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

by Cat Bruno

  Do no harm, he told himself, the oldest creed but the first one that a student learned. And still, he could not sleep.

  22

  Bronwen choked when she heard what Willem had asked, maroon syrupy wine dripping down her chin before she wiped at it with the back of her hand.

  “Bronwen, why did he hurt you so?”

  “It was not him,” Bronwen replied evenly and smoothly, much more so than she would have thought possible, dabbing at the wine.

  “Bronwen, my lovely girl, surely you do not hope to defend him after what he has done? You do not need to hide the truth from me. I have known Conri for many moon years now, and I know full well what he is capable of doing. But why now? What has changed? Do you remember what happened?”

  Without looking at him, she replied, “Willem, my memory is fine, thank you. If you are referring to the mind-lock, then you should know that during our last meeting, Conri freed me from it. I have no other explanation, other than to tell you that it was not he that nearly killed me. Though, I wish that he had been there.”

  Her thoughts, still clouded with wine and drug, cleared, and Bronwen turned and faced him, and, with a raised voice, said, “Now you tell me that you know him! Have you told me any truths at all, sir?”

  His face stayed neutral, and again she yelled, “Tell me what you know of him!”

  Bronwen rose from the bed then, letting the soft sheet fall from her hands, and intended to cross to the adjacent privy room. But, as she stood, her body swayed, again the wine’s influence, she assumed, and she quickly sat back down next to Willem.

  “Am I trapped here, Willem?” she asked, her voice thick with emotion.

  “No, of course not. You are free to leave whenever you would like. But first, you must listen. I owe you that much at least.”

  Her head spinning, she said nothing, waiting.

  “Bronwen, there is so much I would tell you. We could spend each night together for a moon, and I would still have more to say. Let me start by saying that I have known about your contact with Conri for quite some time. It was nearly five moon years ago when Conri first approached me about you. I will spare you all the details of that first meeting here in Litusia, but I will admit that it was not the first time that we had been acquainted.”

  Bronwen could feel the fire in her stomach brewing; she felt like some game was being played and she was merely a pawn in it.

  “Is my whole life but a lie, Willem?”

  He continued, ignoring her question, “Lord Conri asked a favor of me, and reminded me of something he had done for me many years before, so I was honor-bound to agree. It seemed a simple enough request. He wanted me to monitor you and to make sure you were safe, nothing more. At that point, you had just entered your senior courses, and I felt that it would do you well, and aid me in my duties, to come work at the clinic. And so I suggested as much to Rova, and he agreed.”

  Bronwen reached across the bed until she was able to grab the heavy glass decanter that Chien had brought to them earlier in the evening. She messily filled her glass, not caring as the spilled wine splattered dark-red stains across the sheets.

  “Shall I continue, Bronwen, or is it still your desire to leave?” Lord Willem asked politely.

  “Please do. But forgive me if I become drunk, hearing my life unravel before me is too daunting to undertake with a sober mind.”

  Willem laughed hollowly and again wished that he could take her away from the Academy, and away from Conri’s clutches. Yet, it would make no difference in the end. He could not hide her from a son of a god.

  So he continued in a husky, wine-flavored voice, “A few moon years ago, I’m not certain when exactly, Conri arrived at the clinic, walking in as if he was an ordinary man, Bronwen. Yet no one noticed him. You were not there, or you would have, no doubt. He walked right into the room where I was. Luckily the man I had just stitched up was on his way home, or I do not believe he would have lived. That particular day was when Conri told me that an emissary from Rexterra was on its way to Tretoria, seeking healers to bring back with them, particularly the most talented. My uncle was ailing, had been ailing, you see, and his own healers were having a difficult time treating him.”

  “Yes, I remember the envoy quite well. I had hoped that I might be one of the healers suggested to travel back to Rexterra, but Master Rova forbid it, much to my disappointment,” Bronwen interrupted him to say.

