfect spot for me to sit and watch. I set my gaze on the Faenomen Forest, fixating on the budding green leaves of the trees that line its entrance, blurred, but dancing in the breeze behind the fog. The fog is always there, pressed up against the southern bank—a thin veil between our kingdom of Silveria and the forbidden kingdom of Incarnadine.
The hellions are supposed to live in the Faenomen Forest of Incarnadine, but I’ve never seen a sign of one. Regardless, it’s the warnings that make Incarnadine forbidden. And the fact that it’s forbidden makes me curious.
Just like every other day, I wait in the tree, but nothing happens. After the sun is far in the west, I begin to make my way down. That’s when I see it—a shadow in the fog. I stop moving, my breath stuck in my throat as I stare out over the river at the dark silhouette that’s beginning to take shape. My pulse races while I watch it stagger forward. A hellion. I’m going to see a hellion.
But an ordinary boy emerges from the mist.
He stumbles to the river and falls to his knees, his trembling arms extending toward the water. That’s when I notice something thick and red covering his hands and sleeves. Blood. I press the back of my hand against my mouth, cutting off the scream that’s trying to escape.
His reflection in the water is as clear as if he were in front of a mirror. Through it I can see the wrinkles in his ivory tunic, which is stained with dirt, grass and more blood. His wavy, dark brown hair is falling around the pale skin of his face.
As his hands touch the water, his reflection shatters into thousands of red-streaked shards. Suddenly, the boy goes oddly still, his gaze fixing on the water. Does he see me? My heart thrashes with panic. But just as I realize I’m too far away to be visible, the boy falls forward, headfirst into the river.
Within seconds I’m out of the tree and running toward the water. Before I give myself too much time to think about what I’m about to do, I jump into the river.
A million needles pierce my skin as my body meets the icy water. My feet hit the
bottom and slip on the mud causing me to sink down further. For a moment, all I can think about is the cold, dark water that’s burying me in its frozen embrace, but as the shock wears off, I’m able to plant my feet on the bottom and stand, breaking the surface.
Blinking against the drops of water that are holding onto my lashes, I look around and see the boy several feet away, floating with his face down in the river. Thankfully, the water isn’t too deep and I’m able to walk toward him by grasping the scattered rocks which keep me from slipping. When I reach him, I grab his arm and drape it over my shoulder.
It’s difficult and takes all my strength, but I manage to walk us to the northern shore and pull him up on the bank. I look down at the boy, my chest heaving. He’s lying on his stomach, unconscious, but the slight rise and fall of his back tells me that he’s at least breathing. I have no idea how to help him. But I know my mother can.
I bend down and again drape his arm over my shoulder. He’s bigger than me, probably around my brothers age, making it difficult to stand. Somehow, I manage to make it to my feet and drag the boy, as fast as I can, back to the village.
The clearing peaks through the trees, and the long grass beckons like a warm bed. My body is past exhaustion and, as I cross the line of the woods and step into the grass field, my knees buckle and I collapse. Lying on my stomach, I gasp for air. The boy is partially on top of me and, using my last bit of strength, I roll out from under him.
This is impossible! I wrap my fingers around several strands of grass and try to rip them from the ground in frustration, but my fingers slip right off. I’m too weak to even throw a proper fit.
Get up, Addalynne! If you don’t, he’s going to die. I push myself up and stagger to my feet. My arms are shaking, but I grab his wrists and try to pull him. He doesn’t budge, and again I fall to the ground.
“Gregory!” I shout and again push myself to my feet. Hopefully, he’ll be on his way home and he’ll hear me. “Gregory!”
The sound of rustling grass pulls my attention to the east and I see the familiar light brown hair and scattered freckles of Gregory’s friend, Walter, running toward me.
“Addalynne?” His widespread eyes are filled with bewilderment as he approaches. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” His hand instinctively goes to the dagger at his hip, his eyes scanning the area around me.
“No. I’m fine.” I speak through sharp breaths, my lungs burning with each word. “But I need Gregory.” I really don’t want to explain this to Walter.
“Gregory’s in the market. I can go get . . .” His words trail off, his attention falling to the body beside my feet. “What’s that?”
“A boy.”
“I . . . I know it’s a boy,” he stammers, pink blossoms growing on his cheeks. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know.”
He raises an eyebrow as he takes in the water dripping from my sleeves and pooling around the skirt of my dress and the boy. “Did you drown him?”
“No! I found him floating in the river.” I’m definitely not going to tell Walter that he came from Incarnadine. At this point, I don’t think I’m going to tell anyone that he came from the forbidden kingdom.
“Why is he covered in blood?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he dead?
“No!” But he’s going to be if I don’t get him home. I let out an exasperated breath. “Walter, I need your help.”
Chapter 2
HER
Walter and I reach the walled entry of my home and simultaneously let go of the boy. I drop to the ground and pull in several deep breaths, trying to slow my rapidly beating heart.
“Now what?” Walter says through gasps of air, his hands on his knees.
“I have to get my parents,” I push the words out, each one fighting its way around my labored breaths. “And you have to leave.”
Walter’s eyes widen. “I can help—”
“No, Walter. I’m going to be in trouble for going to the river no matter what. There’s no point in you having to answer questions, too.”
