To Those Who Never Knew (A Monksblood Bible Novel Book 1)

by Isabella Anton

  Finch jumped back, trying to put some distance between the two of us.

  “Three on one, not exactly a fair fight. How about we even the odds?” As Finch’s eyes flicked behind me I felt a spear whiz by my face, heading straight for Bowen. My body took over as my hand reached out, trapping the wood in a spiral of wind and sent it veering off course. When I looked back in the direction it had come, there was a lanky man producing spear after spear from thin air. Bowen blocked the next bombardment as I zig-zagged my way out of their path, protecting his back. It wasn’t until I heard a cry of pain that I realized we had been played.

  “Tristan!”

  I saw him bent on one knee. Instead of a spear protruding from his body I saw Finch’s hand pierced through him, the flash of wet blood pouring from just under his collar bone.

  No!

  My mind snapped as anger and adrenaline raged through my body, its muscles tightening, heightening my strength to the point of numbness. But I didn’t care. No longer did I wear the red and green flames of balance, now my whole body was engulfed in the cardinal pigment. Its power licked at my skin. As my flames grew, those within close proximity had to move or be burned to a crisp.

  “Finch, get away from him,” I growled, my voice low, Bowen right next to me, unscathed by my fire as he stood ready to fight the one behind me.

  “Oh, well now, look at this,” Finch said in his pretentious Welsh accent. “Love can really get you hot, can it not?” He yelled over my shoulder. “Do you think we have a fighting chance, Kolby?”

  I didn’t give his colleague time to respond. Already my magic tendril vines were sneaking their way across the marbled floor, ready to take the spearman’s life, until Finch tsked at my threat.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Finch wobbled for a second, his face drenched in sweat. It was slight but it was enough to let me know the poison had gone into effect. Right then his head would be fuzzy and eyes unfocussed.

  Ever so slightly, his hand moved and Tristan winced. I stopped dead.

  “Now, Lady Jade… if you would care to accompany us… we would be happy to leave this place… and your friends… intact.” Finch was out of breath but the puncture in Tristan’s upper chest still oozed away, the blood loss causing his complexion to grow paler. I looked around the room and saw all the High Elders and apprentices and guards who lay dead at the feet of those still fighting for their lives.

  It wasn’t until I saw one of them get the upper hand against Master Lewis that I caved. Gritting my teeth, I let all my magic evaporate.

  “Jade,” Bowen cautioned, his hand reaching behind him trying to grab ahold of me. Before he could move any closer, the other Brotherhood member, Kolby, shot out his spears creating a fence between us. Through the corner of my eye I could see how they were strategically placed around him, locking Bowen’s joints in place.

  “Excellent… choice,” Finch forced a smile. Encasing his other hand in a strengthening charm, he brought his fist down onto Tristan’s chin, knocking him to the floor. “The prince… will be extremely pleased… to meet you.”

  Prince? What prince?

  He wobbled but found his footing before he could fall. With his hands braced against his knees, he put his head down, trying to regain his senses.

  Kill him. Kill him now!

  I made to relight my hands, only to feel the sharp blade of a spear on my neck. It seemed Kolby didn’t need to see his opponent to attack them, ready to stick it in me if I didn’t cooperate. It took Finch some time to gather his strength. Once he did, he grabbed onto Tristan’s collar bone and started to drag him behind to come and stand next to me.

  “Jade! Please… do not do this!” I could hear Bowen’s frantic protests over the clanging of swords and spells. But I wasn’t really paying attention to him. It was what Finch had mentioned earlier that still had my full interest.

  Does this mean there’s someone above him? If Finch wasn’t the one pulling the strings, then who was? Throughout my travels no one had ever mentioned a boss.

  My palms went cold as I finally comprehended what that all meant…

  This would be the perfect chance to find out.

  I knew what I had to do. I looked back at Bowen through a slit in the fence. The left side of his cheek was grossly discolored with a bruise, a slit seeping a line of blood.

