Daughter of Light (Follower of the Word Book 1)

by Morgan L. Busse

  She rolled onto her side and pulled the quilt over her body. The soft scent of lilac drifted up from the quilt. It reminded her of Jedrek and Ann. What would they think of their adopted daughter now? Rowen shivered and closed her eyes. Perhaps it was better they’d never known their daughter was a witch…

  Rowen woke up at the sound of knocking. She looked at the door then up at the window. The sun had disappeared behind the mountains. Anwin’s trees cast long shadows across her cabin. Had she really slept for three hours?

  The knock came again. She rolled over and stared at the door. Why would anyone be visiting her? She had two days before they exiled her.

  A small movement near the bottom caught her attention. A cream colored envelope made its way beneath the door.

  Rowen drew back the quilt and quietly made her way across the cold floor. She picked up the envelope. The seal of the White City was pressed firmly in blue wax along the fold. A lump filled her throat at the sight. What more could the White City have to say to her?

  She thrust her finger along the fold and broke the wax. It took a moment for her eyes to clear before she could begin reading the letter.

  To Rowen Mar

  I never received your reply. My offer still stands. In view of Jedrek Mar’s death, I would like to offer you a position here in the White City, namely, as varor to my daughter, Lady Astrea. The position is yours should you accept and pass the training. However, if you are not interested, please let my courier know. I will wait for your response.

  Lord Gaynor Celestis, High Lord of the White City and Ryland Plains.

  Rowen read the letter two more times, hardly believing what she was seeing. Could it be? Could she really have a new life apart from this nightmare?

  She tore open the door and dashed around the corner. The messenger was halfway down to the path toward the village. “Wait!” she called, waving the letter overhead.

  The courier stopped and turned around.

  Rowen ran toward the young man. “Yes!” she said with a gasp. She waved the letter in front of him. “My answer is yes.”

  He eyed her for a moment. Would he retract the offer? Why was he hesitating?

  Rowen slowed her breathing, but inside she felt as though she were flying.

  “Then I will take your answer back to Lord Gaynor.” The courier turned to go.

  “Wait! I will be able to start right away. In fact, I can leave in two days.”

  The courier turned and looked at her with surprise.

  “Its just that…I have nothing left holding me here.” Rowen lowered the letter. “So I can start right away.”

  The young man frowned. “The captain is currently away from the White City. But I’m sure Lord Gaynor will not object if you show up so soon after receiving the message. I will let him know.”

  “Thank you,” Rowen said.

  The messenger nodded then turned and continued back down the path.

  Rowen watched him, feeling tears threaten to take her again. How could she have missed the High Lord’s offer in that first letter? Then she remembered. She had burned that hateful letter the day after her father’s burial, never bothering to read the rest.

  How close she had come to shutting the one door that now would save her life.

  Rowen turned around and made her way back up to her house. The High Lord of the White City wanted her, Rowen, to be the varor to his daughter—to be the bodyguard of Lady Astrea. The offer had been made as a way to take care of her after her father’s death. She knew her father had had friends in high places, but the High Lord? She placed a hand on her face, hardly believing.

  Rowen stepped inside the house and went directly to the small chest, her mind now pulling together everything she would need for such a position. She lifted the lid and looked inside. The lock of her mother’s hair rested on a leather scabbard. Rowen took the hair out and placed it gently on the bed. Then she drew out the scabbard with her smallsword inside.

  Heaviness settled across her chest. She remembered the day her father had given her this sword. Her mother had died weeks before. He’d said he wanted Rowen to learn to protect herself. Unfortunately, no sword she knew of could protect a person from ravaging diseases such as the one that had killed her mother.

  Rowen placed the sword on the ground beside her and felt for the leather glove. There. She lifted the glove out of the chest and stared at it. Never would she have thought this little bit of leather might save her life.

  Rowen slid the sword glove onto her right hand. It was tight, but with a couple of tugs she got it fully fit onto her hand. She flexed her fingers and looked at her hand front and back. The leather covered her palm, but left her fingertips free. It was a great fit. She grabbed her sword and stood.

