Daughter of Light (Follower of the Word Book 1)

by Morgan L. Busse

  A massive weight slammed into her from the back. The ground greeted her, knocking her breath away.

  Her shoulder burst into a flame of agony. She screamed and tried to roll away from the pain, but slavering jaws above her clamped down again and tore into the flesh of her shoulder.

  Her vision clouded. A deathly coldness began to seep in from her shoulder down along her arm.

  Rowen gathered what coherency she had left and swung her other arm, elbow first, into the wolf on top of her.

  The dark creature grunted and staggered off her, giving her a chance to roll.

  She went to put weight on her left side. Her arm buckled beneath her.

  Rowen dropped back to the ground, her vision alternating between color and black. She struggled to clear her mind, only to find the two wolves advancing on her.

  She clawed at the dirt and grass and tried to pull herself up. The darkness called to her, beckoning her to follow it. She fell back down.

  No, Rowen thought weakly, unable to lift her head. But she couldn’t fight it any longer. The coldness from her arm spread down her body. Darkness closed her eyes and carried her away.

  • • •

  Lore walked along the city wall, visiting with the guards who stood on top and checking the battlements that lined the wall. With the threat of the Temanin Army now a reality, Lord Gaynor wanted the White City prepared. Even now, Temanin scouts could be watching them.

  He came to the main gates and stopped near the guardhouse. The two guards on duty nodded toward Lore. He nodded back in greeting.

  Lore leaned over the battlement and glanced at the fields of flowers that grew outside the city. A couple was walking just below the wall. Four little girls sat near the open gates, weaving flowers together. After being stuck inside the city all winter, Lore couldn’t think of a better way to spend the warm spring day.

  A sudden movement of color to his right caught his attention. Far off, it looked like a woman running, her green dress billowing out around her. Her dark hair triggered something inside his mind. Straining his eyes more, his heart suddenly stopped. Lady Astrea.

  “Kalfar, Donar, with me!” Lore shouted. He ran toward the stairway that led to the gates below. The two guards followed.

  Down the steps he flew, two at a time. Then taking a sharp left, Lore ran under the stone archway and out onto the field.

  Lady Astrea began to shout as she ran toward him. A sick feeling began to roll inside his gut. Where was Rowen?

  “Wolves,” Lady Astrea shouted, close to hysterics. “Black wolves. And Rowen—” She stumbled forward and cried, covering her face.

  Lore pointed to Lady Astrea. “Kalfar, take her to the castle. Donar, get those people inside the gate.”

  Without waiting to see his orders carried out, Lore took off across the field, searching for Rowen. He ran and ran, sweeping his eyes back and forth, but he could see no figure amongst the tall grass. His stomach clenched in fear. Where was she? Was he too late? No, Word. Please, no.

  He saw two dark shapes far across the field, almost at the tree line. Black wolves.

  With renewed strength, Lore pushed his body and raced across the grass. He could feel rage and fear building up inside him. He would not let those vile creatures kill an innocent person.

  Lore spotted a body amongst the grass. He drew his sword and yelled. He had to reach that body.

  One of the wolves turned toward him and snarled. Lore ignored the wolf and ran harder.

  The wolves took a couple of steps back from the body.

  Lore reached the body—it was Rowen—and placed himself between her and the wolves. He dropped into position and raised his sword. “Come on!” he shouted, his adrenaline high.

  One of the wolves backed away.

  Lore focused on the one closest to him. “Do it,” he whispered. He was a tightly wound coil ready to spring. Just one move, and he would be on them.

  The wolf answered his challenge. It snarled and leaped at Lore.

  Lore shifted his weight to his back leg and swung. Jaws snapped at him, sending spittle flying. His sword caught the wolf just below the head.

  The wolf landed on the ground, Lore’s sword still in its neck. It howled, followed by a strangled scream. The hair on Lore’s neck rose. He jabbed deeper, wanting the evil thing dead.

  It shuddered and lurched to the side. Lore kept his sword buried inside its neck. The wolf glared at him and screamed again. It snapped its jaws, but could not reach Lore’s hand.

