The Girl from the North (Pathway of the Chosen Book 1)

by Cat Bruno

  While Bronwen paused to sip her broth, Kennet looked at her, surprised that she now appeared so composed. It was as if she watched from afar, describing it to Kennet as she watched. But, he didn’t interrupt, just waited, quietly and with his eyes drawn to the floor.

  “I tried to fight him off. I kicked and clawed at him, but he was too strong. He was a huge man, a sailor or fisherman for he smelled of the sea. He looked Tretorian, but his accent was strange, now that I think about it. Maybe from the East Coast. I don’t know.”

  Shaking off her distraction, Bronwen continued, “Before too long, he had his hands around my neck. I couldn’t breathe and my vision blurred. He kept his hands around my throat even as I fought and kicked. Then the blackness came. I guess I passed out. When I woke up, he was gone, and I was bloody and sick.”

  “I eventually made it home, though I remember nothing. I cleaned up the wounds, put a lavender-rosemary mix on the bruises, some lavender and tea tree oil on my cheek, and took valerian root. For two days I stayed in bed. Now, I just need a few more days for the worst of it to heal, then I can return to my classes and to the clinic.”

  She was much more relaxed now, strangely so, Kennet thought. Her words were emotionless and quick, as if the faster she stopped talking about what had happened, the sooner she could forget.

  “Bronwen, I will follow your wishes, but are you certain that you don’t want me to bring Master Rova here? He cares for you deeply. What about Sheva? She is bound to wonder what is going on with you.”

  “No one. Do you hear me? I will be fine after some time passes. Soon, I might even forget this happened at all.”

  “What else can I do for you?” he gently asked.

  Bronwen sighed before answering, “Just get me a few days, Kenny. I have all I need here, including some pennyroyal and angelica, of course. Maybe you can stop by tomorrow with some more food? And, if anyone asks, tell them that I have been sick, but I’m recovering.”

  Kennet didn’t like that he had to keep her secret, but he knew that he would do it anyway. So he agreed to her requests before leaving, and walked back to the library, worried and afraid.

  15

  The next few days were uneventful. Bronwen applied her oil-based rubs to her bruises, constantly eying herself in what was left of her small glass mirror to check the progression of her healing. After the third day since Kennet had come, she noticed a significant reduction in the bruising around her neck, yet it was still clear what had happened. Her eye, however, now looked rimmed with dirt, as new bruises formed. The gash across her cheek was not healing as fast as she would have liked, even though it had not been terribly deep, but she had come up with a story to explain the injury. Once her neck looked less damning, Bronwen would be ready to resume her normal duties, she figured.

  Kennet helped, as he had promised, and stopped by every morning and evening with food, leaving Bronwen to wonder what she would do without him. On the fifth day, Kennet arrived later than usual and pounded on the door loudly. When she opened it to let him in, she quickly became concerned. His robe was dirtied and his face was sweat-covered, and he had a grim look on his face.

  After she closed the door behind him, Bronwen asked, “Kenny, you look almost as bad as me! What’s going on?”

  He adjusted his robe and dried his face off before answering her.

  Stammering he hurriedly said, “Master Rova cornered me at the dining hall this morning and pressed me for details about you, Bronwen. I have done my best these last few days trying to cover for you, but I don’t know if he believes me. He kept asking me questions about what illness you have and what you are taking for it. Then Sheva spotted the two of us talking, and she came over to question me further. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

  With a sigh as she ran her fingers through her loose hair, Bronwen replied, “I’m sorry, Kenny. I know I asked too much of you. I think I should be able to attend my classes tomorrow and work at the clinic as well. I found a robe that covers up most of my neck. Let me try it on, and you can tell me what you think.”

  Bronwen crossed the room and picked up a light-colored robe that was hanging over the back of an old chair. She tugged the old robe off before Kennet could look away, causing him to color to a deep red.

  When she had the new robe in place, she walked over to where he stood.

  “What do you think? It is an old dressing robe that Sheva gave me moon years ago. I thought it too fancy to wear, so it has been gathering dust, but now it seems like my only choice.”

  Bronwen stood quietly, dressed in a sea-foam, silk robe that was constructed of finer material than the standard healers’ wardrobe. The color of the fabric was a pale, iridescent green that hugged her tall, thin figure. Kennet had never seen her wear something so snug, nor had he seen her wear anything so flattering, and he quieted in awe. She was beautiful, even with the cut across her cheek, a simple healer no more. Kennet watched as Bronwen moved, more like an image from one of his books than his long-time friend. And he could not help but think of a recently acquired book he had just finished reading, a tale of a famed Northern princess, known more for her skills in battle than her brothers. How similar the two now seemed, he concluded, once again drawing his gaze over Bronwen.

  The bruises on her throat were neatly hidden by the style of the robe, which was why Bronwen had chosen it, he realized. The smooth silk encircled her neck, ending just under her chin. From the front, the cut itself was modest, allowing very little skin to show. But as Bronwen spun around, he gasped. The back of the robe was missing, except for a small stretch of fabric that clasped underneath Bronwen’s hair. Her pale skin shimmered next to the silky material, exposed and sparkling.

