The Dia Chronicles
THE DARKNESS OF LIGHT
BOOK ONE
TAMMY FARRELL
The Darkness of Light
Copyright © 2014 by Tammy Farrell
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Cover art and design by Nathalia Suellen
Developmental Editing by Lauren Speiller
Copy Editing by Melanie Hennessey
Formatting by Caitlin Greer
ISBN-13: 978-1492766582
ISBN-10: 1492766585
This book is dedicated with love to my mom
I miss you every day
The Realm of Dumnonia
Britain
517CE
The two-room hut was wrapped in darkness. Mara peered through a crack in the wooden board covering the window just as two armed guards marched by. She held her breath, watching when they paused on the road to scan the row of hovels.
Would they notice the boarded-up window of Helen’s cottage among the rest? Mara gripped the fire iron in her hand, ready if they came charging in. She almost expected them to. They'd dragged her mother away just days before, but they wouldn’t take Mara without a fight. If she had to, she would use more than the fire iron to fight them off. It was a definite risk. It could put her mother in even greater danger, and if Mara failed, the consequences would be fatal for them both.
No. She couldn’t do it. She'd never had to fight before, and even her unnatural gift might be no match against men with swords. What’s more, if they were looking for her, exposing herself would put Helen in danger as well. The poor widow was only trying to help by hiding Mara after they came for her mother. But the magistrate wouldn’t see it that way. Helen would get thrown in chains just as fast as the others. Mara couldn’t let that happen to Helen. She was their only friend.
Even though there were almost 200 people living within the walls of Moorthrop, Mara and her mother were outsiders. They were poor, lived on the very outskirts of the village, and unlike the rest of the peasants, they had no kin that stretched back to the village’s inception. Mara’s mother had arrived in Moorthrop 19 years earlier, when Mara was only an infant. Most villagers claimed heritage to the time of the Romans. And after the fall of the empire, their ancestors were the ones who built the village, shielding themselves from the war and invasions that ravaged so much of the realm. The once great Roman Empire was still in ruins, but being just a two-day journey from the western sea, and under the protection of King Gerren in the east, Moorthrop managed to survive.
Every new moon Moorthrop opened its gates to western merchants trading in spices, linens, and pottery. The newly-appointed magistrate and his sheriff kept order in Moorthrop, and their soldiers, when not drunk, or fighting amongst themselves, manned the walls. In a world of chaos and war, this should have been a blessed thing. But the magistrate was austere, and his Christian laws cast a dark shadow on a village with no God. Now it wasn’t what lie outside the walls of Moorthrop that threatened the people, but what they had let in.
Mara looked around the darkened room for a better weapon, a knife perhaps, when the sound of footsteps neared the cottage door. She crouched down and looked out. Helen walked up to the soldiers with a basket in her hand and said, “Mornin’ fellas. What ye doin’ on a fine mornin’ such as this?”
The soldiers moved aside for her. “Just keepin’ an eye on things. It’s gonna be a busy market day.”
“I see that,” Helen said. “Well, make sure ye come and see me near the dinner mark. I’ve got some fresh ale brewed. If I don’t sell it all today, I’ll make sure to save some for ye.”
The soldiers nodded and continued down the road towards the village green. Being a brewer, Helen received a certain amount of respect from the otherwise surly guardsmen. If she kept them satisfied with enough ale and cider, they left her pretty well alone.
Helen shifted the basket from one hand to the other and opened the cottage door. A wave of light followed her in until she closed the door and fastened the latch. She squinted and looked around the room. “Mara, where are ye?” she called out in a whisper.
Mara stood up from under the window, giving Helen a start. “Oh, heavens, there ye are,” Helen said, putting her free hand on her chest. She set the basket down on the trestle table and removed the cloth. “I got ye some fresh bread. Ol’ Madge tried to drive a hard bargain for it. Wanted six eggs. But I reminded ‘er that ‘er husband drank his weight in ale last market day, and he still hasn’t settled for it.” Helen chuckled. “She handed that loaf over right quick.” Helen took the loaf and began to cut it into pieces. “Ye hungry, child?”
Mara shook her head and sat down on one of the stools. “Did you hear anything, Helen? Are they going to let my mother go?”
Helen sighed and brushed the wiry red hair from her eyes. “I don’t know. There’s only rumors going about the village.” Helen paused and wouldn’t meet Mara’s stare. “They say there’s gonna be an execution today.”
A heavy silence fell between the two women. Mara felt her stomach twist and stretched her fingers out on the table like talons. “D’you think it’s my mother?”
“I can’t say for sure, but they’ve not charged her. There has to be a charge before an execution. Everyone knows that. It’s probably just a rumor. You know how those ol’ crones like to cause a stir on market day.”
Mara reached up and touched the green tear-shaped stone around her neck. It was her mother’s, given to her only days before the arrest. “Helen, I have to try and help her.”
Helen’s eyes shot up. “Ye can’t. We don’t know if they’re lookin’ for ye. It’s too dangerous.”
“This is my fault,” Mara said. “I can’t let them execute her.”