  Willem sighed, “Yes, Bronwen, I do believe had Conri not forced me to keep you in Tretoria that you would have been asked to go with the envoy, but, you see, that is why he came to me in the clinic that day. To remind me that I still served him and that you were not to be permitted to leave the Academy. And so I reluctantly, but convincingly as I had no choice really, told Rova that I did not believe you to be ready for such an undertaking. My opinion held particular weight as the Master Healer of the clinic.”

  “And yet those who were sent healed the king, did they not?” Bronwen asked.

  “So they wanted all to believe. But, no, my uncle is still is very poor health. Yet, when word spread throughout Rexterra that he was ill, many called for him to be removed from the throne. And the King’s City fell into a near rebellion. My cousins, who rarely agree, spread word that the king had been healed, although, in truth, he had only mildly improved. It was the only way to restore peace, although I believe that, even now, talks of stripping him from the throne have surfaced.”

  “Why should he lose the throne?”

  “Bronwen, in Rexterra, it is not as it is here. Power is all that matters. If you are not in full health, you are without power. Without power, you cannot rule. My uncle is but a puppet these days, although only a few know. To explain more would take more time than we have.”

  She nodded, then said, “Why did Conri not want me to go to the King’s City?”

  “He called you rexaria, Bronwen.”

  “Kingmaker?”

  “Yes. Kingmaker. How do you know the word?”

  “Conri called me such when we last met. A gift perhaps.”

  “Beware any gift from him, Bronwen. None shall be as it seems.”

  “I can handle Conri, Willem. I have handled him since I was a child.” Wine-strengthened words, they both knew.

  Willem’s hand jerked at her words, and his own wine spilled down his still uncovered chest.

  “Ah, so now I have surprised you judging from that look on your face. Yes, just recently, with my memory fully regained, I learned of my arrival in Tretoria, and who brought me here. It was Conri, of course, although I know nothing of my life before he found me. The pieces fit together so much more clearly now, don’t they Lord Willem? I think I preferred my mind-locked ignorance to these secrets I now hold.”

  “Bronwen, I fear the secrets and lies have only just begun.”

  Willem untangled himself from the blankets that were wrapped about his legs and torso, rolling off the bed gracefully. When he stood up, he reached for a circular orb, touching the patterned sides until the object sent out a soft glow. The mage-light reflected off Willem’s naked body, so unlike the thin build of most healers. Bronwen stared at his broad shoulders, noticing a large, white scar that cut across his chest down to his abdomen.

  He knew she watched him, and, despite her blush, she did not look away; too much lay between them now.

  When he left the room, she hastily rubbed her forehead and her cheeks, trying to cool the burning that she could feel there. Glancing around the room, Bronwen eyed the room in full orb-light. To her right, between the huge, teak bed and the window, sat a long, squat table with books lying on top, piled in neat rows, which didn’t surprise her, as Master’s Ammon’s villa was well organized and neatly tended. Bronwen draped herself in the soft blanket, raveling it around her body before tucking the extra fabric into the bodice of her simple design, covered now and more at ease.

  The sheet trailed behind her, tripping her until she slowed her steps, as she walked over to the pile of books. Br
onwen heard a door open and jumped back from the table, feeling guilty for prying into Willem’s things. But she relaxed when he didn’t enter the bedroom. When she peeked into the privy, she saw that there was an adjoining door that led to another room and assumed that he had went to find Chien, so she went back to the bedroom, walking to the other side of the room.

  On the wall was a grand mural painted in swirling shades of blues, from light to dark. Tretorian ones, not the Rexterran hues that decorated Willem’s home in nearly every other room. The scene was beautifully depicted, and the artist was one of great talent, as evident in the smooth, easy strokes that covered the wall. Bronwen ran her fingers over the wall, touching it, surprised to find texture there. She stepped back until she was able to view the wall more clearly and see the mural in its entirety.