  Finally, Kennet stammered, “You look like you should be in the King’s City, but I’m not sure that your dress is really practical for healing. Yes, it hides your bruises perfectly, but how are you going to explain the sudden change from ordinary healer to near-goddess?”

  Bronwen smiled for the first time in a quarter-moon, and she looked toward her friend, his mouth still slightly open.

  “The girls in town are often dressed more goddess-like than this. And the women in Rexterra wear clothes much more extravagant, too. It is no healer’s robe, for certain, but what other options do I have? You said Master Rova is already suspicious about my absence. I can’t stay hidden any longer. I am not required to wear the robes anymore, and this is the only dress I have that covers well enough.”

  She was right, especially about the Masters, as word was starting to spread about her extended absence.

  “Sheva will be so happy to see you in the dress at least. I have avoided her for days, you know. But what about your cheek?”

  “Oh, that. Well, I grew bored an restless after so many days in self-exile, so I was trying a new mixture for treating infections and got my candle too close to the base oil. The glass jar I was using exploded. A piece of glass struck me. I am just relieved that it missed my eye.”

  The ease with which Bronwen had lied caught Kennet by surprise. But he said nothing.

  *****

  Pietro hadn’t seen Bronwen in days, but he had heard the rumors of her illness and wondered if the Tribesman had deceived him. With no way of knowing, he tried to force the thought from his head. Instead, he focused on finding out as much about Bronwen, and her illness, as he could. And the best place to start seemed to be with the man who was with her most. Smiling, he set out to find the bespectacled bookkeeper.

  *****

  Bronwen entered the dining hall after most of the other healers had already finished eating. Nervous to be back among her classmates and teachers after so many days isolated in her room, she kept her head down and walked quickly. As she silently passed through the large room, Bronwen kept her hands clenched around the large wooden tray that held her soup, one of the few things she could yet eat.

  She sat down alone at a small table, uncomfortable without her healer’s robe and pants. Lightly touc
hing her cheek and running her fingers over the gash, Bronwen shivered as she remembered what had happened. Despite her attempts to forget, that night replayed itself in her mind over and over again, and she struggled with the memories, forced to take a valerian brew each night. While the drink helped bring sleep, it couldn’t erase what had occurred. And when she woke up each morning groggy and sore, the man’s face remained, even as her bruises faded.

  Troubled by the memory, Bronwen rose up from her seat, leaving her bowl behind, and walked out of the room, heading toward the clinic. As she walked along the stony, white path, Bronwen felt dizzy. It was already a hot morning, and the sun was barely above the horizon, yet Bronwen could feel sweat beading up on her forehead. She wiped the back of her hand across her face, a little surprised by the amount of wetness that greeted her. Then, she slowed her pace, feeling weak, as her hands trembled and her body quivered.

  I’m almost there, she told herself as she neared the center of town. The clinic was located a few streets off the main corridor of Litusia. The building had once housed a fabric warehouse and was airy and open. When she spotted the white exterior, clean and shining as always, thanks to the first-year students, she hurried to reach the doors.

  Bronwen entered through the back and dashed, the silky dress flowing around her feet, into the first unoccupied room that she could find, closing the curtain that hung outside the room, which offered some privacy. She nearly collapsed onto the tidy, freshly made-up cot. The silk gown now stuck to her damp body, even more so because she had thrown a thick sweater overtop it to cover the exposed back.

  The room seemed to be spinning, the walls shifting and the cot beneath her rolling. To her right, and within her reach, was a pile of crisp, clean towels, and she hurriedly grabbed a few and brought them toward her. With her eyes closed and towels in hand, Bronwen waited, knowing why her body was feverish and weak.

  The small room offered as much privacy as she could hope to find in the clinic, even though only the swatch of bleached cotton curtained it off from the other rooms. But she could not leave, despite wanting to be back in her rooms. She had not thought the tonic would affect her so suddenly, and wondered if she had drunk too much.

  After several hours, the effects of the tea--brewed from the leaves of mugwort, angelica, pennyroyal, and chamomile--that she had been drinking the past few days were surfacing. She could feel her uterus cramping and knew the bleeding would start soon. Once she shook off the robe, which had been a struggle, she forced herself to get up, slowly, from the bed. The midwives always kept extra robes in the birthing rooms, and Bronwen helped herself to one, slipping it over her head with shaking hands.

  She hoped the bleeding would be mild, but the cramping was increasing in intensity, although the chamomile would reduce the pain, she hoped. Bronwen, seated on the edge of the cot, hunched over as her stomach cramped. In between the waves of pain, she looked around the room to see what herbs or mixtures the midwives had stored in the room, hoping to find some motherwort syrup or raspberry tealeaves.

  What a fool I am, she thought, no better than a first-year. When her search yielded nothing, she remembered that the clinic had a large area where dried herbs were stored, but she would have to cross through several areas to get there, and Bronwen did not want to risk being seen.

  Leaning back on the cot, she gripped the side, and breathed deeply to calm herself. After placing a few towels under her hips, she waited, hoping it wouldn’t take long, especially since the herbs she had mixed were all blood-inducing.

