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

by Cat Bruno

Confused, Bronwen mumbled, “I know that you are Rexterran, and that you were once a member of the Royal Army. Is there something more that I should know?”

  Running his hands over his head, he replied, “For fifteen moon years, I have been Ammon, a name that I have come to think of my own. Yet, for longer still, I was known as Willem, Lord Commander of the Rexterran Royal Army, and nephew to King Herrin, by way of his older half-sister Corinna and her Northern husband Derry of Hillvue, my parents. For nearly thirty moon years I was Willem, well-loved, well-treated, spoiled, some might say. My father was a minor lord of a small, prosperous village on the Eastern Coast of Eirrannia. His family, for generations, had supplied Rexterra, and, I would imagine, nearly all of Cordisia with all sorts of gems and jewels. Emeralds as big as a man’s fist, diamonds that make the stars jealous, rubies that could rival that beautiful hair of yours. But, most prized of all, was the black rock they found. Black ice. Atraglacia, the legends call it. Have you heard of the black-iced rock, Bronwen?”

  Bronwen paled, puzzled by what Ammon, or Lord Willem, she supposed, was explaining to her, and more puzzled with how she was expected to respond.

  She sputtered out, “Yes, sir, I have heard the tales of the black ice. And while I have never seen it personally, I have read a few stories about it.”

  Bronwen would have continued on mumbling as she was suddenly quite nervous, but Lord Willem interrupted her with a raised hand.

  “Yes, I had heard that you have been spending quite bit of time at the library, particularly with the boy. Anyway, nothing that you could have read would be able to fairly describe the atraglacia.”

  Reaching for her, his deep voice quaking, he said, “Bronwen, if I could take you North, I would do it on the morrow. What I could show you! What the two of us could become would be written in books. In that robe, you are nearly perfect, a true daughter of the North, of that I have no doubt.”

  Her face paled, which Ammon must have noticed as he added, “But, as much as I wish it were not so, I can’t change it. Bronwen, I have tried. For moon years I have tried. And you, it seems, will also spend your remaining days here, the new Master Apprentice. Did you know that I tried to talk Rova out of appointing you?”

  Bronwen could neither move nor speak. His words, unexpected and intimate, had startled her, and all she could do was shrug in response and wonder what had come over the master. Finally, after several silent moments between them, she answered, “Sir, I must admit that I am hurt by your words. Do you not think me qualified? I am committed to my studies and to the healing arts more so than most students. And I have worked hard to develop the skills I now possess. You yourself have told me in the past that I am a talented and dedicated healer. Has something changed your opinion of me?”

  Willem smiled, allowed himself a soft chuckle. “Bronwen, you play the role of a sheltered, naïve lamb so well. Too well for my liking, as I like a girl with a little more spice to her, but that’s neither here nor there. I’d rather you not try to fool me though. I have a bit of mage-sight, and I know more than perhaps I should about you. Ahh, I see that I’ve upset you. Forgive me, Bronwen, this is not going how I had planned. Not at all.”

  Bronwen could feel the heat rising to her cheeks and dropped her head to stare at the large, stone tiles beneath her sandaled feet. More than anything, she wished that she had stayed in her rooms, realizing what a mistake it was to come here before her wounds had completely healed. Of course he had noticed her injuries, and, even though he hadn’t asked, she could see him examining her silken robe, which was more than unusual and completely impractical for a healer, as Kennet had rightfully mentioned. Nothing was going as planned, she knew.

  Suddenly angry, she exclaimed, “Am I being accused of something? I am not the one who has kept secrets for fifteen moon years from all those who know him! So now I am to believe that you are the beloved nephew of the Rexterran king, and, if that was not enough, you are also gifted with the ability to see the future. Yet, here you are, far from all of that, living the life of a Master Healer in a small Tretorian town, when the wealth of the North awaits you and the power of royalty runs through your veins. Are we finished here? I have much I could be doing instead of being mocked, sir.”