  “No more!” Lore shouted. “No. More.”

  Its eyes dimmed. Lore felt the wolf begin to fall. He slid his sword out. The wolf dropped to the ground and lay still.

  Lore dropped back into position and faced the other wolf. It regarded him with yellow eyes. He stared at it, willing it to come fight him.

  Instead, it turned and ran.

  Lore watched the wolf run toward the protection of the forest. Where had the wolves come from? His father had hunted the black wolves down years ago. So what were they doing back?

  No matter. Lore sheathed his sword. The wolf would not live long. Tomorrow he would send out search parties and destroy that last wretched creature.

  He turned toward Rowen. Slowly he knelt down, hissing at the gaping wound in her shoulder, blood flowing freely. Lore tore the bottom of his shirt and ripped off a long piece of cloth. He carefully placed the cloth against her shoulder, holding pressure on the wound for a few seconds.

  But time was against him, and he knew it. He needed to get Rowen back to the castle and to Balint. Only the chief healer could save her from the poison he knew was flowing through her veins. Poison from the wolf’s bite.

  Please, Word. Lore picked up Rowen and held her close to his body. Please save her.

  He tore across the field. Ahead, he could see a crowd forming around the city gates. Not now, he thought. I need to get Rowen to the castle. Lore spotted Donar near the edge of the crowd. He was trying to herd the people back inside.

  “Donar!” Lore shouted. Donar turned. “Go get Balint! Tell him—” Lore panted. “Tell him Rowen was bitten by a black wolf.”

  Donar’s eyes went wide. He nodded and ran inside the gates. The crowd began to shout questions at Lore.

  Lore ignored them. “Move it!” he cried. The people scattered. “Stay inside the gates.” He ran under the archway. Ahead, more guards were running down the street toward the gates. “Get the people inside and shut the gates! Black wolves in the forest.”

  His boots hit the cobblestone. Lore ran past the guards and toward the castle. Fatigue danced around the edges of his being. He shoved his exhaustion aside. He let his mind dwell on one thing—fear, fear that he would be too late. Energy surged within him.

  Lore raced through the second set of gates toward the castle ahead. Rowen’s eyes fluttered. Lore saw and slowed down.

  Her hand flailed weakly against his chest. “Lore?” she said feebly.

  “Yes, Rowen, I’m here.”

  Her eyes shut, and she went limp in his arms.

  Lore clutched Rowen tighter and ran past the fountain and up the stairs to the front doors. The doors were wide open. He ran inside the castle, praying over and over. He knew the Word could heal Rowen. But he also knew that there were times when people died, no matter how hard one prayed. Perhaps Rowen’s time had come to an end.

  Lore choked at the thought.

  “Captain!” Donar came running into the entrance hall. “I alerted Healer Balint about Rowen.”

  Lore gave Donar a curt nod and ran by, barely able to breathe. He sucked in air and felt his arm and shoulder muscles screaming under his load. He ran down the dark hall, the sconces flickering by. Ahead, he could see the doors that led to the Healers Quarter.

  One of the doors slammed open. Balint came rushing out, his white robes flying behind him. His grey hair looked wild around his head. The old man saw Lore and skidded to a stop. “Donar told me about the wolf bite. Quick, place her on one of the beds.”


  Lore found one more ounce of strength and stumbled through the doorway. Four beds covered in pristine white sheets lined the right wall. A long wooden table filled the middle of the room, covered in books, vials, and herbs. Long, narrow windows reached toward the high ceiling above. Bookcases were wedged between the doors on the left.

  “There, put her there.” Balint pointed to the nearest bed.

  Lore staggered forward and all but dropped Rowen on the bed. He stepped back to let Balint through, suddenly weighed down by fear and exhaustion.

  Rowen was barely breathing now, her lips having lost their soft pink hue. Now they were pale, a shade darker than her skin.

  Balint stood next to Lore. “Now leave. I do not need distractions.”

