“What?” Lore turned and looked at her. “I don’t understand. That was only a few weeks ago—”
“Yes.” Her hands trembled, and her courage ebbed away. She needed to say everything now. “I never told you what happened to me in my village, before coming to the White City. Balint knows, only because I told him after he revealed what I was.” Rowen swallowed, feeling the bitter words form in her mouth. “I was…exiled.”
Silence filled the space between them. “For what?” Lore finally said.
“Witchcraft.”
Oh, Word, this is hard.
Lore said nothing, his face toward the fire. Did he feel betrayed by her words? She had never outright lied to him, but neither had she been totally honest. Could he understand why? Would he let her explain?
“Why did your village think you were a witch?” he asked.
Painful memories resurfaced. Sharing her past with Lore would be like opening her chest and telling him to stab where he pleased. And deep down she knew that, if he rejected her after she told him, it would be a stab straight to the heart. But she had no choice. She was a Truthsayer, and nothing would change that. It was time Lore knew.
“You must understand,” Rowen began, her voice trembling, “that neither I nor my village knew of the Word. We had heard stories from traveling bards, but that’s all they were… stories. And we knew nothing of the Eldarans. So when my mark appeared, I only thought it was a lingering effect from a recent illness. It wasn’t until I touched someone that I came to realize…”
Rowen choked, remembering Cleon’s hatred. Her hands were shaking so hard that she had to clasp them together. Swallowing the lump inside her throat, she whispered, “I can see the darkness inside people. And apparently they see it too, when I touch them. It terrified the man I touched—terrified him so much that he accused me of witchcraft. And everyone believed him.”
Rowen closed her eyes and took a deep breath to steady herself. “At the time, I had no idea what I had done. Nothing like it had ever happened to me. All I could do was stand there as my village…” She swallowed again, her eyes squeezed shut as she remembered the faces of those standing inside that room. Her throat grew tight, but she had to get the words out “As my village c-condemned me.”
Rowen clamped her mouth shut. She could not go on. Inside, her emotions pounded against her body like dammed up water pressing for release. She clenched her hands, refusing to let any of her feelings loose. She would not show weakness, she would not be vulnerable.
She felt a hand cover hers.
Rowen jerked away as if burned by fire.
“Rowen,” Lore said, his hand following her movement. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
Rowen licked her lips, her throat dry from the rapid changes of emotions inside her. “I know.” Her voice cracked, and she stared ahead. “But now you understand why I hid my mark beneath my glove. I never knew when I might touch someone and trigger that…power. And I truly thought I was a witch, or worse. I hid my mark so I would not harm others.” Rowen lifted her head and looked Lore straight in the eye. “I never meant to deceive you. Only to protect you.”
He stared back. And in that moment Rowen knew they stood on an edge. Lore would either accept her or fear her, like Cleon had.
Instead of answering, Lore placed his other hand over his first one, both of them covering her own. “You have nothing to fear from me, Rowen Mar,” he said finally, looking directly into her eyes. “I understand what you are. I know something of the Eldarans, and even among them in their prime, the power you are describing was rare.” Then he turned and gazed at the fire. “To see the darkness in others…” Lore shook his head. “It’s bad enough to see that darkness acted out, but to see it in the heart… I can’t imagine.”
“Then…then you’ve heard of Truthsayers?”
“Yes,” he answered, his voice full of emotion.
Her heart began to beat faster. “And you’re not afraid of me?”
“Of your power…yes,” he said. Rowen’s heart dipped. “But I have nothing to hide. The Word healed the darkness inside of me a long time ago. Only an echo of that darkness remains. All you would find in me is…” then Lore stopped as if he were about to reveal something he wasn’t ready to disclose.
“You do not need to worry. I will not touch you.” Rowen removed her hand from beneath his, careful to keep her mark away, and lifted it up. Her palm glowed with a faint light. “But it would be good to find my glove. Or another one. I lost mine on the beach.” She could see Lore staring at her upturned hand from the corner of her eye.