  Willem looked closely at Bronwen, watched as her body tensed and her voice hardened, surprised at her sudden intensity. Perhaps he had been wrong to assume that there was no zest in her. Maybe she had a proper Northern soul to match her Northern eyes after all, he thought.

  “We have only just begun, Bronwen. Only just begun. Before the night is over, I hope we understand one another a little better. I don’t think the clinic is the proper place for us at the moment. Have you anywhere else to be today? There is much we should discuss. Would you come with me to my villa?”

  It wasn’t often that Ammon invited one to his home, as he was known to be quite private outside the clinic, not surprising considering all Bronwen now knew. Intrigued as to what exactly he knew about her, especially where the sight was concerned, Bronwen answered, “I have no plans. If there is nothing that you need me to finish here, then I am free for the rest of the night.”

  “You shall be all mine then. Come.”

  As the two exited the clinic, Bronwen briefly considered how nothing in her life was as it once had been. Yet, she was growing too weary to fight all the changes, so she trailed behind Ammon, and wondered what else the night would offer.

  16

  For the last half-moon, Pietro had been gathering information about the new Master Apprentice, and he hoped that the time he had invested would prove valuable. A few of the older healers had told him that she had been surprisingly absent from her classes over the past quarter-moon, which surprised him given her new status, leading him to investigate the claims of her illness more seriously, which is when he had decided to seek out Kennet.

  Entering the dining hall shortly before sundown, Pietro noticed Kennet sitting alone at a table. Days before, Pietro had decided that in exchange for information about Bronwen, he would have to gain Kennet’s trust. And, as much as he disliked it, Pietro realized that he would have to be nice to the inept healer. A small price to pay, he thought, for what he hoped to gain. He walked to where the lanky man sat.

  “Do you mind if I join you? I have had a busy day and only now have had a chance to eat.”

  As Kennet looked up from his plate, cheeks stuffed and grease on his long chin, the sight caused Pietro a moment’s hesitation.

  The bookkeeper mumbled, his mouth still full with food, “What do you want?”

  “A fresh start, Kennet, that is what I would like. Without Bronwen to get in our way. I have never had a problem with you, and, truly, I never much had a problem with her either, until she started trying to outdo me at each and every turn. What do you say?” Pietro asked, dazzling Kennet with a smile that he had learned and mastered during his years spent at court in the King’s City.

  Kennet still appeared skeptical, his eyes shifting behind his metal-rimmed glasses, his left hand grasping so tightly onto the steel fork that his knuckles bulged. He slowly finished chewing before answering Pietro, but, still, Kennet was guarded.

  “You misremember your history, Pietro. It was not Bronwen who started this feud. It was you who claimed that she had poisoned a tincture. The one that you had created to enhance the effects of nerve-dulling herbs. You wanted to test its potency on patients at the clinic before you had done so on the pigs. You started hating Bronwen after she reported you to the Master Council, luckily before you could begin your ridiculous experiments. Have you forgotten that part?”

  Pietro had not forgotten, although he wished that it others would. Since then, some of the Masters looked at him differently. He had only planned on testing the poppy-based tincture on those who were beyond healing and had never intended it to be used on those who might yet live. However, the Council had forbidden him from any further use of the mixture until he could provide sound evidence supporting its usefulness, which, so far,
he hadn’t been able to produce.

  He still blamed Bronwen for his failure, believing that her jealousy of his own healing power had caused her to report him. He had no idea how she had discovered his intentions, but he would never forgive her for her interference. His hatred for her had grown in the moon years following his suspension, which he had appealed, and, later, had overturned on the grounds that no harm had actually been done.

  But, for now, Pietro needed Kennet’s help, and if that meant that he had to pretend to like the fool and Bronwen as well, then so be it.

  “Kennet, like I said, I’m seeking a fresh start. I am not so foolish as to make an enemy of the new Master Apprentice. I was young all those moon years ago and thought I would be the next great healer, trying things that others feared. I have learned much since then, as we all have I would imagine. When I next see Bronwen, I can tell her as much, and perhaps she will understand that I mean her no harm. Do you know where she has been of late? I have been searching for her for a quarter-moon now, and I haven’t seen her.”

