I tighten my hold on him. “It wants me. Don’t let it take me!”
“You can understand it?” he repeats.
Even the shadow takes a hesitant step backwards.
“Yes, I can hear it. It’s asking for me. Don’t let it take me!”
The boy lowers his “moon sword” to glance into my face. Once more his dark eyes – rimmed in black – capture mine.
The movement of the shadow redirects my attention. It comes straight for us at a speed I didn’t know was possible. Black smoke envelopes my face before I can blink. My scream fills the air, followed by the shriek of the shadow above me. Black foggy smoke billows around my body – corrupting my vision and filling my nose with the acrid scent of bile.
A blinding white light flashes across my vision. I fall to the ground and my hands scrape across the stones of the street. Needles of pain shoot through my wrists.
The boy stands above me, bathed in the beaming light from his sword as it shatters the last bits of the Darkness that remain. The last shadow is gone. He sheathes the sword in the leather scabbard at his side and the light disappears, leaving me once more in the yellow candlelight of the street lamps.
I crawl to Father, leaving a trail of blood from my wounded hands along the pavement, and press trembling fingers to his pulse. It beats gently.
He’s alive!
I look over my shoulder. The boy is gone. At least, I thought he was until I look at the stone wall of the house on my right and see him scaling up the side, quick as a cat.
“Wait!” I cry and run to the wall. I put my hands to the stones he is using to climb, but my bleeding hands protest. Climbing is not an option. I look up again until my neck hurts with the strain. He is almost at the top. He will be gone. This . . . person from the Wilds.
“Wait!”
Maybe it’s the desperation in my voice that makes him stop. I’ll never know. All I know is that he turns and his eyes flash the same darkness that he’d saved me from a moment ago. I swallow my fear. He saved my life. He won’t hurt me.
“Thank you.”
And he is gone.
Chapter II
If I ever die, I’m quite certain I know how it’s going to be. I am going to die struggling to steady myself atop a rickety ladder in the Kirath’s dusty, unused library. It doesn’t help that my arms are full of books and are practically useless in helping me disembark one rung after another. I count to three repeatedly in my head as I descend and the air becomes less of a prison. My fear of heights has never waned. Even though the ladder is but a mere twenty feet off the ground, my heart hammers whenever I look to the hard oak floor below me and imagine my spine giving it a kind embrace.
“Your return journey might be a lot easier, my lady, if you would hold less books on your descent,” Master Rolfe quips from a corner where he is dusting the unused volumes of the shelves. It’s a shame that so many books in his grand establishment go unused.
“I know,” I grunt as the last rung falls away from my feet. I set my load atop one of his fine cedar tables and get to work, opening the largest of the volumes and flipping through its pages for my much-needed information.
“Your homework gets more and more tedious as time goes by, Sir Kyla,” Master Rolfe comments with a smirk.
I flush beneath the scholar head covering adorned atop my mass of curly, midnight black hair. It is the epitome of fashion for a young scholar in service to the temple. However, I am not a scholar nor am I in service to the temple. No, I am simply Lady Kyla Bone, daughter of Lord Gavin Bone and Lady Elinor Bone, respectively, and if I’m discovered in my current masquerade it’s a flogging I’ll get for such a ruse. Master Rolfe knows it well and he has remained quiet in the last three years I have been visiting his abode.
My first few visits had been after the horrible attack in the streets. I had not bothered to disguise myself because I was running errands with my brother since he was to retrieve two books for his training at the castle. However, when the library had become an interest for me, such frequent visits could not be explained as “errands” any longer. Therefore, I had donned my disguise. Master Rolfe had not been fooled but he’d been lonely inside the four walls and, thus, welcomed me warmly.
“Yes, it does,” I agree with him, hefting the volume in my arms with a grunt. I bestow an impish smile in his direction. “But if anyone finds out you’ve been welcoming my rebellious behavior I won’t be the only one who receives a flogging.”
“Threatening me, are you?”
“Simply reminding you that you are in over your head as much as I.”
He glares in my direction and returns to dusting, but neglects to hide the quick smirk on his face. He enjoys my slightly mean sarcasm as much as I enjoy giving it. He’s one of the few people who allows me to be so rude.
The pages of the volume contain all information possibly gathered after the “Great Calamity.” It describes observations of what the poison may have been, where it might have come from, what might have caused the fires. Most of the observations blame it on gods battling for supremacy in the heavens and somehow it caused havoc on land. However, belief in such foolishness is hardly my strong point. No, I search for the information after the “Great Calamity.”
The volume is fairly new, published by a man with the odd name of “Goldbrow.” It’s recent pages might contain new information – new insight – into the land that has become a mystery. It traces the historical moments of the Kelban nation up until the “Great Calamity” and then spends at least twenty pages discussing the Celectate’s largest venture – the building of a Wall to separate Kelba from the decimated wasteland. It had been one of his finest achievements upon completion. The Wall had stretched for ten thousand miles through the border between the Wilds and Kelba.