  Soon, the cramping increased, each one more painful than the next, and blood flowed freely, soaking the towels beneath her to a deep, wet red. Fighting to stay quiet, Bronwen again feared that she had drank too much of the tea, even though she had often given similar mixes to women at the clinic.

  Unable to remember much of what had occurred after she had lost consciousness, Bronwen was uncertain if the cleanse was necessary, yet she wanted no part of that man left inside of her. As soon as she had been able to leave her rooms without fear of being noticed, she had found the necessary herbs and had brewed the tea, the same one she had given to numerous women at the clinic where she now lay. The first hours would be the worst, but her recovery would be swift after, with little after effects, she knew.

  And so she waited, with closed eyes and calm breathing, letting the blood flow from her and onto the towels, which she changed often.

  After a few hours, Bronwen felt strong enough to stand, and she braced herself on the cot, wobbly, but stable. The last few towels she had placed underneath her body had been blood-free, and she figured that the worst was over. Walking across the small room, she reached for her high-necked robe, gasping as she looked toward the cot. The once-white towels were now a deep, dark red, heavy and accusing on the pale stone floor. The cot would need all new bedding, as the blood had seeped through the towels.

  However, Bronwen no longer felt as if the room was atop the sea and she set about to clean the mess, scrubbing the room down, often a job for the early-year students. She remembered the routine, having done it many times herself when she had first entered the Academy and let memory guide her.

  First, she grabbed the bloody towels and placed them in a large, covered basket before rolling up the sheet that had covered the cot. Placing the sheet into another woven basket, she hurriedly closed the lids on both before walking to a large wooden chest that sat in the corner. Taking a fresh sheet from the crate, she tidied the bed, placing the bleached sheet over the feather mattress. Shelves lined the walls, and Bronwen quickly found clean towels, which she stacked neatly on the table beside the cot.

  She stepped back and looked at the room, satisfied that it looked the same as when she had first entered it. As she turned to leave, Bronwen cramped up again. However, she knew that there would not be much blood left, and quickly reached for a small towel. Tucking it into her underclothes, she slipped from the room, the hanging cloth door swaying behind her.

  *****

  Bronwen exited the small examination room and slowly walked toward the front entrance of the clinic, assuming that she would find Master Ammon, as he often liked to walk about the building supervising and teaching whenever possible. Within a few moments, she spotted the tall, light-haired man, which had been easy as he was much larger than most men.

  Master Ammon was Rexterran, but had spent over fifteen moon years in Litusia, and was well-liked by nearly all of the healers at the Academy. He had a wide, straight-toothed smile, clear eyes rimmed in gold, and a warm nature, which often surprised people when they first met him. His smile and his laughing eyes seemed out of place in his broad-shouldered, thickly muscled body. Yet, even as friendly as he was, not much was known about him. Bronwen had known him for several moon years and had worked closely with him at the clinic, but knew no more about that Master than anyone else. To Bronwen, it seemed like he never aged, and his cropped hair and well-muscled body suggested that he still practiced his fighting skills.

  While his back was to her, Bronwen changed her mind, and tried to hurry, yet before she could push open the large doors, his deep voice called to her.

  “Bronwen, I had heard that you were ill the last quarter-moon.”

  Kennet had warned her of the rumors that had been spreading about the Academy, and she thought that she could hear worry in the master’s voice, which surprised her, as he usually treated her with a certain amount of detachment, despite the moon years that she had been at the clinic.

  “Shortly after being named Apprentice, I fell ill, which caused me to tire easily. I was unable to eat or drink much and could barely leave my rooms. More than once I thought about dragging myself to the clinic, but I feared sickening others, so I waited. While I was confined to my rooms, I worked on a few poultices, but I had a bit of a mishap, as you can see,” she said, pointing to her cheek and keeping her gray-green eyes on him.

  Master Ammon looked at Bronwen for a moment, his gold-rimmed eyes staring at her, so deepl
y that she shivered, questioning her with no words escaping his full lips. Bronwen paused, the silence deepening, uncomfortable under his gaze and feeling a blush reddening on her pale cheeks.

  She nearly jumped when he gently placed his hand on her cheek, running his thumb over her scabbed wound.

  “Bronwen, is there anything that I can do for you?”

  When she did not respond, he added, “Come with me for a moment.”

  His hand dropped away from her face, and he turned and headed toward the back of the clinic, from the same direction that Bronwen had just come. Does he know? But she followed, not knowing what else to do, compelled by the sudden tenor of his voice into obeying his request. A few steps from the room where Bronwen had bled herself, Master Ammon stopped and entered another room. Exhaling, she again followed.

  The room was almost identical to the other exam room, and for a moment, Bronwen thought that perhaps Ammon was going to examine her cheek, although it was long past needing stitches. She watched absently as he pulled the thick, rough-spun sheet closed. This particular room was on the inner corridor and lacked tall, light-bearing windows. Ammon strode the few steps across the room until he reached the mage-light, touching its center with his fingertips until the room glowed with a soft light. He slowly turned around and looked directly at her, smiling slightly.

  With a lilt to his words, he asked, “Bronwen, do you know who I was before I came here, to the Academy?”