  It was then that she realized that the image was a woman lying on her side, resting her head on her right shoulder, and peering into a small glass mirror that was lying next to her. The look on the woman’s face intrigued Bronwen, as it hovered between sadness and joy. Bronwen frowned to see it, at times thinking the girl to be content, and then, on another look, the girl appeared troubled. While her features were blurred, fluid even, her face was quite clear, the mouth slightly open in neither smile nor frown, the nose arched high, eyes a shade not found anywhere else in the painting and striking in their intensity, green and shimmering, as if a gem.

  The girl herself was breathtaking, at once both beautiful and distant, focused on what she saw reflected in the mirror, Bronwen believed. Upon closer inspection, though, she noticed that the mirror was dark, the color of night, empty, and without the reflection of the gazing woman.

  Before she could continue to inspect the mural, the main door to the room opened and Lord Willem walked in, carrying a tray.

  When he noticed Bronwen near the image, he said, “I see that you have discovered Marina. What do you think of her?”

  Bronwen paused before answering, taking a moment to once again gaze at the mural, and the woman who Willem had named Marina. Bronwen could not look away from where the girl’s eyes rested. As she continued to stare into the dark mirror, Bronwen wondered, almost regretfully, what she saw reflecting from its depths.

  “Why hasn’t the mural been finished, Willem?” she asked.

  “What do you mean? It has been complete for nearly as many moon years as I have been here. A local artisan toiled over it for nearly a moon year until I was satisfied with it. Which part looks unfinished to you?”

  Bronwen responded, “What is it that she sees in the mirror, Willem? Should it not be her own self that she sees rather than nothing at all?”

  “It is not nothing, Bronwen.”

  “What is it then?”

  “The answer differs for each of us, I suppose. But you haven’t told me your impression of the woman I call Marina? Do you recognize her?”

  Bronwen shrugged, “Why would I recognize her? Do I know her?”

  Willem looked back at the mural, taking his gaze away from the young healer that stood beside him, edgy and guarded, and clearly enthralled with the girl on the wall.

  “I had hoped you might. I have dreamed of her several times through the moon years, yet she has never once told me her name. She is so familiar, yet there is something about her that unnerves me. I call her Marina for the tumbling waves that surround her every time she visits me in a vision.”

  He walked across the room, carrying the tray over to a small table, leaving Bronwen to stare at the girl for a moment longer. Willem poured two glasses of wine before sitting down in a rosy-hued wooden chair with a loaf of soft, light bread and a few slices of honeyed ham. He slowly prepared a few sandwiches, lightening the mood that had so suddenly darkened.

  Bronwen continued to eye the mural, admitting to herself that something about the woman seemed oddly familiar, yet she was certain that she had never met anyone so striking. She heard Willem talking and turned to face him as he addressed her, part of his words lost as she stood enraptured.

  “The mural is not what is important at the moment. We have far more pressing matters to discuss. Have a seat and explain to me how you came about having those bruises that circle your throat. And, Bronwen, please don’t think of lying to me, as it will only be a waste of your time and mine.”

  She looked at him, deeply, before sitting down in the matching chair, wondering how he controlled the gift of sight or if it could even be controlled, and if he would recognize lies.

  “It is not something I am ready to discuss. I was, perhaps, in the wrong place at the wrong time and have suffered the consequences of that bad timing. I am healing and will recover fully. You need not worry over me, Willem.”

  “So you would have me believe that your nearly dying was merely coincidental? Bronwen, surely you are not that innocent. With powerful friends like Conri come powerful enemies as well. Who was the man? Was he Tribe?”

  For a few hours, she had forgotten his hairy face, the way the black, coarse hair on his chin had scratched at her cheeks when he tried to kiss her, despite her attempts to push him away. Her face had been raw and burning after she emerged from the sea, scraped, if not bloody. I will not go back there, she told herself firmly.

