Daughter of Light
Follower of the Word, Book 1
Morgan L. Busse
Published by Enclave Publishing
24 W. Camelback Rd., A-635
Phoenix, AZ 85013
www.enclavepublishing.com
ISBN (paper): 978-1-935929-49-9
Daughter of Light
Copyright © 2012 by Morgan L. Busse
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage and retrieval System without prior written permission from the publisher.
Published in the United States by Enclave Publishing, an imprint of Third Day Books, LLC, Phoenix, Arizona.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design by Tomislav Tikulin
Editing by Jeff Gerke
Printed in the United States of America
To God, Who is the Light in my darkness.
And to my husband, Dan,
my best friend and greatest ally,
and the first one to encourage me to write.
Mercia’s lungs burned as she ran. She kept one hand clutched tightly to the bundle wrapped around her middle. Her other hand grasped air as if to pull herself forward.
She could feel them coming. Closer. Closer.
Mercia glanced back. She could see nothing but towering trees, thick as two men and black as night. Naked bushes crowded between the trees. Snow covered the ground. A grey dismal sky hung overhead. White flecks fluttered through the air.
They were not close enough yet for her to see them. But they were coming, their foul presence growing stronger inside of her.
She turned forward and ran harder. The night sky grew darker overhead. More white flakes fell until the air looked like a white haze. Her nose and face froze, and her fingers grew numb. But she pushed herself forward. She couldn’t stop now.
A single light flickered between the dark trees. Mercia staggered up against a thick trunk. Frigid air tore through her lungs. She tried to catch her breath. Could it be? Desperate hope flooded her. She squinted through the snowstorm at the single light. Had she finally found someone? Another step closer, and she could make out the dark silhouette of a small cabin. The light shone through a single square window. Above, the barest wisp of smoke made its way from the chimney. Someone had to live there—
The bundle around her middle began to squirm.
Mercia looked down and patted the bundle. “We’re almost there,” she said. Pain like a dagger tore through her chest as the truth of what she was about to do hit her.
She would be leaving her baby here.
Every maternal feeling she possessed rose up inside her chest, tightening her throat and flooding her eyes with moisture she thought she had already spent on the long journey here. But she had no choice.
Mercia choked back a sob and wiped at her eyes. What a price to pay for arrogance, for deception, for lust. Her daughter did not deserve to pay for the darkness committed by others. But perhaps someday her daughter would atone for them, finish the job…
The bundle began to whimper again, and a small fist made its way out of the woolen cloth.
“Shhh, little one.” Mercia held a finger near her daughter’s fist. Tiny fingers wound their way around hers. “Oh, Word,” Mercia said quietly. She gazed down at her daughter. Did He hear her anymore? Care about her anymore? She would know soon enough… Soon she would be standing before Him.
A long howl rose up from the trees behind her.
Mercia clutched her daughter and shoved away from the tree. She glanced back. Nothing but trees and snow. She turned and ran toward the light. She should never have paused. She should have gone straight to the house and left her daughter.
Another howl echoed behind her, this time much closer.
“Word,” Mercia prayed, her breath deep gasps, “please watch over my daughter, please— Please keep her safe…”
More lights appeared in the windows. Mercia pushed her body forward. She reached the cabin and ran around the corner. She found a door on the other side. There was no time to say goodbye—the wolves were almost upon her. She could hear someone shuffling around inside.
Mercia bent down and swept the snow away. Then she placed her daughter down at the threshold of the door. The blanket shifted, revealing a small face with white wisps of hair. Blue eyes stared up at her. Mercia bit back a cry of anguish. She stood and took a step back. A small hand began to reach in the air. She turned and fled toward the trees.
Tears streamed down her face. “Oh, Word, please keep her safe, please keep her safe,” Mercia chanted between snatches of air. Long painful throbs raced along her side. She placed a hand on her ribs and kept running as far as she could from the cabin.
If only she had made it to the White City. Perhaps she could’ve found some of her people there. But she had run out of time. Out of every drop of it. She could only hope her daughter would find a home here, wherever here was.
A dark shape flew out from behind the trees.
Her time had come.
Mercia fell to her knees, gasping in air. Glittering yellow eyes watched her. A black wolf stepped out from the shadows. It stood almost as tall as a horse. Black spiked fur covered its body, and it was covered in snow. With a hard shake, it sent the snow flying. The putrid smell of rotting meat filled the air. The wolf lifted its head and let out a long howl, like the mangled scream of a dying animal.
Three more wolves stepped away from the trees.
Mercia curled into a ball and covered her face. “Word,” she cried, “take care of my little one. And let her do what we were unable—”
Fangs like fire tore past her cloak and sunk into her neck. More came, slashing her shoulder, her side, her thighs. She choked back a gurgled scream. A numbing coldness followed the attacks, blocking away the frenzied tearing of her body.
Her powers would not save her this time. There were too many of them. She didn’t even try. She had done what she had come to do. The others would never know of her daughter. Their twisted beasts could not sense one so young. She had saved her baby.
