Catling's Bane (The Rose Shield Book 1)

by D. Wallace Peach

  Scuff tossed back the bag of coins. “We don’t much approve of Mur-Vallis.”

  “No, we don’t,” Wenna snapped. “It’s no place for children.”

  The influencer’s smile twitched at the affront. His beady eyes darted to Catling and she waved. He turned back to Wenna. “Perhaps, the high ward could sweeten his offer? This child’s talents are unique, and it’s in the realm’s best interest to see her gift is nurtured.” He extracted a second bag of coins from his pocket.

  “We don’t want your silver,” Piper snarled, striding past the female guard to stand at Catling’s side. “You’re murderers, and you’re not welcome here.” Whitt hurried to a position at Catling’s other elbow and gripped her hand. She squeezed his in return, marveling at all the fuss.

  A flinty shadow crossed Wenna’s face. She frowned a warning at Piper as the guards left the horses and fanned out. “Zadie,” she murmured, “take the children inside.”

  Zadie’s eyes pooled. “Mouser, Daisy, all of you.” She clutched Daisy’s hand, and when she turned toward the stead, a guard grabbed her arm, halting her. Mouser squeaked a cry, and Scuff jerked upright, his gaze riveted on the offending hand. Wenna clutched Scuff’s arm, the simple gesture holding a tenuous rein on his temper.

  “Whitt,” Zadie said, her voice trembling. “Take Mouser and Daisy inside.”

  “No.” Whitt’s eyebrows bumped together.

  Catling nudged him and smiled, his worried pout all too dire. She knew the influencer persuaded her as she held the shield over her family, but certainly, they overreacted. “Go ahead, Whitt. I think everything’s fine, isn’t it?”

  “Not unless you come.”

  “Runt,” Scuff ordered, “take your sisters inside.”

  “I find this resistance highly unusual,” the influencer said, his irritation further wrinkling his brow. “You deny the child an opportunity of a life of service.”

  “A slave to the high ward.” Wenna steeled herself. “You heard our decision. This conversation is finished.”

  The influencer studied Wenna’s scowl, his mouth twisting into a sneer. He waved to the guards. “Take her.”

  Catling yelped as Scuff broke out of Wenna’s grasp and rammed a fist into the influencer’s jaw. The man spun and collapsed with a shriek. Fear roared back into Catling’s consciousness.

  The tension erupted like a greasy fire. Guards leapt forward, seized Scuff, and thrust Wenna to the dirt. Mouser screeched, and Zadie yanked on Daisy’s hand. Near the summer hearth, Piper ducked a blow and shoved his attacker into the stacked logs, spilling them to the yard.

  Frozen in place, Catling screamed as the female guard charged toward her. Piper bulled between them and swung. His fist brushed the woman’s cheek before she caught him with a knee to the belly and elbow to the back of his head. He folded to the dirt and wheezed for breath. The woman’s arm snapped out, grabbing ahold of Catling’s hair.

  “Run!” Whitt yelled as he tugged on Catling’s hand. “Run.”

  “I can’t,” she cried, the guard’s fist holding tight. She twisted in the grip as Whitt pounded on the woman’s arm. Across the yard, Wenna reeled, blood on her lips. Bruiser and Rabbit screamed by the barn. A guard held a knife to Zadie’s throat, and Scuff lay curled on his side, his head buried in his arms while the guards kicked.

  Catling crumbled to her knees. The guard holding her hair howled, released her and stumbled to the stead wall. The woman’s face contorted, hands clasping her head, jaw hanging. The other guards spun to the sound, and then they too staggered in open-mouthed agony, sinking to the dirt, hands pressed to their temples as if their skulls would burst apart like dropped eggs.

  The portly influencer blubbered in their midst, spattered with blood from the cut on his jaw. He gaped at Catling, lip quivering with alarm. “What did you do?” he shouted. “Stop before you kill them.”

  Tears sprang into Catling’s eyes as she searched the faces of her family, shielding them from whatever torment afflicted the guards. Whitt bent over, catching his breath. Scuff lay on his side, still as a stone, the rest of them bleeding and dazed. Mouser whimpered, holding Daisy as the little girl wailed, and Rabbit and Bruiser huddled by the pig sheds.

  Catling felt none of the pain the guards suffered, and she should have, her own heart unshielded as she protected her family. None of it made sense.