“Forgive me,” Lore said a moment later. “I’ve never seen the mark of the Word this close before. And I didn’t think it was right to stare at your hand while you were unconscious. The only time I’ve seen the mark is on Balint and his isn’t…”
“As bright,” Rowen finished for him, “or as pronounced?”
“No.”
Rowen moved her hand back and forth, feeling the familiar sense of camaraderie that had existed between her and Lore fall back into place, only this time stronger. Lore knew her secret now. And he wasn’t afraid. That thought sent a surge of elation through her.
“Balint doesn’t understand why my mark is this way either,” Rowen said. “Perhaps my parents were full-blooded Eldarans.”
“Jedrek was an Eldaran?” Lore said, surprised.
Rowen turned toward Lore. “No, I mean my real parents.” Judging from Lore’s puzzled expression, he didn’t know. “Jedrek and Ann were not my real parents. I was left with them a long time ago, long before I can remember. I never knew my real parents.”
Lore leaned back. “I see.” He watched the fire for a moment. “Having your parents around to explain your mark would have been helpful. As an Avonain, I cannot imagine growing up without my mother to help me with my sea blood.”
Rowen nodded and lowered her hand. She turned back toward the fire. The flames had flickered down to glowing embers.
Lore reached around and brought out more driftwood, which he placed on the fire. He sat back. “Rowen,” he said quietly, “I want to thank you…for healing me.” Rowen opened her mouth in protest, but Lore held up a hand. “By healing me, you went through great pain. I know—I saw it. And by healing me, you exposed your secret. Even if you wanted to go back to wearing your glove, I do not think you can. You gave everything for me. So…thank you.”
Rowen sat staring at Lore, remembering how he’d looked on the sand with blood pooling around him and the gash in his side. No, there had been no choice. “I couldn’t let you die, Captain.”
“Yes, you could have, if you had wanted to remain hidden.”
“No.” Rowen shook her head. “As much as I would have liked to keep my mark a secret, I do not think I could have. Eventually the truth would have come out, just as it always does.” She gave Lore a half smile. “I’m just glad I was able to do something good when the time came.”
• • •
Later that night, Lore lay staring up at the jagged ceiling, his back against the cave floor, his hands folded beneath his head. His mind felt full from turning over everything he had learned in the last few hours. Rowen was an Eldaran. No, more than that. Rowen was an Eldaran Truthsayer.
He turned his head and looked at the sleeping figure a few feet away from him. Everything about her made sense now: her glove, her distant attitude with others, the guarded expression she wore whenever he’d questioned her about her past. No wonder she never wanted to speak about Cinad. To be banished from her home…
His heart twisted inside of him at the thought. And not only banished, but to bear the burden of such a terrifying power. To see the darkness in others.
Lore shifted onto his side, his face toward the dying fire. The embers cast a red light across Rowen’s face. Her long hair was slowly coming loose from the braid she usually wore, the stray hairs curling around her face. Peace radiated from her body.
Lore breathed in deeply, then let it out w
ith a sigh. He loved Rowen more than ever. But what did he do with that? He could feel his heart bonding with her, the tie growing stronger each day. And now that he knew the truth about her, it was as if that bond had intensified tenfold. He wanted to be with her, to help bear the burden she carried.
But could he? Lore sighed and shifted onto his back. So many things were calling him. Lady Astrea would need him greatly in the next few weeks as she took over her father’s position.
A sharp jab of pain tore through his heart. A position she would need to fill because he had failed.
Lore rolled onto his back and stared at the sandstone ceiling. Could he have done anything different? Over and over he ran the events of that night through his mind, dissecting each piece. The assassin in Lord Gaynor’s room had been a Temanin. Lore was almost positive on that account. And if he were a Temanin, then it followed that he was most likely working for the Temanin Empire.
