Rowen walked past the blacksmith. The shop was quiet. She looked over, and she found Cleon watching her. An uneasiness passed over her at the intense look on his face. She gripped the bucket and moved steadily forward.
At the edge of the village, Rowen hurried up the hill to her own cabin. Water slopped and sloshed over the sides of the bucket. But she didn’t care. Her mind was elsewhere.
She entered the house and walked around the table toward the kettle. She poured half of the water into the black pot then pushed the pot over the coals. She headed toward the table below the window and filled the pitcher from the bucket. Finally, she put the bucket down and poured water from the pitcher into the bowl.
Rowen dipped her hands into the water. It was tepid, and it turned a muddy brown as the dirt from her garden slowly rinsed from her hands. She reached for the block of soap and worked up a thick lather. She looked out the window as she scrubbed.
She spotted Calya and some other women walking together, carrying their own buckets. In the past, Rowen would have wondered what they were talking about. She would watch them and burn with the desire to be a part of their group. At other times she would feel loneliness and hurt, or be sure they were talking about her. But today was the first time she had been accepted. Perhaps not embraced, exactly, but it was close enough for a start. She was one of them now.
Warmth spread from her heart across her entire body. Rowen smiled. She glanced down to see if her hands were clean—
She stopped and frowned. A patch of white skin caught her eye. Slowly she brought her right hand up to the window. What is this? Pale white skin covered her entire palm, spreading out like a large snowflake toward her fingertips. The rest of the skin on her hand was fair and looked normal. Only her palm seemed affected. Puzzled, Rowen dipped her hand back into the water, scrubbed for a moment, then brought her palm back up. The white mark was still there.
Turning her palm from left to right, she studied the strange mark on her hand. Her frown deepened. This was her hand. She knew it well. No paleness or any other discoloration had ever been there before. But wait: Her recent illness had been so strange. Could this be a lingering effect from that?
Rowen looked at her other hand, both sides. No white mark on her left hand. She searched her arms. No white patches. She stepped away from the window and raised her dress. She bent over and twisted from side to side, searching every part of her skin for anything unusual. Her legs looked fine as far as she could see.
Rowen dropped her dress and touched her cheek, wishing she could see her face. She checked her reflection in her wash basin, but it was too soapy to show much. There couldn’t be anything there—if something had looked strange, Calya would have mentioned it. Or one of the other women. Or the children. They’d had no problem in the past pointing out what was strange about her.
She raised her hand again. The pale pattern remained on her palm. What in all the Lands could this be? Perhaps she should tell Noland—
A sharp knock sounded at her door.
“Coming.” Rowen reached for the white linen that hung on a nearby peg. She dried her hands and dumped the rag on the long table before answering the door.
On the threshold stood a courier dressed in dark blue. The colors of the White City. “Rowen Mar?” the young man said, his voice somber.
Fear swept across her body, leaving her weak and breathless. “Yes?” Her voice cracked through her words. Rowen reached out and gripped the door. It was silly to be afraid. There could be any number of reasons the White City would send a courier to her home. Perhaps it was just a letter from her father. After all, Calya had written to him about her illness. But never had a White City courier brought a simple letter. No, only one reason made sense.
The courier raised his hand and held out a cream colored parchment. “I’m sorry.” A look of pity covered his face as he handed her the letter.
Rowen stared at the parchment. No, no. It couldn’t be. Her hand moved toward the letter as if detached from the rest of her body. Her fingers clutched the cold parchment. The young man said something else, but Rowen could not hear him over the rush inside her head.
Somewhere in her mind she saw the courier disappear down the path. Rowen backed into the house and sat down on the long bench next to the table. She turned the folded parchment around and found the seal of the White City pressed firmly in blue wax. Her finger shook near the opening. Did she really want to know?
With a quick thrust, she broke the wax and unfolded the piece of parchment.
To Rowen Mar,
We regret to inform you…
Rowen let the letter fall to the floor. Her father was dead.
• • •
Commander Jedrek Mar’s body was brought to the village the next day. Many dignitaries and military men accompanied the coffin. Rowen neither remembered nor cared. To others, he had been a top commander in the Northern Army, a man highly respected and admired. To Rowen, he had been her only family and friend.
Everyone gathered south of the village. Mounds of rocks and flowers stood in straight rows below a lone gnarled tree that had somehow found root away from Anwin Forest. The village burial place. The air felt warm and stifling under the bright summer sun. Bodies pressed close together in a ragged line that led to a new hole in the ground right near the base of the tree.
Rowen stood alone near the hole, with a white flower clutched in her hand. Only once did she look down into it. She caught a brief glimpse of the coffin inside the dark gap, then looked away. It hurt too badly to think of her father inside that wooden box.
Instead, she stared numbly ahead at the fields of wheat. Men from the village began to shovel dirt into the hole. She could hear each dull thud as the dirt hit the coffin. She shattered inside with each sound. But on the outside she stood as still as possible, as if she were frozen in time. She would not cry. Not here, not now.