  Movement across the yard drew her eyes. Two riders sat astride sleek horses at the track’s edge. One of them Catling recognized from Mur-Vallis, a young influencer, head shaved and marked with blue woads. He nodded to her in acknowledgment.

  Slender and dressed in creamy white, a tall woman with coppery hair leaned forward in her saddle, green eyes surveying the scene. She raised her voice, “I’m Vianne, doyen of the Influencers’ Guild. Tell me, since when do we kidnap children?”

  While the pair heeled their horses into the yard, the pudgy influencer scrambled to his feet and bowed, nearly falling forward on his face. “Vianne-Ava, my respects. High Ward Algar ordered—”

  “I don’t care about the high ward’s wishes, Anian-Mur,” she said as she dismounted. “And I forbid you to influence.”

  “Of course, Vianne-Ava.” He bowed again.

  “Qeyon, see to the family’s injuries.” She turned her attention to Catling and smiled. “You must remove your shield, Catling, for Qeyon to heal them.”

  Catling stepped back, the woman’s gentle words as unexpected as a slap. She hesitated and then withdrew the shield, prepared to snap it back into place at the slightest pulse of fear. Whitt clutched her hand. She stood motionless, her gaze following Vianne as the woman walked among the groaning guards.

  The men’s expressions softened as they looked up at the elegant woman. One at a time, she touched them. They sank to the ground with the peaceful drowsiness of one descending into sleep. Last, she caressed the face of the female guard who sat with her back against the stead wall. The guard smiled and her head lolled. She slid to her side in the weedy grass, dead eyes staring up at the sky.

  When the woman faced her, Catling held her breath, the fear ripping through her veins all her own. Whitt tensed beside her. The influencer had slain four guards with a touch.

  “Are you here to kill me?” Catling asked.

  “Rather the contrary.” Vianne bent forward to study her eye to eye. The woman smelled of spring lilacs and beeswax, her hair pinned up, curls held in place by a web of thin braids. The bright rubies in her ears sparkled like drops of fire. “Don’t be afraid. I shall explain.”

  The man, Qeyon, knelt beside Scuff who hadn’t moved since the guards ceased their barrage. Wenna sat beside him, holding Daisy, while Zadie sniffled with Gussy wailing on her back. The other children gathered close by, comforting each other. As the moments passed, an aura of peace settled over the stead, and Catling wiped her eyes. If influence filtered through the languid air, it was soft and subtle, so natural she didn’t see it or feel it.

  She watched Vianne walk among them, touching Wenna and laying a hand on Piper who tolerated the caress on his shoulder. Scuff yawned, rolled to his seat, and scratched his belly.

  “Now, Anian-Mur.” Vianne’s brow furrowed as she examined the influencer’s bruised jaw. “With your permission, I shall heal you.”

  “Thank you, Vianne-Ava.” The man bobbed his head.

  She placed a hand on his cheek like a lover and whispered near his ear, “You’re not a skilled mercy, are you, Anian?”

  “No, Vianne-Ava. My talents are primarily emotive. Some modest sensorist ability.” His frightened eyes flickered over the dead guards.

  “You realize I could slay you?” she cooed. “A mere thought, Anian, and I could draw your life from your body. I have merely to decide where to squeeze, to twist, plug, or tear. You forced me to slay four guards. As a rule, I dislike the unnecessary taking of life.”

  The bruising faded and the wound on Anian’s jaw closed, leaving a thin red scar. She dropped her hand. “You are free to return to yo
ur master. The girl is no longer your concern. She is my responsibility under the protection of Ava-Grea.”

  “Of course, with due haste.” The man staggered backward, holding his face where she’d touched him.

  “And…” She frowned. “Should I hear one peep regarding this incident or this child, you will consider yourself fortunate if I only have you flogged within a flea’s hair of your life. Do you understand me?”

  The influencer’s flabby cheeks blanched. “Clearly, but what do I tell the high ward?”

  She shrugged. “Your intelligence was wrong. There was no girl.”

  “And my guards? What do I tell the high ward about the guards?”

  “Deserted, poisoned by thieves, consumed by a crag bear. Use your imagination, Anian.”

  The influencer blinked at her. “But the bodies? What should I do with the bodies?”

  “Burn them or bury them. I care not.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Whitt fled into Scuff’s room, tears burning his eyes. He sank to the floor, back against the door, denying Catling her wish for comfort at his side. He heard her pleading, felt the pressure against the sturdy pine as she pushed. Then Wenna called her away.