I can tell he wants to argue, but after a minute he nods in agreement and begins to leave.
“Walter!” I call and he turns to face me. “Don’t tell anyone about this. Please.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
Walter walks away, and I run inside and get my parents.
Of course, Mother immediately begins asking questions, but I ignore her and watch my father, who’s already outside, lifting the boy in his arms. I trail my father, my fingers wrapping around the fabric of my dress, as he carries the boy inside and lays him on the wooden table in the kitchen. We stand in silence, watching the beads of water drip from the boy’s hair onto the table.
“Is he dead?” I ask hesitantly, my voice shaking, terrified of the answer.
Mother lays her fingers against his neck. “No.”
She uses a dagger to cut his tunic up the middle. Warmth instantly burns across my cheeks. I know I should turn away, but my gaze travels along the pale, damp skin that covers his chest and stomach. It seems unharmed. Mother tilts his head to the side to examine the back of his neck. A charcoal colored marking lingers just beneath his hairline. Mother brushes up his hair with her fingers to look closer, and her red hair falls between his neck and my line of sight, creating a curtain between us.
“What is it?” I ask. My teeth grab hold of my lip as I wait for her answer.
“A birthmark.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, see for yourself.” Mother lifts her head and lets me lean in. She’s right: a birthmark. Though it’s unlike any birthmark I’ve ever seen. Most are random splotches of color, but this one holds the shape of a perfect crescent moon. Mother lets go of his hair and most of the birthmark disappears, leaving just the bottom curve exposed.
Mother continues to check him for several more minutes. “I don’t see any other injuries aside from this,” she says as she lifts up his hair and points to a strawberry-sized lump with an inch long gash high on his forehead.
“But what about all the blood on his clothes?” Father asks.
Mother pauses, and I get the feeling that her hesitation is not from lack of knowledge.
“Could all that blood have been from this cut?” I ask, prodding her to answer.
“Well, head injuries can bleed quite a bit, and he may have used the shirt at some point to try and stop the bleeding.”
I nod my head. “That’s probably what he did,” I say, but in my heart something tells me the blood on his shirt isn’t his.
“It doesn’t seem infected,” she says, her gaze on the cut. “But I would still prefer to burn some rosemary and thyme to help keep it that way.”
I run to the kitchen and fling open the cupboard. Purple, yellow, green, and black herbs hang from the tops of the shelves, taunting me as I search for the right ones. Finally, my hands wrap around the bushy green herbs and I begin crushing them in an iron bowl. I run back to mother and watch as she twists her hair into a braid before kneeling by the fire to light the herbs.
Once lit, Mother places the bowl by the boys head and begins to clean the wound. I watch her carefully and am ready to hand her the thread she needs to sew his stitches. Then I run back to the cupboard and search for the yellow flowers of the yarrow and the wood-like cloves. She’ll want them to treat the wound. Sure enough, when she’s done with her mending, she asks for the yarrow and cloves and I’m ready. I’m willing to do anything to stay with the boy, and as long as I’m helping, Mother won’t make me leave. After treating the wound and bandaging it with cloth, she says all we can do is wait for him to wake up. I watch as Father moves the unconscious boy into the extra chambers and out of my sight, leaving me feeling completely helpless.
Mother turns to me and I know it’s my turn. I’m so exhausted that I don’t even argue when she has me take an overly warm bath, during which she checks me again to ensure I have no injuries. After the bath, she tells me to sit by
the fire and makes me drink a chamomile tea with a dash of mint to help calm me. I slowly sip the steaming liquid and feel it burn its way down my throat. I wait for the calm to come. I take another sip and wait again. Nope. Not working.
“What happened, Addalynne?” she asks. Father quietly steps into the room and takes a seat across from me.
I have no idea what to say. Instead, I stare blankly at my parents, taking in the deep red of Mother’s hair, which reminds me of the blood on the boy’s hands. I repress a shudder and look toward my Father. His face contains more patience than Mother’s, but there’s a noticeable trace of anxiety in his brown eyes. I’m out of time. I obviously can’t lie about being near the river. But I have to lie about how I found the boy. No one will let him stay in Faygrene if they know where he came from.
“When we were walking to the forest, I told Gregory that I wanted to go to the Glass River,” I begin, trying my best to ignore the already disappointed look on Mother’s face. “He didn’t want to go, so I ran from him and hid in the forest until I knew he wouldn’t find me.”
“Oh, Addalynne,” Mother groans.
I pretend not to hear her and continue with my lie. “I went to the Glass River and walked along the bank for a little while . . .” and then what? . . . “and then I saw the boy. He was floating face down on a log.” There, that should work. “I was afraid he would drown if I didn’t do something, so I jumped in and pulled him out.” At least that part is true.
My parents are quiet while they process my deception, their faces seemingly calm. I almost let myself relax. Maybe the tea is working. But then the yelling starts.
“How could you be so irresponsible, Addalynne?” Mother paces in front of me, her braid as unraveled as she seems to be.
“I know you’re careless at times,” she continues. “But this? Completely disregarding everything you’ve been told and going to that river is unacceptable!”
Father drags his fingers roughly along his brow. “You never listen, Addalynne! If you would only learn to listen!”