  “I’m sorry, it’s the only way.” He probably had no idea what I was really thinking. I could have blast everyone in this room away, but that would mean everyone. I didn’t yet know how to pinpoint my powers enough to only hurt those I wanted, and I wasn’t willing to risk that.

  “It is not and you know it! Do not fall for his tricks!” Bowen’s voice was becoming strained as he tried to negotiate with me.

  “I will… kill him…” Finch panted as he tightened his grip on Tristan’s shoulder, but Tristan had already passed out; too far gone to feel any pain. That didn’t mean I couldn’t.

  “Stop! Stop, I’ll go with you.”

  “Good… girl.” His sadistic smile didn’t quite have the proper effect. Finch was on the brink of passing out, my magic too potent for his taste. He held up his hand and called for a retreat. Every hooded figure in the place stopped what they were doing and converged at any available window.

  “Milady.” Finch offered me his sweaty hand, but I didn’t take it. Instead I ran for the open window and jumped out. No powers, nothing but gravity to guide me to the ground. I didn’t have a death wish, far from it, death was the ultimate horror, but something in the back of my mind wanted to see just how willing he was for me to live.

  Before I hit the ground, Finch caught me, both of us bouncing off the packed earth, his powers nonexistent with my potion infecting him.

  “You are not… going to make this easy, are you?” His eyes were almost glazed over, his energy level plummeting with every passing second.

  “Why should I?” I hissed back. “I agreed to accompany you, I never said anything about cooperating.”

  He looked over my shoulder once more and nodded, but before I could turn and see who he was directing, I felt a blunt object hit the back of my head and everything went black.

  XXXI.

  Edward of Woodstock

  Edward sat in his library in Cardiff Castle, his two lévrier greyhounds flanking him on either side while his trusted advisor, Îbris, was positioned to the back of him. A boy of no more than nineteen stood in front of them, a letter crushed between his hands.

  “What is your name?” the prince asked, his English accent harsh. His eyes were like a bright smoky storm, ready to strike while his short length of dark brown hair was intertwined with the silver crown that sat atop his head. Deep black robes adorned his person, their velvety texture keeping out the chilled air. Three silver ostrich feathers were embroidered into the hem and sleeves, letting all know he was of royal blood. Edward’s manner was less than inviting, the square set of his jaw and glare in his eyes had the poor boy trembling.

  “Tribult, sire.”

  “What an unusual name…” The prince eyed him. He was a handsome looking boy with his dirty hair falling into his eyes.

  “What have you heard?” It was Îbris who spoke. Others knew him better as the Shadow of Woodstock, for he never left the prince’s side. The shine of his bulky chainmail rattled as he repositioned himself. Edward had first encountered Îbris in his home village of Mbita and brought him back to the Empire to train him in being his right-hand man. In any other time, he would have been thrown into the fighting pits, but the prince had saved him from that life, and now, he owed him a debt.

  “Finch has procured the savior,” Tribult stammered out.

  His Highness sat there without reacting and only when the boy looked about to soil himself did he speak, milking the moment. “Has he now?”

  There was a royal air about the man. It was a lesser known fact b
y those who were not privy to such knowledge that this very same man was the founder of the Black Plague Brotherhood. The few who had unearthed this information had coincidently contracted a deadly illness.

  “Has he left his whereabouts?” Edward moved to get a fresh sheet of parchment and quill to relay his message back. The ink he chose was one he had taken great care in producing himself which consisted of sheep’s blood, giving it a blackened, red tinge.

  “Read the message!” Îbris spat at the trembling boy.

  Tribult pulled out the parchment and, sweating, started to read it out loud. He only got a few sentences in when the prince’s shadow commanded, “Just tell the prince what he needs to know! We don’t have all day.”