Helen waved her hand. “Nonsense, child. What could ye have done? They’ll let ‘er go. They just let a few of the prisoners go yesterday. It’s just a trick by Magistrate John to scare people into believin’ in his God.”
Mara shook her head. “No. It’s worse than that. I know it is. I have to go and see her.” Mara couldn’t bring herself to tell Helen the truth – that she feared they knew her secret, and that’s why her mother was arrested.
“Well ye can’t go and do that,” Helen insisted, pushing herself to her feet. “Let me go and see what I can find out. These could just be rumors, don’t forget.”
Mara said nothing as Helen went out the door. When she was gone from sight, Mara grabbed the cloak next to the door, draped it around herself and went out into the bright spring light. Mara knew Helen’s intentions were good, but she couldn’t sit another moment waiting in that darkness.
The village was alive with chatter as more foreigners entered the gates. Merchants set up their stalls for the day beneath the billows of smoke that swirled into the sky from the thatched roof huts. Village children played under the feet of the growing crowd, and old women swept their unsullied doorsteps, keeping a discerning eye on it all.
Mara stayed close to the crowd, casting her eyes downward until the prison came into view. She stopped several yards back, staring at the two armed men in red tunics guarding the crumbling stone structure. It had once been a Roman monastery, but what remained of the abandoned building now stood a dishonored relic that’s sole purpose was to contain the damned. In her 19 years, Mara had never set foot near the prison. And like the rest of the townspeople, she tried to ignore its exist
ence. But with her mother being a captive inside, she couldn’t ignore the feeling in the pit of her stomach that time was running out.
Mara looked left towards the newly-erected scaffold, seeing with horror that piles of long wood were assembled around a large wood stake. These ominous preparations left no room for doubt—someone was going to be executed that day.
As the mass of people grew denser, Mara inched her way closer to the prison doors, making her way towards the bearded guard on the right. Though she had never spoken to him before, it was well known among the village that he was kind, a quality the other guards lacked. He was older than most of the soldiers, middle aged, and was rumored to have once been a great commander in the north. With her hood drawn, and shaking hands, Mara approached him as he gazed out onto the village square.
“Pardon me, sir,” she said.
The guard seemed jolted from his thoughts, but his features quickly softened when she revealed her face.
“Yes, miss?” he asked, bending down his wide shoulders to hear her better.
Mara took a deep breath and willed herself to be calm. “My mother is a prisoner. I need to see her, please.”
At first the guard just looked at her, but then his face darkened, almost certainly seeing the resemblance. He moved his face closer to hers. “I’d advise you to go, miss. They’ve been looking for you. It isn’t safe for you here,” he whispered, his eyes darting into the crowd.
Mara pulled her hood up closer around her face. “Please,” she begged. “I have to see her. Arrest me if you must, but I won’t leave until I see her.”
There was a cackle of laughter from a dark-skinned guard on the left. “Tell this wench to be on her way, or I’ll teach ‘er a lesson.”
Without letting him see her face, she asked, “There is going to be an execution today?”
The swarthy guard spat something vile onto the ground. “Nothin’ you can do about it.”
Mara didn’t acknowledge him further, and looked back up to the bearded guard, pleading with all of the sadness in her eyes. “Please,” she mouthed.
He looked conflicted for a long moment, and then finally pushed on the large prison door while whistling to another man-at-arms to take his post. He held an opening wide enough for them both to fit through. Mara jumped when the heavy wooden door slammed shut behind them.
She stepped into the dim corridor and looked around. The western range of the monastery had been removed long ago, the stones reclaimed to build the walls of the village. In what remained of the eastern side, the arched windows of the cloisters were bricked shut, and in their place, small burning torches cast menacing shadows from the floor to the ceiling.
Mara recoiled behind the guard when she noticed an aged man with a curved back sitting near the door, concealed in the shadows. He leaned forward and surveyed Mara with a toothless grin.
“Dat anoder prisoner?” he asked the guard.
“No. I am taking her to see a prisoner.”
The old man shook his head. “Can’t let ye do dat.”
The guard stepped forward and placed a coin in the old man’s hand. With a nod of approval, he stuck the coin in his pocket and looked the other way.
Mara wanted to hesitate when the guard put a hand on her shoulder to coax her forward, but she willed her feet to move. The passage was littered with straw and muck on the floor, and the putrid smell of rot and human waste filled the air. Mara tried to avert her eyes from the rats running the length of the wall, stifling a shriek when one veered from its course.
The guard pressed her forward. “This is no place for you, miss. We have to be quick.”
When they got to the row of iron-barred cells, Mara kept her eyes forward until the guard finally stopped. Her heart pounded, and she felt the heat rise within her until it turned to a cold sheath of sweat on her skin. The guard peered into the cell and looked back to Mara. “You only have a moment, or we’ll both end up locked in here.”
He walked a few yards back down the corridor and leaned against the wall. Mara took a short breath and raised her eyes. A few pinpricks of light seeped through the crumbling mortar, casting an accusing finger on the prisoner in the dingy cell. She was huddled against the wall in a stained robe.
“Mother!” Mara let out a whispered cry.