After the hole was filled, the line of mourners began to walk by, each stopping to place a rock on the growing mound that covered her father’s coffin. Some of them then turned to speak to her, but Rowen could hardly hear what they said. It was as if her mind and body had been turned off. She could only watch and hope the day would end soon.
A hand fell across her shoulder. Rowen started at the touch and turned.
Calya looked at her with sorrow etched across her face. “Oh Rowen, I’m so sorry.” Rowen worked her mouth to say something, but her voice was gone. “No need to speak,” Calya said. “I just want you to know that if there is anything Bardon or I can do,” she said, referencing her husband, “please let us know.”
Rowen swallowed and nodded. Unfortunately, the only thing she wanted right now was her father back.
Calya gave her shoulder a squeeze. “And that goes for the whole village, you know that. We’ll take care of you for as long as you need.”
Rowen nodded and turned back toward the growing mound of rocks. Calya stood by her until the last stone was placed on the mound. Then Rowen moved toward the rock mound. She could feel every eye in the village watching her as she laid the flower on the topmost rock.
The village mason moved to her side. Rowen stared down at the mound, hardly believing that beneath it lay her father. He placed a specially carved rock at the head of the mound.
Jedrek Mar, it read. Loving Husband and Father. Defender of the North.
Rowen’s eyes lingered on the words. Invisible hands began to squeeze her throat. People shuffled around her, some crying quietly, others whispering. Rowen could feel the floodwaters of her own grief welling up inside of her.
Noland came to stand beside her. He said a couple of words to the crowd, then the villagers dispersed. Overhead, the summer sun continued to burn brightly. Rowen stood in the shade of the tree, waiting for the others to leave.
As she turned to go back to her own home, her eye landed on another mound nearby. Small purple and white flowers were sprawled across the rocks. It was her mother’s grave. Separated for years by death, Je
drek and Ann Mar were finally together again.
Rowen bit her lip and ran back toward her cabin. And there, in the one room cabin she had shared with her now deceased parents, she let her grief flow over.
• • •
Rowen sat beside the long wooden table, slowly sipping hot mint water. Calya bustled around the cabin. Outside she could hear the giggles of Calya’s two daughters as they played just below the window.
“I’ll have Bardon split some more firewood for you,” Calya said, eyeing the low pile of wood near the fireplace. She picked up a couple of sticks and tossed them on the hot coals beneath the kettle.
Rowen watched her friend for a moment. “I’m sorry I’m not much company today. Or for the last three weeks for that matter.” She stood and moved toward the bowl to wash out her cup.
“Don’t worry.” Calya glanced over her shoulder. “I’m just here to help out.” She pushed the kettle over the fire.
Rowen finished washing out her cup and placed it in the nearby cupboard. Then she glanced up at the tin box that lay on the top shelf. She had only a few coins left from her father’s military stipend. Panic swelled inside her chest. Looking over at Calya, Rowen knew she could never ask her friend for money. Calya already had done enough to help her through this time of grieving.
Rowen closed the cupboard doors. But food and help would not pay for more fabric to mend her worn-out dress or nightgown. She glanced down and fingered the new hole near her waist.
The mark on her palm caught her eye. She glanced over her shoulder. Cayla was mixing something in a large wooden bowl. Keeping her back to Calya, Rowen raised her hand. She really needed to have this checked out. With a sigh, she grabbed her apron from a nearby peg. She would visit Noland later that afternoon, after the weeding was done.
• • •
“Rowen?” a masculine voice said.
Rowen’s head snapped around at the sound.
Beside the fence stood Cleon. His blacksmith apron was gone, replaced with a faded white shirt that showed how muscular his chest was. The sleeves were rolled back, revealing arms that used a heavy hammer. His face was clean-shaven. Wild black curly hair hung around a round face that ended in a heavy jaw. He looked at her intently with amber eyes.
“Cleon.” Her heart sunk. She dropped the weed she had just pulled and stood. She wished Calya were here now. But Calya had left to take her little ones home for a nap.
Cleon leaned over the fence and placed his arms along the top post. The fence creaked under his weight. “Care to take a walk?”
Her heart sank further. Yes, Cleon was definitely here for a reason. And she suspected she knew what it was. Rowen swallowed the bitter taste that suddenly filled her mouth. She already knew her answer. No. But she would need to find a tactful way to tell him. Perhaps a walk would give her time to find the right words to bring him down gently.
“It would be a…pleasure,” Rowen said, choking on the words inside.
Cleon straightened up and moved toward the gate. The self-assured grin on his face almost made her turn back. Rowen swallowed bitterly again as he opened the gate. “I know just the place,” he said, extending his arm toward her. She forced herself to take his arm.
Cleon pulled her close to his side. Rowen narrowed her eyes at his possessiveness, but said nothing. She would let him know where she stood with him soon enough.
Cleon led her away from the house toward a small path that followed the tree line. He spoke little as they walked. Rowen remained silent as well, her mind racing for the right words to say. The path turned and headed into the forest.
“My father’s thinking about retiring come next planting.” They passed the first line of trees. “Turning the business over to me.”
“Oh.” A knot began to form in her stomach.
“And I’ve begun construction on a house down at the south end of Stott’s field.”