  Rowen took a couple of swings. The memories and her father’s instruction came rushing back. She could do this. She took another swing. A small smile tugged on her lips. She could definitely do this. What was it the letter had said? Something about training? She would pass. Her father had taught her well. Rowen sheathed the sword back in the scabbard and laid it on her bed, alongside her mother’s hair.

  Then she looked at the glove again. It exposed no white mark and allowed no light through. But would it be a strong enough barrier to keep whatever she had done to Cleon from happening again? Her smiled disappeared at the thought.

  Rowen closed her hand into a fist. She didn’t know. But one thing she did vow: No one would ever know of her mark.

  3

  It rained the day Rowen left Cinad. No one said goodbye, and no one watched her go. She chose not to turn back in her saddle as she rode past the last few houses. It would only hurt more. Instead, she thought about the new life she would be starting in the White City.

  In her pack she carried a couple of changes of clothing, food, and the lock of her mother’s hair. At her side hung her scabbard and smallsword. Everything else she’d simply left behind.

  By the time she stopped her horse for the evening, her cloak was soaked. The trees of Anwin provided a little protection from the drizzle. But the rain never let up long enough for her to completely dry.

  On the third day after leaving Cinad, Rowen arrived in Mostyn. Tall wooden walls surrounded the old military town. The dirt road led to an archway. One lantern hung on the right side and swung wildly with the wind. Dark skies hung overhead. Rain fell in sheets, leaving large puddles of mud and water along the dirt road. The white-capped Ari Mountains rose behind the town, barely visible through the downpour.

  Rowen rode miserably through the archway. She was soaked to the bone and freezing. Rows of stores and homes stood inside the walls. Warm light filled each window. Signs over doorways swayed back and forth.

  Rowen moved toward one, shaded her eyes against the rain and squinted upward. Mercantile. No, not what she was looking for. She steered her horse toward the next sign. Blacksmith. The picture of an anvil brought up memories of Cleon and the events from a couple of days ago. The pain from those last few days flared again. She tightened her grip on the reins and moved on.

  She passed two more buildings and then found what she was looking for: the local stable. Rowen jumped down from the horse and led her inside. The smell of hay and horse filled the air. Along both walls were rows of stalls. Only one horse was stabled here. It looked up at Rowen, then went back to munching.

  A man came walking down the middle of the corrals. “Need a stable tonight, miss?”

  “Yes. Just for one night.”

  “It’ll be two coppers.”

  Rowen unlatched her pack and dug around inside for her coin pouch. She found the pouch and counted the money for the man.

  “New to Mostyn?” the man said.

  “Yes, sir.” Rowen swung the pack up over her shoulder.

  “Then the best place to stay is old Jarl’s. Clean rooms, good food, and generally good company.”

  “Where can I find this Jarl’s?” Rowen hoped she had enough in her coin pouch to pay. She wasn’t sure she
could stand one more night under a dripping tree.

  “Just down the street. Can’t miss it. Largest building in town besides the fort.”

  Rowen thanked the man and went back out on the street. It was dark now but at least the rain had let up. Large puddles littered the dirt street, barely visible until she stepped in them. By the time she found the large wooden door leading into the inn, she was covered with mud.

  Rowen grasped the handle and gave the door a shove. A blast of warm air—filled with the smells of meat, bread, and smoke—hit her face as the door swung open. She took a step inside. The wind caught the door and slammed shut behind her.

  Rowen stood there with her dripping cloak and pack, unsure of what to do. The main room was huge. Even bigger than Noland’s house. Wood rafters crisscrossed above, and from them hung metal chandeliers with fat, dripping candles. A fire roared in the nearby fireplace. The flames cast a subtle orange light across everything. There were at least twenty to thirty tables, most of them filled with people hunched over wooden plates, stuffing hunks of bread and meat into their mouths. Other patrons held pewter colored mugs topped with froth.