Her mother looked up and rushed towards the bars. “Mara,” she said. While she didn’t seem injured, she looked drastically different. Her white skin was tear-streaked, her face was sallow and grim, and most shocking of all—her eyes were different. They were no longer the same pale green eyes as Mara’s; they were inexplicably dark, like ink-coated leaves.
Her mother brushed her long black hair from her face as tears rimmed her eyes. Then she looked at Mara and said, “You must leave here.”
Mara shook her head. “Why have they arrested you? It’s not you they’re going to execute, is it?”
Her mother’s dark eyes fell, her silence being the dreaded answer to Mara’s question.
“Why?” Mara asked. “It can’t be true.”
“You know why, Mara. They are accusing me of being a sorcerer, a heretic, a pagan. Whatever they can think of.”
Mara let go of the bars. “But, they can’t. They’re wrong. I can get you out of this. You know it. Maybe I can…”
“Absolutely not!” her mother interrupted. “You have to get out. Save yourself.”
Mara feared this would happen. Her mother was no more a witch than any other person living in Moorthrop, and Mara was almost certain nobody knew about her own secret. But the magistrate had put fear into the people with his talk about sorcery, and the devil. And even though Mara and her mother kept to themselves, that couldn’t stop the whispers about the black-haired widow and her daughter with skin so white it seemed to have never been touched by the sun.
Mara grabbed her mother’s hands through the bars. “Maybe I can speak with Magistrate John, reason with him.”
Her mother shook her head.
“So you’re just giving up?” Mara snapped.
Mara’s mother let go of her hands as the guard walked towards them. “We have to go now,” he said.
“No, I won’t leave her.” Mara turned back to her mother. “Don’t let them do this. I can stop this. I know I can.”
Her mother glanced at the guard and then back to Mara. “I know what you want to do, but you can’t. It won’t work. There’s nothing left to be done.” She reached out and touched the green stone around Mara’s neck, closing her eyes as if in prayer.
“I should have told you the truth, Mara. And now there’s no time.” She brushed Mara’s cheek. “You will be fine. You are just like me, remember that.”
“What truth? What haven’t you told me?”
The guard put a hand on Mara’s shoulder. “We have to go now, miss. The magistrate will be here any moment.”
“Don’t,” Mara said, pulling away from him. There was a creak of a door down the hall. The guard’s eyes shot up, and he hooked an arm around Mara’s waist, pulling her away. Mara stretched out to hold on as her mother’s hands slipped through her fingers. “I love you,” Mara cried.
“Please, miss. We have to go now. These are dangerous times, and I can’t protect you if the magistrate finds you.”
He ushered her out the doors and back into the sunlight, forcing her to walk several yards away from the prison. When he loosened his grip, Mara collapsed in his arms. “Can’t you stop them?” She looked up at him, seeing the sympathy in his dark blue eyes.
“I can’t,” he replied.
A frantic voice in the distance forced them both to look up. “Mara! Thank heavens, there ye are.” Helen’s imposing figure barreled towards them, her graying auburn hair wild, and her round face twisted in a grimace of worry. She marched up to the guard and looked as though she might slap him. “Take yer hands off ‘er,” she barked, pulling Mara towards her.
“Calm down, Helen. He took me to see my mother,” Mara said. Helen huffed and then pointed at the
guard. “What’s in yer head bringin’ a girl like this into a place like that?”
The guard frowned. “Her mother is being executed today.”
The blunt truth sent Mara’s mind racing; her thoughts became clouded with despair.
Helen took Mara by the wrist. “Come. We have to get ye out of here.”
Mara was too overwhelmed to protest, and her stomach churned as Helen pulled her away from the prison, weaving through the flow of dull-colored tunics.
“I thought I told ye to stay in the house. I was takin’ enough risk hidin’ ye there, and then ye go and march up to the prison like ye own the place.”
“I’m sorry. I had to try. They can’t do this to her.”
Before they could get away from the green, the sounding of a drum and the creak of the heavy prison doors spurred the crowd forward, pushing Mara and Helen back.
Mara looked up while Helen continued to spew curses at the crowd. The beating of the drum grew louder as the magistrate and the sheriff emerged from the prison, leading the ghastly procession up to the platform. Two guards followed close behind, one of which held the end of a thick rope, and tied to the other end was her mother. The crowd began hurling rotten fruit and vegetables at the prisoner. They didn’t care who was being condemned or whether they were guilty or innocent; they only cared about the spectacle.
Mara’s mother was shoved up the stairs to the platform that led to the stake, leaving her to stand freely before the sea of sordid faces. Her mother’s expression was proud and defiant as she lifted her bound hands to brush the long black hair from her eyes.
When the drums stopped, the crowd jeered and hollered. Mara looked on, clasping the charm around her neck. “They haven’t tied her. Do you think they’ll release her?” she asked Helen.
“I don’t know, dear,” Helen said with an exasperated sigh.
The magistrate waited a long moment before raising his arm to silence the spectators. “Good men and women of Moorthrop. I am saddened that we are once again assembled here to address a charge among one of our own.”
The Darkness of Light Page 1