So why that night? Why after the treaty signing? Why not before, to prevent it? Just how did the assassin know what time and which room?
And why hadn’t he seen the assassin on the balcony?
Lore hated that question the most, because he had no answer. He had checked the balcony, even leaned over the edge. But the assassin had somehow slipped by and stabbed him. And then had moved on to kill Lord Gaynor and Justus.
Rowen stirred and rolled onto her side. Lore looked at her again. A part of him wondered how he could even think of love when his one duty in life lay cold on the marble floor with a knife through his throat.
Lore pulled the blanket up over his body. No matter how much he wished, he could not go back in time and undo what had happened. But he could do his best to make sure it never happened again. He would protect Lady Astrea. And if he ever met that assassin again, it would be the assassin on the ground dead.
21
Caleb Tala drew his map out again, checking it against his compass. He had been on the run for two days now. If he guessed correctly where the Temanin army was, he still had a couple more days’ ride before he would reach them.
Scattered clouds rushed overhead, sprinkling their life-giving moisture before sprinting toward the mountains. A couple of droplets fell across the parchment, making the ink run. Caleb cursed and rolled the map back up.
He hated this land: the cold air, the abundance of trees one had to constantly navigate, and all the rain. Especially the rain.
Caleb quickly stowed the map away and pulled his hood up over his head, cringing as the gash across his chest shifted. He had checked it this morning and found it red and swollen. If only he had access to some herbs or medicine… He slowly brought his hand back down. All the more reason to find the Temanin army: His wound needed a healer’s touch.
The clouds plagued him the rest of the day as if intent on driving him back south where he belonged. Growling inward, Caleb continued toward the northwest where he knew the Temanin army was slowly lumbering its way toward the White City.
The next day, the sun rose and drove away the last few clouds. The trees finally thinned, exposing vast rolling hills covered in long grass.
Caleb felt dizzy and his head throbbed with unusual heat. He steered his horse toward the open plain. His body ached and felt hot to the touch. He knew little of the healing arts, but it felt like the infection had spread from his chest wound.
Looking across the tall grass, he hoped he would make better time now that he was no longer dodging trees and tall shrubs. His body was beginning to shut down, and he had no idea what he would do if he passed out here in the middle of nowhere.
About midday he spotted a caravan slowly making its way across the grass. Caleb took out his spyglass. It took him a moment to clear his mind and look through the lens. He counted and realized there were about forty people ranging in size and age along with a couple of wagons and horses. Probably refugees trying to make it to Avonai and the coast.
Caleb put the spyglass away and thought for a moment. He could circumvent their route and avoid meeting the group. However, he had spotted a woman healer amongst their group, the telltale white robes standing out from the mixture of bodies.
He rubbed his heat-filled eyes and wondered if he would be coherent enough to make up a story on the spot and convince the people to help him. On the other hand, he wasn’t sure he could make it any farther in his condition. He needed help.
He guided his horse toward the caravan and began to formulate a story, praying to whatever gods there were that they would be gracious to him this once and not let his cover slip.
A couple of people began to shout as he drew near. Caleb looked up, thankful he already looked the part for his story: that of a lone survivor of a Temanin attack. He felt awful, and he was pretty sure he looked awful as well.
“Dear Word, what happened to you?” an older man cried out as he ran to Caleb’s side.
“A..a…attacked,” Caleb said, barely able to hang onto his saddle.
“Tania, we’ve got another one,” the man yelled over his shoulder. Caleb glanced up to find the woman healer making her way toward him.
Slowly, painfully, he dismounted.
“Easy there, fella,” the man said, taking the reins from Caleb’s hand. “Tania here is one of the best healers around. Trained under Balint Kedem himself. She’ll get you patched up.” His eyes roamed Caleb’s body. “Looks like those southern swine got you good.”
Caleb fought down the sudden spark of anger at being called swine, reminding himself he was suppose to be a fellow northerner.