  They would claim her. He knew it, and no wish in the world could change it.

  Beyond the portal, he heard Wenna’s challenges and Scuff’s quiet stubbornness. Vianne had offered them gold, and they wanted none of it. Yet, the battle by the summer hearth had shifted the farm’s landscape, their lives forever changed.

  “Do we have a choice?” Zadie asked, her voice trembling.

  “Of course.” Though the influencer spoke her words with tenderness, the warning flooded the air before it left her lips. “You must understand that Catling’s ability to block influence is a bane to power as well as a boon. The high ward casts a broad net, snatching anyone who might lend clarity to what happened in the markets. If word of her abilities spreads, there will be many desiring to control her. An equal number will wish her dead and not a day too soon. She is in peril, and her family, all of you, will live in danger as long as she remains here.”

  “She’s a child,” Wenna argued though Whitt heard little fight in her voice. The heels of his hands pressed to his eyes, he waited for what he knew would come.

  “Algar cares not for children,” Vianne said. “I merely state what you surely know—most of you would be dead if we’d arrived a moment later.”

  “We weren’t prepared,” Piper growled. “If they come back, we’ll be ready. Catling will shield us and we’ll kill them.”

  “Hush!” Wenna silenced the room. “I won’t have talk of killing.”

  “You cannot fight the whole of Ellegeance,” Vianne said. “If she is in Ava-Grea, she will be under my protection, far beyond Algar’s claws should he uncover the truth. At the very least, he will cease searching for her here.”

  The man, Qeyon, spoke up for the first time since entering the home, “Ava-Grea has much to offer aside from safety.”

  “Yes, of course!” Vianne said. “I linger on the dangers and forget the advantages. I shall introduce Catling as a distant relative, the child of a cousin given into my care. We’ll hide her power from those who would control her. She’ll have a new life, an education, soft beds, fine clothes and food, a chance to travel the realm. Compared to such a life, what can you offer her here?”

  “Love,” Wenna said. “We offer her a family and love.”

  “And death,” Vianne added.

  Whitt hung his head and let his tears track down his cheeks to his chin.

  “I will go with Vianne,” Catling said, her voice forlorn and already far away.

  ***

  For two days, Whitt moped, a sullen cloud encircling his head. The weather commiserated, rain falling in gray sheets through the afternoon, mucking up the mud and making chores miserable. He picked at his supper like a dying man, the faces around the table equally morose. Only Gussy appeared content, sleeping in her cradle with a thumb corking her mouth.

  A bead of sweat trailed down his face, the stead hot with the indoor hearth afire all day for baking. Zadie rose from the table and opened the front shutters during a break in the cloudbursts, ushering in a breeze and swarms of stingers. They ate their suppers while slapping at their arms and necks and scratching their ankles.

  “Bugs are partial to the rain,” Scuff said with a thwack to his arm. Zadie huffed at Scuff’s complaint and rose to close the shutters. She stood at the window, swatted at the bugs crossing her vision, and reached for the latch.

  The thump threw her body backward onto the table. Bowls and wooden dishware scattered, tumbling to the floor. Glass shattered amidst the strewn food. Scuff and Wenna shot from their seats and Mouser screamed. A bench fell backward as Piper bolted up, swiping a knife from the table. Whitt stared at his mother’s open eyes, her head on his plate, a black bolt sticking straight up from her chest.

  Another bolt flashed across the table. It sliced Whitt’s shoulder and cracked into the wall. Whitt stared at the bloom of blood on his shirt. The room erupted in shouting and movement. He watched the chaos as if he swam in a dream, the sounds garbled, bubbling up from deep under water. Pain flowered a heartbeat later with a paralyzing cry. He staggered up, babbling. Daisy added her wails to Mouser’s as Scuff lunged for the shutters. Bruiser and Rabbit ran for the door, flinging it open.

  “No!” Wenna shouted, but the twins were gone, screaming into the front yard. Scuff locked the shutters and slammed the door, fear draining all color from his face. Wenna shouted instructions as Piper flipped the table.

  Then Wenna grabbed Whitt’s collar, yanking him out of his terrified helplessness. “Hurry! Hurry!” She held Daisy in one arm while shoving Mouser toward the bedroom door, both of his sisters crying. “Take them through the window, Whitt. Run and don’t look back.”