  Tribult scanned the document before summarizing it for them. “They are headed to Llanbeder Point Steffan as we speak. Evidently Finch has taken ill—the cost of fighting the savior—so their journey has slowed, but they will be there within the week.” The lad gulped. “He commands that you meet him there.”

  His eyes went wide with fear at his slip of the tongue. He hadn’t meant to say command.

  “Does he now?” Evidently it was not lost on Edward either. He stood and strode the small expanse of the room, coming to stand right in front of the messenger, the dogs at the prince’s side standing in tandem. The prince put his hand on his shoulder, scaring him half to death. “And does his command come with a time frame?”

  The boy could feel the pain as he squeezed his shoulder tightly, undoubtedly leaving a bruise. “He asks that you meet up with him there, before the week’s end.”

  The prince stood there, a statue of unreadable emotion. “And now he asks.” He looked back at his shadow, never breaking the bond between him and the boy. “What do you think, Îbris? Should we grace Finch with our presence?”

  Îbris chuckled. “I think it wise, sire. Finch has been seeking out the savior for months now. If he has indeed found her, then our crusade may come to a fast close,” his deep voice resonated throughout the room.

  The prince glanced back at the messenger boy and moved to push the hair back behind his ear, pausing there. “Quite right.” He let go and moved back to his desk. “Here.” He finished writing his response and sealed the letter with black wax, his signet of three ostrich feathers indented into it. “Take this to Finch and tell him I will leave in two days’ time.”

  The lad took the note, careful not to touch his hand, and placed it in his jacket pocket.

  “Thank you, Your Highness.” Not wanting to turn away, he bowed and backed out of the room while the prince’s eyes never left him until the door shut.

  “Idiot,” Edward commented.

  “Finch is one of the best commanders we have,” Îbris moved around to the front of his master’s desk. “I trust that he knows what he is doing.”

  Edward pondered the notion. On the one hand, the man’s brother had been a thorn in his side for years, ever since he had been made captain of the Royal Guard. On the other, Finch’s fanatics about the desolation of the magical world were borderline manic. Just as he had wanted him to be.

  “We will see if this savior, as he calls her, is what he says.” Îbris relaxed, thankful he had heard reason. “Prepare for our travel. We have only four days till the arranged time. Make sure we have fresh horses at every stopping point. When we hit Carmarthen we will go the rest of the way by flight. It will be much faster than going up and down on those bloody winding roads.”

  Îbris bowed and left to make the preparations.

  “Wait!”

  He stopped mid-stride.

  “I think we should take it upon ourselves to make sure our friends in Saint Davids are alright, don’t you?”

  Îbris knew all too well the prince was playing his cards close, trying to convince the people that all was going to be alright while conducting his master plan behind their backs. “As you wish, sire.”

  XXXII.

  Bowen

  “Bowen, it is time to wake up…”

  He could hear her voice as clear as Barafundle Bay. He looked over and saw she was kneeling beside him, but it wasn’t who he was expecting.

  “Catherine? What are you doing here?” Bowen sat up.

  His wife still wore the clothes he had last seen her in, the yellow of her smock cinched tightly around her bodice, while her fingernails were caked with clay, an unfinished pot lay buried deep in its own grave. And her face, oh her lovely face… The beauty that had haunted him every waking minute before Jade had come along, was serene. They both sat in a blank-canvas room, the walls and floors washed clean of the carnage he last remembered. He sprung up, sword ready.

  “Where is Jade?”

  “She is safe.”

  “Safe?” he asked incredulously. “The Brotherhood has her. Finch…!” But he stopped there, his wife’s face solemn and composed. “I am sorry.”

  “Do not be. It is not for the dead to judge the living.” She placed a light hand on his cheek. He could barely feel it. “It has been you facing the hardship your brother has caused, not I.” Her brow creased like it always did when she knew her husband was frustrated and in pain with the decisions of life. “You love her, don’t you?” She looked at him not with sorrow in her eyes, but happiness—joy that he was able to move on after everything he had been through.