  Lore nodded. His eyes darted toward her still form one more time before turning and stumbling out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

  Lore took a few steps down the hall, only to fall against the wall and slide to the floor. He leaned against the wall and slowly drew his knees up. He placed his arms over their tops and stared at the wall.

  Something wet began to run down his face. Lore lifted his hand and found his cheek damp. He brought his hand away and studied in surprise the moisture that clung to his fingers. He could not remember the last time he had cried.

  Lore stared at his wet fingertips and realized something: He did not want Rowen to die. Not in the general sense that a good man never wishes the passing of life. Nor even in the way a commander never wants to lose a soldier under his command. No, it went much deeper than that, and he knew it. The truth stood before him as clear as daylight.

  He did not want Rowen to die because…he loved her.

  • • •

  The moment Donar told him Rowen had been bitten, Balint had rushed about his room, gathering anything he thought could help. He’d grabbed books from the shelves and tossed them onto the table. Next, he’d searched his collection of herbs and vials. When he’d heard boots echoing in the hallway, he had dumped his supplies on the table and hurried out.

  He’d directed Captain Lore to place Rowen on one of the beds, and then he’d sent him out.

  Now Balint stood looking down at his patient, and fear coursed through him. The last time he had dealt with the poisonous bite of the black wolf, he had been too late, leaving Lord Gaynor a widower and Lady Astrea motherless.

  He placed a hand on Rowen’s neck. He remembered her. Not long ago he had bound Rowen to her oath. She seemed like a nice young woman. What a tragedy that she—

  He felt a faint pulse beneath her skin. She was still alive!

  Balint carefully pulled back her shirt. There was too much blood to see where the wounds were. He ran to one of the adjoining rooms and grabbed a bowl of water and a clean cloth. He hurried back and began swabbing her shoulder. After a moment, he pulled back the cloth and looked. He could find no wound on her shoulder. So he swabbed some more, searching for the puncture marks. Still nothing. His fear turned to confusion.

  Balint dipped the rag again and continued to clean the skin. Under the blood, all he could find was smooth skin with a couple of long but thin scars. There was no sign of the wolf’s bite.

  He stared at the skin, puzzled. The scars were in such a fashion that it looked as though Rowen had been bit—but weeks ago, not minutes ago. How could that be?

  An incredible thought occurred to him. “Impossible,” he muttered. But there was no other explanation. Balint moved around the bed toward Rowen’s right side. He picked up her hand and tugged the sword glove off. He turned her palm side up.

  Shocked, Balint stumbled away. Her hand fell back onto the bed. There, on her palm, was a large white mark, a mark Balint knew only too well.

  “Dear Word,” he whispered in amazement, his eyes still riveted to the mark across her hand.

  The young woman was an Eldaran.

  13

  Damp grey mist swirled across the mountain, weaving its way between boulders and stunted, scraggy trees. Tufts of brown grass shot up wherever it could find soil. Rocks covered everything else. The sky held the same sad grey color, blending the landscape into a wet, colorless painting.

  Nierne pulled her cloak tight in an effort to keep the chilly mist out. But it still found its way in, spreading its frosty fingers across her skin. It clung to her hair, her face, her fingertips. She stumbled up the path and wondered which was worse, the mountains or the marshes they had just crossed?

  The marshes, she decided, blowing on her hands. At least there were no biting insects here at this altitude, no mud up to her knees. And she could actually breathe through her nose up here, unlike in the marshes, where everything had smelled of rot and sewage. Nierne breathed in deeply as if to confirm that. Sweet, chilly air. Her eyes watered at the cold.

  Father Reth trudged on ahead, a mound of green under the cloak he wore. Nierne fell back into line behind him. To take her mind off the chill, she dredged up memories of warm summer days she spent in Thyra. She remembered the way the sun felt as its rays seeped through her robes in the prayer garden, the smell of Father Karl’s roses, the sound of laughter as children played on the other side of the wall—

  “Ouch!” Nierne pulled back, her forehead smarting. She glared at a low hanging branch and rubbed the injured area.