Rowen didn’t answer. Cleon didn’t seem to notice. Apparently he had thought a lot about the future.
For one moment she tried to imagine a life with Cleon. He had a respectable trade, a rising place of prominence in the village, and wasn’t bad to look at. But there was something about him, something unsettling. Something about his eyes…
Cleon steered her toward a small clearing amongst the trees. It had been a favorite haunt of the village children long ago, but now with the war and the increase of strangers traveling through the Ryland Plains, families kept their little ones closer to home.
Cleon stopped and turned to face her. “You must know why I’ve asked you here.” He stood so close that Rowen had to look up. She could see each dark curly strand around his face. Her heart began to thud inside her chest. Perhaps coming with Cleon had been a bad idea.
Cleon didn’t wait for her to answer. Instead he placed his hands on her shoulders.
“Cleon, wait.” Rowen took a step back. He was moving too fast—
Cleon moved in close again. “You must realize that not many men in our village would think of bonding with you.” Cleon looked down at her. Rowen could smell the smoke of the smithy on his clothing. “But times have changed. Your father has died—” Rowen scowled at his calloused words— “leaving you all alone. But I can change that.”
He placed a rough, thick hand on her cheek. Rowen turned away. Cleon forced her face back. “I want you to bond with me.” He moved his head down to kiss her. Rowen tried to twist away. Cleon forced her face still and pressed his lips hard down on hers.
Rowen jerked out of his grasp. “Cleon, no!”
His head followed her movement. “I can take care of you, Rowen. And you know no other man will have you.”
“Let go!”
Cleon tightened his grip on her shoulders. Rowen grabbed his wrist and—
Time slowed.
A strange sensation rose from deep within her, racing toward her right arm. It surged out where her palm held his wrist.
Cleon stopped talking. He backed away for a moment, looking at her in puzzlement. “Wha-What are you doing to me?”
“I-I don’t know!” Her head pounded. What was happening?
His eyes went wide with fear. “Let go of me!” Cleon pulled at his arm.
Rowen tried, but her hand would not let go. Her vision blurred. Images began to fill her mind, images of Cleon. His father beating him while his mother cowered in the corner… Kicking a dog behind the shed until it lay still… Dunking a small boy in a stream while others laughed around him. Over and over, pictures from Cleon’s life flashed across her eyes. Rowen began to feel dizzy. She became aware of eddies of hatred swirling inside of her. Was it his hatred or hers?
Her vision began to clear. Rowen felt like she was coming up to the surface of a clear lake after being underwater too long. She drank in great draughts of air.
Cleon yanked his hand away. “What did you do to me?” he shouted.
Rowen tried to talk, but her body would not respond. She could only stand there breathing heavily.
“Answer me!”
She glanced up into Cleon’s eyes. They were livid with rage. “I don’t know,” she said, finding her voice. She took a step back. “I saw… Cleon, I had no idea…”
Cleon snarled and raised his hand as if to hit her. Rowen stared at him in shock. He wouldn’t dare—
“Don’t ever touch me again, you witch!” He stared at her a moment longer, then lowered his hand. But the look in his eyes told her that if he could have, he would have struck her. “The village will hear of this.” He pointed a finger at her. “We will not tolerate witchery.”
Before Rowen could reply, Cleon spit on her. She felt the warm liquid dribble down her cheek. He turned and stalked back toward the village. Rowen sank to her knees.
What just happened?
Her hand shook and she wiped the spittle away. Her mind reeled from the feelings and images she had just experienced. What had she done to Cleon?
A glimmer of light caught her eye. Rowen brought her hand away from h
er face and stared. The mark she had discovered on her palm weeks ago now glowed, lighting up her entire hand.
Her heart thudded faster inside her chest. What was happening to her? Even as she watched, the light began to dim until it faded to a pale white across her palm. But the mark was still there.
Rowen scrambled to her feet and raced down the path. Whatever this was, she had to get rid of it.
She raced underneath the trees, shadows flashing above her. Rowen turned down the path. The roof rose in view. Sharp pain erupted along her side. She pressed a hand against her ribs and ran to the door.
Rowen flung the door open and stood there panting. She squinted in the dark cabin, searching for something she could use to wash the white mark off. There. She headed toward the pitcher and bowl. She poured the water into the bowl and shoved the pitcher aside.
She grabbed the block of soap and began to scrub, alternating between the soap and her fingernails. Soon her hand grew raw, causing the strange white mark to stand out more from the reddened skin. But it would not come off.
Rowen began to shake. What was this thing on her hand? She turned and looked around the room for anything that might take the white skin off. Nothing. In desperation, she turned back to the basin and poured more water in. Perhaps she—
“She’s here,” a voice called out behind her.
Rowen jerked back. The ceramic bowl went crashing to the floor, scattering water and jagged pieces across the packed dirt. She turned toward the door.
Cleon stood in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest.
Rowen took a step back, bumping into the small table still wet with spilled water.
In three strides Cleon stood before her. Before she could move, he grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her toward the door. “Here’s the witch!”
Daughter of Light (Follower of the Word Book 1) Page 2