Blackness filled her vision. For one moment she regretted her wasted life. Then Mercia reached for the small light ahead of her, grateful that at the end she had turned back.
1
Nothing changed during war. Weeds grew, the wind came and went, the sun still rose and set each day.
And yet at the same time, everything changed. Loved ones left to fight, rocking chairs remained empty, and only one dish and cup would be set out at dinner.
Rowen let out a sigh and sat back on her knees. Brown earth clung to her dress and fingers. She could feel the hot summer sun beat down on her head. Nearby stood the one-room cabin she had lived in as long as she could remember. Grey stones from the river formed the chimney. Thick dark logs were stacked and packed with mud. Dull yellow straw topped the small home. Vegetables grew beside the cabin in long rows. A fence made from broken branches and twine surrounded the garden, a garden that was sorely in need of her attention.
Nearby, the shadows from Anwin Forest crept closer to her garden. Rowen glanced at the forest. Tall, thick trees crowded out all light, leaving the forest floor in darkness. Dark green moss clung to the trunks. Broad ferns and prickly berry bushes spread between the trees like a blanket of green. Not one bird sang. Only the wind whispered through the trees.
Rowen shuddered and looked away. The war felt like those shadows: creeping toward her life, threatening to take away all she held dear. She focused on a large ugly weed and grabbed it.
Her father was safe, she knew it. She had received a letter from him only last week. She pulled on the weed, but it would not budge. She put both hands around the stem and tugged harder.
The war would end, and he would come home, and everything would go back to the way it used to be. Sweat trickled down the side of her face. She yanked with all her might. The weed burst from the ground with a spray of dirt.
She dumped the weed on top of the pile next to her and moved on to the next one.
“Attacking the weeds, I see.”
Rowen’s head shot up. A short, grey-haired man dressed in stained white robes stood by the fence that surrounded her garden. He held a basket beneath one arm. Leafy greens and bright round berries brimmed over the sides. His hair was tied back from his brown wrinkled face.
“Noland,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting a visit from you.”
“Do you need one?”
Rowen shook her head. “No. I’m feeling fine now. Thanks to you.”
Noland studied her, then reached into his basket. “I was just in Anwin collecting herbs for my stores. Found some mint growing back that way.” He nodded toward the forest. He pulled out a handful of the small green leaves. “Here, try this with hot water.”
Rowen stood and walked toward the fence. She hesitantly reached for the mint. Noland had never offered her anything before.
He looked at her with concern. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
She took the mint and stepped back. “Yes.” She touched her face with her free hand. “Just tired.”
“No lingering pain? No fever?”
“No.”
“Good.” Noland straightened. “You gave me quite a scare. Never seen a sickness like it.”
“Never felt anything like it.”
A look of relief crept across his face.
Her spirits lifted at the sight. Was she finally being accepted into the fold?
“You let me know if anything changes, all right?” he said.
“I will.”
His smile broadened. “Well, I should be going. The missus is waiting.” Noland raised a hand and shook a finger at her. “And don’t work too much on that garden. Make sure you rest.” He turned and headed toward the village below.
Rowen watched him until he disappeared down the hill. She leaned across the fence and closed her eyes. The sun felt warm across her face. But not as warm as the glow of acceptance. All she needed was her father to come home untouched by the war and everything would be perfect.
She opened her eyes She looked behind her at the small garden and nodded. She would finish the weeding tomorrow.
Rowen entered the cabin. A long wooden table filled most of the room. Across the table stood the fireplace. A large black kettle hung inside the opening, just above a mound of glowing coals. Dried herbs and garlic braids were draped over the mantle. Sticks were stacked neatly to the left.
Two windows were built into the wooden walls, one to the right and one to the left. The right one faced Anwin Forest. Below the window sat a rocking chair and one small bed covered in a faded patch quilt.
A chest stood in front of the bed. Inside it were a couple personal items: a lock of her mother’s brown hair, the smallsword her father had brought back for her during one of his trips to the White City, and a leather glove. Her father believed that a woman should be able to defend herself as well as any man, and so he had taught her how to use the blade. The glove had been a gift along with the sword.
Rowen went around the table and pulled the kettle out from the fireplace. The water had boiled dry. She looked in the nearby bucket. Empty as well. She gave a small sigh and dropped the mint on the table. She would have to go down to the village and retrieve more water.
The left window faced Cinad, the small village that lay just down the hill from her cabin. A low table with a cracked pitcher and bowl sat beneath the window. A single cupboard stood in the corner. Three chipped plates and cups lined its dusty shelves with a tin box on the very top.
Rowen undid the knot behind her and pulled the dirty apron off. She dumped it in the corner, then grabbed the bucket and headed out toward the village.
Cinad was one of many small villages scattered across the Ryland Plains. It wasn’t much to look at, just a collection of wood homes thatched with straw. But it was the only home Rowen had ever known.