  “I’m sorry.” Father Reth looked back, “I thought you saw the branch.”

  “I’m fine. It just smarts a bit.” Nierne gave her head one final rub before gripping her cloak again.

  They continued up the mountain in silence. The trees began to thin and the mist grew thicker. Nierne stayed near Father Reth, wary of losing him in the blanket of grey.

  “We’re almost there,” Father Reth said, breaking the silence.

  “Almost where?”

  “The summit.”

  A burst of energy filled her at the thought. Nierne climbed faster, eager to reach the peak. It seemed Father Reth felt the same way. The two soaked travelers moved quickly up the mountainside.

  “There are some old ruins just a short way down on the other side,” Father Reth said, his breathing quicker now. “At least there were years ago when I last crossed these mountains. If they’re still there, and if I can find something dry to light, perhaps we can have a fire tonight.”

  Nierne smiled at the thought of a fire. A warm, dry, crackling fire. And maybe something warm to eat for a change. Dried meats and fruits went only so far in filling the belly.

  By late afternoon, they reached the top. The sun struggled through the mist that swirled around the mountaintop.

  Father Reth stopped and looked around. “It’s been many years,” he said, more to himself.

  “Many years?” Nierne looked at Father Reth.

  “About forty years, to be precise.” Father Reth turned and smiled. “When I last stood on this spot.”

  Nierne looked around. The summit was even barer than the terrain they’d passed on the climb up here. Small twisted bushes and more rocks. She could see nothing beyond, the mist and low hanging clouds obscuring everything.

  Father Reth took a few steps off the path. “If it were a clear day, you would be able to see Anwin Forest to the east.” He pointed into the mist.

  Nierne looked out into the grey shroud. Even though they would be entering Anwin soon, she wished she could see the forest now.

  “And on either side of us are two of the highest peaks in the Ari Mountains, other than Mount Aerie, the mountain from which the White City is carved. But you can’t see the two peaks now, the fog is too thick.” Nierne looked up and around. “This summit is really just a pass between the two.”

  Nierne turned back to Father Reth. “How is it you know so much about where we’re going?” She knew very little of Father Reth’s past, other than he hadn’t always been a father. But watching him first with Ben, and now for the last few weeks leading them along the trail with familiarity, she wanted to know.

  Father Reth threw back his head and laughed. “I was wondering when you w
ere going to ask.” Nierne frowned at his reaction, and he smiled back. “I’m glad to see your spark of curiosity did not die in Thyra, although it’s taken some time for it to return.”

  Nierne felt her face redden. “I wasn’t sure— That is, it’s your past. And you always say the past is in the past and to live your life you need to move on…” She fumbled to stop, feeling foolish.

  “I have nothing to hide.”

  Nierne looked up.

  Father Reth smiled and motioned for Nierne to follow him. “Let’s keep walking, and I’ll tell you.” The two of them began to walk, the path descending downward now. “When I was a young man, I was a…” He paused for a moment. “Well, let’s just say I was a treasure hunter.”

  “Treasure hunter?” Nierne mulled the term over in her mind.

  “A plunderer, if you will. I would find ruins and search them for artifacts, scrolls, jewelry—basically anything that could be sold. The money was good, I was able to see much of the Lands, and I was not responsible to anyone but myself. Or so I thought. That’s how I met Ben. We traveled together and split the profits on whatever we found. Then something happened.”

  Father Reth walked quietly for a few moments. Nierne continued by his side, silently waiting for him to continue. This explained why, at the Monastery, Father Reth always knew so much about the places mentioned in the old scrolls and writings. He had probably been there.

  “Ben and I decided to explore the eastern part of the world,” Father Reth began. “We had heard of old Eldaran and Shadonae ruins that had not been touched by humans in hundreds of years. So we crossed these mountains, just the two of us. It wasn’t as unheard of as it is now. In fact, long ago, the White City and Thyra had runners who would take messages between the two cities several times a month. The ruins just ahead were one of the outposts used by those runners. But I’m straying from my story…