  A look of disbelief crossed Kennet’s face, his forehead crinkled, and his lips pinched together, forming a white line. He pushed his glasses up the arch of his nose, and Pietro noticed that his hands were trembling, slightly but noticeably. Interesting, he thought, and watched closely as Kennet fidgeted, enjoying the fool’s discomfort. He is worried about Bronwen, Pietro suddenly realized.

  “Kenny, is Bronwen unwell? Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her around the classroom buildings either. Has she been excused from finishing the term? That would seem unprecedented, even as well-loved as she is by Master Rova.”

  Kennet paled, rising from the table, his skin as white as the robe he wore. “No, she has not been given leave. She will finish her classes once she is feeling better. I have quite a few manuscripts waiting for me to catalogue. Good day to you, Pietro.”

  Pietro fumed, certain that Kennet had been guarding something, and angered that he had not gotten any real information out of him. As Kennet rose from his seat and grabbed his tray, Pietro stood as well, knowing that his next step would be to empty its contents into one of the large bins at the edge of the open dining hall. Pietro quickly followed suit, grabbing his own tray, even though he had eaten little.

  He caught up and called out, “Kennet, hold on for a moment!”

  Pietro continued to walk alongside him as the two made their way from the southern end of campus where the dining hall was to the northern area where the library was housed. Pietro tried to hide his anger as he walked, striking up mindless conversation with Kennet on subjects ranging from herb lore to women, hoping that something would interest the introverted librarian, while trying to avoid talking about Bronwen for the moment as it seemed that was what caused Kennet to distrust him once again.

  “Have you ever met the innkeeper’s daughter Talia? Her father runs The Gull House, the dark-green inn at the end of Market Street. She is a real beauty, dark hair flowing down her back, blue eyes that shine so clearly I think she can look into my heart and see how much I want her. And a body that makes me weep each time I see her, a tiny waist and an abundant bosom, just the way I like. Ahh, I find myself eating at the inn more often than perhaps I should, just so I can watch her move about the room serving pitchers of ale. Just thinking of her makes me want a drink!”

  Slapping an arm around Kennet, Pietro exclaimed, “Let me buy you an ale.”

  Kennet paused as he waited for the familiar sound of Pietro’s mocking laughter, certain the healer was jesting, yet, when none came, he nodded.

  “Perhaps a single ale won’t keep me from my books overly long.”

  17

  “Your home is breathtaking, sir. I have never been to Rexterra, yet standing here, I feel as if I am in the Land of the Kings, not in a villa in Tretoria. You must be comforted to have so much of your homeland around you.”

  Lord Willem laughed, for here he seemed no longer Master Ammon, his skin showing only a hint of a wrinkle at the sides of his eyes, despite his years spent in the Litusian sun. For a moment, Bronwen watched him, not as a student observes her teacher, but as a woman watches a man. She surveyed his tall, lean body, and her glance rested on the broadness of his shoulders. Willem, like Bronwen, was not overly fond of wearing the traditional healers’ robes, choosing instead to don Rexterran-inspired clothing. Tight against his thickly muscled legs were tan leather breeches, and a satiny cotton shirt strained across his chest, the laces struggling to keep the fabric together. A wide, black leather belt hung around his waist, which had various small bags attached to it, which Bronwen knew contained his healer’s tools. The only concession to Tretorian style that Willem made were his fine buckskin sandals in place of traditional Rexterran riding boots.

  He cut a striking figure, and Bronwen was surprised that she hadn’t noticed before how attractive he was. Bronwen sensed that Willem was staring at her, as his laughter had ceased. She dared to look up from his feet where her gaze had been resting, startled to find Willem’s golden-rimmed eyes upon her. She flushed, remembering that she was in the presence of both a Master and a nephew of the Rexterran king.

  “I’m glad that you like what you see, Bronwen. I had hoped that you would.”

  And he laughed again, the sound light and playful, and unlike whom she had once thought Master Ammon to be. For a long moment, Bronwen wondered if Willem was mocking her, but he continued on, changing the subject, much to Bronwen’s relief.