  “Hello there,” a voice said nearby. Rowen scanned the room for the voice. “Over here,” the voice said again. To her left stood a long wooden counter. Behind the counter was a short man with a dirty white apron over his ample middle. His head was bald, and only a tuft of grey hair grew on either side. He held a tattered rag in one hand and a pewter mug in the other. He motioned to her with the rag and placed the mug down. Rowen moved toward the counter.

  “Name’s Jarl, owner of this establishment,” Jarl said. “Looking for a place to stay the night?”

  Rowen wiped away the water that still clung to her face. “Yes, sir.”

  “No need for formality here.” Jarl gave her a smile. “Just call me Jarl.” He dropped his rag down on the counter and disappeared through a door behind him. Moments later he reappeared with a candle. “Follow me.”

  Rowen followed him across the room, past the rows of tables toward the back. “Watch your step,” Jarl said over his shoulder. He started up a set of narrow stairs. Rowen followed him up. Every stepped creaked and groaned.

  Jarl stopped at the top. “It’s not much.” He opened the first door on the right. “But at least it’s clean and dry.” Rowen peered past him into the small room. “And it comes with a free meal tonight and one tomorrow.”

  He was right, she thought as she glanced around the room: It wasn’t much. Just a bed in the corner and a nightstand. A small window graced the far wall. At least it was better than the cold hard ground she had slept on the last couple of nights.

  Rowen turned toward him. “How much?”

  “Five coppers.” Jarl placed the candle on the nightstand.

  “I’ll take it.” She pulled out her coin pouch. She had just enough. She counted out the coins and placed them in his outstretched hand.

  “When you come back downstairs, I’ll send Dara over with your dinner.” Jarl turned to leave. “Oh, and one more thing,” he said, turning back around. “I’m afraid the ale is extra.”

  “That won’t be a problem.” Rowen dropped her pack down near the small nightstand. “I’ll just have water.”

  “Then I’ll let Dara know.”

  After Jarl closed the door, Rowen peeled off her cloak and hung it on the bedpost, but she kept her sword belted around her middle. For one moment she thought about forgoing dinner and going right to bed. But the faint smell of bread drifted beneath her nostrils, making her stomach growl with hunger. She sighed and headed toward the door. The bed would have to wait.

  Back downstairs, Rowen surveyed the large room, looking for a place to sit. A few men looked up and stared at her. She ignored them, forcing her eyes to look for an empty table. Animal skins hung along the wall by the fireplace: some deer, a wildcat, and one black bear. She wondered briefly where the bear pelt had come from since there were no bears in Anwin. A couple more heads turned her direction. In the far corner right near the fireplace stood an empty table. Grateful for the find, she hurried toward it before another could claim it.

  Rowen sank down on the hard bench. It had been a while since she had ridden. With each ache and pain, her body reminded her just how long. The heat from the fireplace drifted toward her body, soaking through the dampness of her clothing and skin. Rowen closed her eyes, savoring the feeling of warmth as it spread across her body.

  A few minutes later a large woman clad in a dark green dress with an apron over it bustled toward her table balancing a steaming bowl of stew and a platter with a round loaf on top. “Here you go, miss.” She placed the food in front of Rowen and hurried away.

  At the smell, her mouth began to water. Rowen picked up the wooden spoon and began to consume the contents of her bowl in a polite but hurried fashion.

  The woman came back with a mug of water. “Are you sure you don’t want some ale?” She eyed the water with suspicion.

  “No, thank you,” Rowen said. The woman shrugged and moved back toward the kitchen. Rowen glanced around, noting the thick pewter mugs others were drinking from, then she took a drink from her own mug, which had only water. She had never cared much for the bitter brew common here in the Ryland Plains.

  Halfway through her meal, she began to feel drowsy. Now warm and dry and her stomach nearly filled, her body was ready for sleep. Rowen took a few more bites then pushed back the bowl. The fire continued to warm her back, making her even drowsier. Slowly she stood and stretched. Then she began to make her way through the tables toward the stairs in the back.