  Men pounded on the door, and a shutter cracked open. Whitt ran into the bedroom, dragging Mouser by the hand. The rain had started again, the sky brooding and forest veiled in sheets of steel. Whitt clambered out the window, dropping behind the woodbin. Wenna handed Daisy down, the whimpering child hastily wrapped in a blanket. Then with a cry of her own, she dropped Mouser to the dirt and slammed the shutters closed.

  “Follow me,” Whitt whispered, his charge steadying him while his heart heaved. “Quiet, Mouser. We’re little mice off to hide in our tree.” Carrying Daisy, he scuttled along the edge of the stead and around the garden, half hidden by the trellises of climbing peapods and knobby beans. He glanced back at his sister, her blond curls flattened by the rain, face pinched with fear though her cries were silent. Daisy shivered and cried in the blanket. The wound in his shoulder stung.

  At the garden’s end, he ran for the forest. The hissing rain muffled Wenna’s screams and the shouts of men wielding death. Whitt ducked behind a tree, panic juddering through his limbs, heart hammering in his ears. He turned to Mouser and she wasn’t there.

  Without a choice, he crept back through the trees toward the garden, Daisy heavy in his arms. Mouser hid behind the trellis, paralyzed by the terrible stridency of murder. He took a step from the forest’s shelter and ducked back, holding his breath.

  A guard in a black cloak stood at the corner of the stead, a loaded crossbow resting in his hands. He squinted at the rain as he scanned the garden, pens, and sheds. Mouser didn’t seem aware of the man’s presence, her eyes on her home, her body bound by the shrill peal of death, Piper hollering in pain. Whitt begged her to stay as if his will alone could bind her limbs and silence her tongue. “Stay there, Mouser. Please, stay there.”

  The guard spat and wiped the rain from his forehead with a sleeve before walking toward the sheds. Whitt crept forward and tossed a stone into the garden. Mouser spun and he beckoned. As she ran toward him, he retreated into the trees. “We’re going to hide in the hollow oak,” he reminded her. “You lead, quiet as a mouse.”

  Mouser nodded, eyes like winter pools, her body soaked and shaking. She set off an
d Whitt followed. They squeezed through the gap into the tree. Whitt opened Daisy’s blanket and wrapped it around his sisters. They sat in the damp rot, snuggled together, the tight quarters offering shelter from the rain.

  “No talking,” Whitt whispered when he saw words forming on Mouser’s lips. She nodded and pointed at his shoulder. He gave his bloodied sleeve a brief peek and shrugged, then placed a finger to his lips.

  A branch broke beneath quiet footfalls. Mouser pinched her eyes closed, and Daisy pressed her face into Whitt’s arm as the shadow of a man blocked the gray light. Whitt looked up, meeting the dark eyes. The stocky guard combed thick fingers through his wild beard.

  “Nial?” another voice called.

  “Just taking a piss,” the bearded man yelled into the rain. He gestured for Whitt to stay and then trudged away. “No sign of them. I’ll wait in the trees and keep an eye out.”

  Whitt swallowed a sob, motionless, listening. The storm skies brought premature darkness, the rain falling in rustling gales. Daisy slept in his arms and Mouser dozed, emitting weak sleep-filled cries that grated his raw nerves. The old tree creaked, and rain-dampened calls kept him vigilant, the hunters still on the prowl. Sorrow pressed down on his shoulders with the weight of the world.

  He huddled in the tree, staring at the night, and with dawn still a long way off, he roused Mouser. Daisy rubbed her eyes, crying for Zadie. Tears wet Mouser’s cheeks, and Whitt wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Shhh. We’re going to Abbett’s for breakfast,” he whispered. “We have to be quiet, so we don’t wake them.”

  Mouser understood the game and mugged faces at Daisy, distracting her long enough to let them slip out of the tree. Whitt paused, listening for any hint of life from the stead, desperate to return but afraid to do so. Daisy giggled at Mouser’s antics. He shook his head at the innocent noise and whispered a soft shush. With two sisters to tend, he set off for Abbett’s farm.

  ***

  Whitt’s shoulder throbbed, the stitches pulling his swollen flesh. They’d given him a shirt too large for his boy’s frame, though free of blood. Abbett had ridden off minutes after Whitt’s arrival and returned with dour news, his pallor as gray as his hair, the creases in his face like weathered wood. He and his grown sons left to gather the neighbors and see to the burying, ordering Whitt to stay behind with his sisters at their stead.