  Lord Willem watched as the young woman beside him shuddered, and he heard her picking at her nails before she filled the wine goblet and shakily brought it to her lips. He would not let her leave here until he had his answers, despite the pain it caused her. He pitied Bronwen for a moment, knowing that her troubles were only just beginning and not knowing where or when they would end. But we all have our paths to walk, our choices and deed he thought, who am I to alter the one that she walks?

  Bronwen jolted him from his reflections, murmuring, “Willem, what was it that you put into that wine we were drinking earlier? I had worried that I would feel sick when the effects wore off, yet I am remarkably clear-headed and relaxed.”

  Willem chuckled lightly, remembering that he conversed with the new Master Apprentice.

  “Chien introduced me to the poppy brew, I must admit. In the East, they brew the poppy as a tea, taking a much different approach to its use than we do here. She has shown me how to increase or decrease its potency depending on how it is needed. We have a few casks of the poppy tea that we have used as a base for the wine that Chien makes. I believe that she mixes in some lightly browned sugar to sweeten the taste and to mask the poppy’s bitterness. If you are truly interested, I am certain that Chien would be more than willing to show you how it is done.”

  “You have quite an interesting life here, Lord Willem. I have known you for several moon years, yet I never really knew you, did I? Who are you when you close your eyes at night? Who were you just a few hours ago as you lay next to me?”

  The bitterness in her voice surprised him, and he watched as she stared at the deep wine twirling in the cut crystal chalice held by long, pale fingers.

  “Bronwen, dear girl, you have every right to be angry with me. Look at me. Here, give me that glass,” he suddenly thundered.

  Bronwen handed the goblet over to Willem, still unable to meet his gaze, but obeyed his commanding voice nonetheless. However, she did glance toward him when she saw his arm raise, then watched as he released the glass, flinging it across the room. He smiled when it shattered against the far wall, sending the thick, strong wine dripping down the creamy walls. Bronwen merely shrugged, heavy again with wine and thought.

  “Now, look at me, Bronwen. Who tried to kill you? The truth please.”

  No longer able to escape his questions, and a little drunk off the strong wine, Bronwen reluctantly answered, “He said his name was Byron. He appeared to be Tretorian, but not from around here. I had never seen him before that night. I was at the beach, not far from the trail that leads back to town. I often go to the beach when I need to escape the Academy. Not long after I arrived, the man approached me, and before I could stop him, he had pushed me down and was straddling over me. There was no one else around,
as the sun had long set by the time he approached me and the fisherman had long left for the evening. Do I really need to continue?”

  Bronwen was calm, too calm, Willem decided.

  “You have taken the necessary precautions?” he asked, betraying no emotion.

  Bronwen’s skin paled, her freckles disappearing under a sheet of white.

  She whispered, “Yes. That is what I was doing yesterday at the clinic.”

  “Good. Bronwen, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry that you had to suffer so, and I am deeply sorry if my actions this night have caused you further pain. If I had known, well, I wish I had known.”

  There was only one thing that Bronwen wanted right now, one thing that she needed from Willem, and it was not his apology.

  She breathed, “Can you please help me find Conri?”

  In the silence of the room, her words echoed, loud and forceful, even though she had whispered them.

  After a few moments, Willem replied, “Not yet, Bronwen. Not yet, but the time might come. Sleep now and we will talk more on the matter when the sun rises.”

  While she slept, he thought on her words, determined to find the man. And determined to kill him.

  23

  Crispin Mannacore dashed across the courtyard hoping to catch up with his father, who was being carried by four of his guards in a royal litter decorated with the Mannacore crest, an eight-pointed star with a sword through its heart. His ailing father had to be transported thusly for the last few moons, a recurrence of an illness that had plagued the king several times since taking the crown. None of the castle healers could treat the ache he felt deep into his bones. Nor could any of the many who had come from all of Cordisia. In truth, none even knew what the king suffered from.

  However, this last attack had been the worst and his pain was not decreasing, nor was his mobility improving, despite all the attempts of healers and mages alike.