  “Hey there.” A hand reached out and grabbed hold of her wrist.

  Immediately Rowen clenched her hand to protect her mark. “Excuse me?” A grizzled, pockmarked face surrounded by wild grey hair looked up at her. The man wore a dark blue uniform. Rowen tried to pull her hand away. “Let go of me, sir.”

  The man tightened his grip. “Come and sit with us,” he said with a slur. “Make a couple soldiers happy.”

  Glancing around the table she found other men in uniform. “Not tonight,” Rowen said, looking back at him. She pulled again.

  “Don’t you care that we could die in a couple days?”

  Rowen saw what the man was trying to do. “I’m sorry, but I have somewhere to be tomorrow.” She placed her other hand on the hilt of her sword.

  The man stared at the sword, then back up into her face, surprise etched across his face. “Yes, ma’am.” He let go of her wrist and turned to his comrades.

  Rowen hurried toward the stairs, her heart both relieved and saddened.

  She entered her room and shut the door. She walked over to the nightstand. The candle Jarl had left behind still flickered in the dark room. Rowen placed the candle on the floor then pulled the nightstand across the room and shoved it up against the door.

  She let out a shaky breath and backed away. It disturbed her that she’d had to resort to pointing out she had a sword to get the man to let go of her. Were all men like this? Is that what the world was like? This new life was proving to be much bigger and darker than the one she’d left behind in Cinad.

  Rowen undid the belt that hung around her waist and dropped the sword near her pack. Eyeing the pack a moment longer, she realized her nightgown was most likely drenched as well. She sat down on the bed with a groan. She was too tired to fuss about it tonight.

  She pulled her boots off and crawled under the covers still wearing her traveling clothes. The bed felt chilly because of her wet clothing. Rowen leaned down and blew out the candle. She burrowed back under the covers, shivering. Slowly her body began to warm. Exhaustion took over. Her eyelids grew heavy. Raindrops began to pelt the window with sharp quick taps. The last thing she remembered was how nice it was not to be sleeping outside in the rain.

  • • •

  Captain Lore halted his horse and sighed. The rain fell in one long continuous drizzle from dark clouds overhead. He wiped cold water from his face and pulled hi
s hood farther down. Just one more day of riding, and he would be home. The horse shifted beneath him restlessly. “All right, all right, we’ll keep going.” He gave the horse a gentle kick. The horse started forward eagerly.

  Lore kept one hand on the reins and stretched out his back. His stomach rumbled. He placed a hand over his middle and sat forward again. He hadn’t eaten since this morning. There were a couple of biscuits left in his bag, but the last thing he wanted was a stale traveler’s biscuit or dried meat. Four days of the stuff was enough. He would wait until he reached Mostyn and eat something hot at the inn.

  Lore rode on until he could barely see the muddy road in the darkness. The wind came whipping up, slapping across his body and pulling at his cloak. He kept a tight hold on his cloak and pressed forward.

  Minutes later, a small light appeared, swinging madly back and forth beside an archway. He sat up straighter and urged the horse forward. He had made it to Mostyn.

  Lore rode through the town until he reached the local stable. He jumped down from the horse and led him inside.

  A man stood beside one of the stalls with a pitchfork of hay. The man looked up. “One moment,” he said and dumped the hay over the gate.

  Lore grabbed his belongings from the saddle.

  The man placed his pitchfork against the stall and walked over.

  “Just one night,” Lore said. He handed the man a couple of coins and the reins of his horse.

  “Yes, sir.” The man took both and led his horse away.

  Lore hurried back outside. The wind and rain pulled at him. He dashed across the muddy streets to the inn.

  Large brightly lit windows covered the front of the inn. An old sign swung over the door, the words long since faded. Lore passed the windows and reached for the door. Warm air engulfed him as he entered. He shut the door behind him and headed straight for the counter.