The smell of smoke clung to the warm summer air. Far away, the faint clang of the blacksmith’s hammer echoed across the valley. Children with long sticks ran behind tall thin metal loops they guided down the single dirt road that ran through the village. Beyond the shabby homes and stores lay hills of golden wheat.
Near the end of the village stood the well. It was made of stone and topped with a shingled cone roof. Rowen could see a crowd of women collecting around the well. Her stomach gave a small flip, and she tightened her hold on the bucket. The last thing she wanted was to arrive in the middle of Cinad’s gossip time.
Rowen was about to turn back, but she caught sight of her friend Calya. Calya stood to the side, talking with a couple of the younger village women. Her hair, long and brown, was pulled back in a knot at the nape of her neck. She held a bucket with one hand and a baby on her hip. A little girl with long brown braids stood next to her.
Rowen took a deep breath and let it out with a whoosh. She could brave a visit to the well if Calya was there.
She made her way down the hill and passed the first set of houses. A couple of children between the cabins looked up and watched her. She lifted her chin higher and hurried along. The sound of the blacksmith’s hammer grew louder the closer she got to the open workspace.
Inside the dark interior of the blacksmith’s hut she saw Cleon bent over the anvil. His father worked the billows. Cleon glanced up. His black curly hair looked wild with the red light from the forge behind it. He stared straight at her.
Rowen fumbled, his look unnerving her. She caught herself and moved on toward the well.
The women ignored her as she approached. Good. Rowen heaved an inward sigh. She could handle that. Let them talk amongst themselves, and she would retrieve water and leave. Then Calya caught sight of her.
“Rowen! Over here!”
Rowen stopped and turned. “Calya,” she said. The other women grew quiet. Rowen shoved down the feeling of unease. Calya hurried toward her with her baby. Brighid, her little girl, followed.
Calya looked her up and down. “You look much better.” Calya smiled. “I don’t like finding people unconscious! When I found you, I thought… Well, it terrified me. And Noland wouldn’t say anything at first. But I saw the fear in his eyes too.” Then she seemed to grow timid. “H-how are you feeling now? Do you remember anything yet? I mean, you were sick for weeks.”
Rowen stared down at the empty bucket she held in both hands. She didn’t know what to say. She could remember nothing of those last few weeks. “Oh, I’m tired.” Rowen looked back up at Calya. “As if everything had been taken out of me.”
“Should you be out so soon, then?”
Rowen gave a small laugh and held up her bucket. “And how else would I get water?”
“Someone would have gotten it for you. Everyone pitched in while you were sick. Noland’s wife, Sarah, made broth for you, you know. Old Sonja brought over an extra quilt. And I even wrote your father.”
Rowen almost dropped her bucket. “You wrote my father?”
“Yes. Although I haven’t heard back yet.” She shifted the baby on her hip. “The entire village was worried about you, Rowen.”
Rowen realized the other women had quietly gathered around and were listening to the conversation. A lump stuck inside her throat. They had cared about her? Hesitantly she looked around. Lenora, the miller’s daughter, gave her a small smile. Grace and Tessa merely looked at her, but it w
as better than the cold stares she usually received from them.
Rowen looked back at Calya. “Thank you. Thank you all.”
Calya smiled. “Come now, let’s fill your bucket and get you home so you can rest.”
Rowen blinked. Calya placed a hand on her shoulder and steered her toward the well. Rowen stumbled forward, her mind still spinning.
“See,” Cayla said, “I told you they would come around.”
Old feelings of bitterness swirled inside her. Rowen didn’t bother to point out how long it had taken for the village to finally accept her—that she had lived here all her life and was now past marrying age, or that they’d come to care for her only when she’d been so ill she’d nearly died. But Calya’s kindness and the other women’s warm reaction to her quickly dispelled the bitter feeling.
Rowen hooked her bucket to the rope and dropped it down into the well. A splash echoed up the hole. Moments later she hauled the bucket up, placing one hand in front of the other and pulling until the dripping bucket came in view. She secured the rope and unhooked the bucket.
“Would you like me to help you up to the house?” Calya asked.
“No.” Rowen turned with bucket in hand. “I think I can handle this.” She could feel her strength returning. But it wasn’t fully back yet. She would need to lie down once she reached home, after she put the kettle on and washed up.
“Then I’ll stop by tomorrow with some dough so you can have a starter for bread.”
Rowen hadn’t even thought about her food stores. “Thank you.” By now, her own starter had probably gone rancid.
Calya said goodbye. Brighid peeked her head out and shyly waved. Even Lenora said farewell in a quiet voice. Grace and Tessa merely nodded.
Rowen gripped the bucket firmly between both hands and began her walk back through the village. Had things really changed? She passed the children again. Instead of hurrying past, she looked at them and gave them a small smile. They stared back. At least they didn’t run away like they usually did. One returned to rolling his thin metal hoop and pushing it with his stick. The other children followed, and the group disappeared behind the house.
Daughter of Light (Follower of the Word Book 1) Page 1