  “Some moments I love this home, and, at other times, I would just as soon see it burn to the ground. Is it not particularly cruel to be exiled from one’s home, yet surrounded by constant reminders of that home? Bronwen, look at this statue here.”

  Willem walked toward a towering marble statue of a woman lying atop a pile of rocks, her back arched, her naked breasts pointing toward the sky, her wavy hair falling behind her.

  “She is beautiful, is she not? The sculptor Nevus Antor designed her, and I knew as soon as I saw her that she had to be mine. And when I left the King’s City I could not bear to leave her, so I carted her, and many others like her, with me across the land. It cost me a bloody fortune, to be honest, but I was leaving the only home I had ever known to travel to the other side of Cordisia. I traveled many miles while in the King’s Army, from the Southern Cove where the men have skin so dark it makes the Tretorians seem ghostly pale to beyond Eirrannia where ice and snow are all that exist. I have once even been to the land where that lovely dress you are wearing would fit right in. Yet, here I am, Bronwen, far from the home that I always returned to, even after so many voyages and battles. And yet, this time, I can’t go home. I shall never see the majesty of the King’s City again. Am I boring you, young one, with all of my nonsense?”

  The absence of Willem’s lilting voice echoed around the room, jarring Bronwen out of the daze his words had created.

  Quickly, Bronwen said, “Master Ammon, please do continue and pardon my surprise. I have never been to the King’s City, much to my own disappointment. Although, I feel, standing here among all of your treasures, like I am almost in the royal castle I have read so much about.”

  “Well, then, let us continue, but perhaps we will be more comfortable in the sitting room. There will be more time to show you around later. Now, I’m afraid, we have a great deal to discuss, and I haven’t forgotten that cheek of yours, Bronwen.”

  When he saw her face pale, he hurriedly added, “Don’t look so worried, dear, before the night is over, we will both know each other much better. This way, please.”

  Willem felt strangely calm, even though he had not planned for the evening to progress as it had. He had long thought it best to keep his interest in Bronwen as unattached as possible, even though he desired nothing of the sort, especially the last few moon years. Really, I have not lied, he thought. His small amount of mage-sight, a gift from his father’s kin, had allowed him to see more than he should have about the odd Northern girl. And despite knowing that she had long ago
been marked by one with more power than he himself would ever know, Willem could not help but think that he could offer Bronwen a better life.

  When he saw her at the clinic, in a foreign gown and with a slice across her face, his cord of detachment had snapped, and suddenly he was inviting her back to his villa. And from there, he knew his silence, which he had guarded so well for several moon years, would be undone. It was time, there was little doubt left in him, and so he had walked on without looking back, leading her, and listening to her sandaled feet gently falling on the floor behind him.

  It is time to tell her all.

  Bronwen followed him again, this time through the long hallways of the villa, her footsteps lightly tapping the cool stone tiles as she trailed. The villa was much larger than any home Bronwen had ever been in before, although not as large as some of the buildings on campus. Light-colored tiles covered the floors, while the walls were the traditional stucco found in most Tretorian homes. When they arrived in the sitting room, Bronwen noticed that the walls were painted in a deep shade of gold, with tapestries depicting various Rexterran battles, judging from the eight-pointed star on the uniforms hanging from large rods. More treasures from home, thought Bronwen, eying each one with great interest.

  Willem waved his hand toward the room, inviting her to choose a chair. She opted for a velvety, maroon chaise, lying back gently in the restrictive dress she still wore. Willem chose the matching chair, sitting down more gracefully than Bronwen had and picking up a delicate bell that sat on the thick, wooden desk next to him. The silvery tinkle of the bell danced off the stone tiles throughout the house, mesmerizing and calming, as if she had been transported elsewhere.

  Before Bronwen could speak, a small woman appeared, carrying a tray laden with small sandwiches and a large bottle of dark wine. Willem said something to the woman in a muffled voice, and Bronwen watched as the petite woman nodded, then hurried off. Bronwen looked after her with a puzzled expression, which Willem quickly noticed.