  “Yes.” The simple word escaped his lips, leaving the taste of truth upon them.

  “Then find her. She is waiting for you.” Catherine cradled his hand in hers, the touch feathery and warm. “Love comes to a person more than once.”

  “Bowen!”

  Bowen was shaken awake; the space where his wife had knelt beside him was now occupied by Master Lewis, his face frantic. He was still groggy. Kolby had managed to restrict his joints with his spears and before following Jade and Finch out the window, took that chance to knock him unconscious.

  Master Lewis did not look too bad, a few cuts and scrapes, but Bowen could see he was favoring his left side, his breath coming out in huffs. “Where is she?” the master shook him again, trying to keep him from resting to answer his questions. “What happened?”

  “She’s gone,” Bowen managed.

  “Gone where?”

  Bowen gazed towards the open window where he had seen Jade jump from and saw Tristan still laying on the floor, blood pooled around him. Mustering his remaining strength, he made his way over to him. “Come, we must take him to the healers, you and I as well, before we continue.” Bowen slumped the captain over his shoulder, Tristan barely able to stand, let alone walk.

  Master Lewis led the way, passing through the now dimly lit room and down the long stairwell, all the while mourning the dead that lay at their feet. “We have lost more than half of the High Elders, as well as their pages and guards.” He did his best not to look at the friends and teachers that had unwillingly forfeited their lives. “Come. Come.”

  He guided them to the hospital tent just outside the cathedral. It had mainly been used to treat the usual cuts and stomach pangs, but today it acted in a greater capacity. The smell of death, blood, and shit filled the air. Next to it, the dead were already being laid out. Their identities were hidden by pitiful white cloths that covered their faces, leaving the rest of the body exposed to the survivors that walked by.

  “Healer! See to the captain.” Master Lewis took control of the situation, getting Tristan treated first while he and Bowen could afford to wait.

  Bowen’s protective instincts were in high gear, yet he could do nothing with the excess adrenaline. “It was that bloody Mason, wasn’t it?”

  “We will find out soon enough.” He laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder, not only to calm Bowen, but himself as well. “Sit. The healers will take care of you now.”

  “No master, you go first. The other Elders will be wanting to meet and you need your strength more than I at this moment.” Bowe
n knew if he were to be healed he would take off looking for Jade and he could not do that alone.

  The master did not complain. After this unholy incident, the remaining High Elders and those below would be wanting to meet, to discuss what needed to be done. The need for a new bishop was in order. It was with that realization that Master Lewis’s blood ran cold. All the remaining High Elders mostly rooted for the Brotherhood.

  Haf and Elian spotted the three of them and rushed over, fear piercing through them when they didn’t spot Jade. They had been helping out since the first assault occurred, carrying down bodies light enough for them, their arms stiff and their emotions strung.

  “Jade?” Haf asked expectantly. But none could answer. She saw the state Tristan was in and directed Elian to take over his treatment.

  They healed his chest as much as they could and bandaged it the rest of the way. He had lost too much blood, and only time would be able to mend him properly.

  Master Lewis’s ribs had been seen to. They had cracked during the scuffle, the reason why he was having a hard time walking properly. He shuffled by one of the beds and registered it was Emer who occupied it.

  “Dear God woman, you look worse than I.” He was trying to make light of her predicament but did not succeed at hiding his revulsion. Her leg was bent at an extreme angle, the bone protruding out of her once beautiful dark skin that was now streaked with blood, while her right arm had a deep cut running up its side, her muscle and sinew on display.

  “Lewis. That is no way to talk to a High Elder.” She tried to laugh, but it came out more as a huff; her eyes periodically opening and closing. “Did they get her?” she asked hazily.

  “Yes,” he nodded morosely.

  “Then hopefully she will be able to defeat them.”

  “Hope is all we can ask for.” Master Lewis left her to rest, the healers working their magic as well as they could.