Tania arrived breathless. “They got you too, did they?” She lifted his shirt and viewed the wound for herself. “Bring him to the wagon,” she said to the men around her. She turned back toward the camp.
Someone moved in to assist Caleb. Another led his horse away.
His plan was working, Caleb thought feebly, feeling the fever burn through his head. The person assisting him led him to one of the few wagons and helped him in.
Inside was a narrow bed with hardly enough room for anything else. A single candle burned nearby for light. And in the back sat Tania rummaging through a large black bag.
“Lay him down there,” she said, looking over her shoulder and pointing toward the bed.
His body sank into the thick quilt that covered the boards that lay underneath. Caleb couldn’t help the sigh of relief that escaped his lips. It wasn’t what he was used to, but it was better than the backside of a horse or the ground. The man who had assisted him left, letting the thick curtain fall in place.
“Where did you say you were from?” Tania turned back around with a bowl and pestle in hand. Gently she began to crush whatever was inside.
Caleb wracked his mind, drawing up a memory of the map now stowed in his pack. “Tieve,” he replied, picking a village he remembered from the map, hoping against hope this group wasn’t from there.
“Tieve?” Tania poured water into bowl, then stirred the mix. “I heard about Tieve. Can’t believe you escaped.”
Caleb stiffened slightly. Could she see through his story?
“You were one of the lucky ones,” she continued.
“Yes,” Caleb said, eyeing her now. “I was.”
“Leave anyone behind?” She continued to stir her concoction.
“Yes,” he replied flatly.
She glanced up. “I’m sorry,” she said, the feeling mirrored in her eyes. “I lost family too.” The wagon grew quiet as she finished mixing. “Now I need you to drink this up,” Tania said a minute later. She moved a hand beneath his neck to assist him. “It’ll knock you out for a while, but you’ll be fine afterward.”
“Knock me out?” Caleb gripped the boards that held the quilt in.
“Relax, it won’t hurt you. Just a little something to keep you from feeling anything. And it will let me see to your wounds.”
Before Caleb could protest further, she shoved the bowl beneath his lips and tilted upward. For one moment he considered spitting it out, but he realized such a
n action could blow his cover. So he took a big draught…and gagged.
“Swallow it,” Tania said in a sweet yet forceful voice.
Caleb complied, quickly downing the bitter liquid.
“Good. It’ll take a few minutes for the stuff to work, so just lie still and relax.” She began to hum and turned back toward the black bag.
It took only a minute before his vision began to blur. The candle that hung above him became two, then one, then a mesh of both. Caleb blinked his eyes, his lids heavy. The song the healer hummed echoed in the distance.
Then everything went black.
• • •
Days later, Rowen and Lore found themselves on the banks of the Onyx River near a dilapidated shed. The river ran black from the sediment it brought down from the mountains of Nordica. A small barge floated along the river’s current, tied to an old wooden dock. Insects buzzed along the shore and the water whooshed past, dodging rocks and weaving its way south.
On either side of the river, the grass plains turned golden beneath the summer sun. The sky was bright blue with a scattering of clouds. Tall, jagged mountains filled the far horizon.
Lore searched the river’s edge. “He should be around here.”
Rowen stood next to Lore, holding the reins of the horses they had acquired shortly after leaving the cave. She could feel Lore’s urgency as he searched for the barge keeper. “Could he already be gone?” Rowen asked, looking down the river the other way.
“Could be,” Lore said tightly, glancing north again. “If Temanin has already reached—”
“Greetings, folks!” Up from the bank came an old hunched back man, his clothes hanging off of him like rags on a clothesline. Rowen recognized him immediately as the barge keeper. He had ferried them across the river over a week ago when they traveled to Avonai. He approached and his eyes grew bigger. “Captain Lore—and madam—” the old man nodded at Rowen. “What are you doing here?”
Daughter of Light (Follower of the Word Book 1) Page 27