I don’t know what it was like when the poisons came, but the volume contains real-life descriptions from survivors who observed the terrifying moment that changed the nation forever. No one knows how it started, but rumor has it that anyone who breathed the air immediately transformed into a sort of monster. Of course, they still looked human, but their rimmed eyes would tell you what they really were. Myths abound that the infected tribes of the Wilds survive by cannibalism since all animals and plants are poisoned. Again, the rumors are unclassified. But . . .
I have seen an inhabitant of the Wilds.
Growling with frustration, I slam the book shut as it continues about the history of Kelba after the Wall’s building – about political games between the Celectate and the Community. No more information on the Wilds. Nothing but myths, legends, rumors, and unclassified hogwash that does nothing to settle my mind.
“I would think you’d treat my precious documents with respect, my lady. Or have you forgotten such niceties?” Master Rolfe leans over my shoulder and takes the volume from me with caring hands, inspecting the leather cover as if it’s his child – of which he has none.
“Sorry,” I mutter, not really sorry at all. Goldbrow is just another foolish man seeking a fortune by writing a book that would appease the minds of his fellow citizens. But it doesn’t appease me.
The questions I want to know are endless. Why did the boy not capture and eat me? Why did he save me? What were the deadly fiends that attacked my father and I? Why did the boy’s sword glow like the moon? Why did it kill the shadows?
Every time my mind returns to the events of that long-ago night my skin buzzes with electrified tension. My nightmares are intense and relentless when they torment me. Every one of them contains something from that moment, be it the shadowy monsters themselves or the cold feeling of their teeth in my neck. I still bear the markings of that night – two small scars – on the delicate skin directly behind my ear along my hairline. They have remained hidden and no one has even suspected their presence. Every time the nightmares strike, they pulse with sickening accuracy and turn my brain into a hive of nauseating terror.
I pull a lone manuscript from the satchel at my side. It was a gi
ft to me upon my fourteenth birthday, three months prior to the attack. Its first few pages are sketches of simple things a girl would take an interest in. Flowers. Birds. Trees. The Celectate’s emblem. But the remaining pages are full of darkness and botched notes so close together only I can read their contents. The pages hold horrors no person should see. Every time I awoke from a nightmare, I would sketch what details I could remember onto the pages of my clean paper. Blood. War. Death. Battle. Shadows. The Wild boy. The wasteland of the Wilds. To others they might be violent – to me they are a reminder. A reminder of what the Wilds are supposed to hold.
Until I look at the pages containing my memory of the Wild boy. I had never gotten a clear view of his face, but his eyes are the most vivid of my drawings, dark and brooding, with just a hint of the evil glint he’d emanated that long-ago night.
“My lady,” Master Rolfe’s voice breaks my solitude and I slam my personal book shut lest he see the horrors I have documented for three years. “It is nearly dusk.”
It can’t be. Nevertheless, the pale light shining through the arched windows of the library atrium says different. If I am not home before nightfall and out of my boyish attire, I shall receive the whipping of my life, followed by a lecture, a grounding, and a promise to never see daylight again.
I grab the remaining books I’ve retrieved – including my personal one – from the shelves and shove them into my satchel. Once it’s over my shoulder, the weight nearly takes me sideways, but I heft the burden to my back and straighten.
Master Rolfe shows me to the door, pats my shoulder in a gentle farewell, then closes and latches it from within. I smile to myself when the six locks slide into place. Master Rolfe is always paranoid that his precious collection will be stolen. I’ve assured him many times that the majority of people in Kelba’s capitol city are illiterate and of the minority that can read, they could care less about his collection.
The streets of Kirath are being lit by the town torch-lighters. They hardly spare me a glance as I saunter by them, hefting the bag once – twice – from shoulder to shoulder. Perhaps I should have left some books behind.
I smooth the lapels of my scholar’s overcoat with care. I retrieved the clothes from a deserted bin in the storage room of my home and managed to have my personal seamstress mend the entire outfit, all the while deceiving her with stories of a poor “scholar boy” needing decent attire for his temple visits. The head covering I had fashioned myself, tailoring it to fit my head perfectly so as I hide the mass of hair beneath. When set free my hair falls to the middle of my back in a curly mess. The strings of the head covering tied beneath my chin prevent the revelation of my true gender.
The winding streets of Kirath are practically deserted. Not that it doesn’t please me, of course. Fewer people on the streets mean fewer people will take closer looks at a lowly scholar. I will get home with my disguise intact yet again.
I turn a corner and collide with several young boys running down the street. They are filthy and smell strongly of dust.
“Watch it!” I snap, struggling to maintain a deep tone.
“Apologies, scholar!” one boy says without even pausing.
Another boy, a tall, lanky fellow, has the decency to stop and bow his head before continuing. “Lord Telman’s ostracizement is today.”
Hell. I had forgotten about it. I had purposely come up with excuses so I would not have to attend the public punishment. It was custom for all High Lords of the Community to attend the ostracizement as a sign of loyalty to the Celectate. Well, I was not a High Lord and I was stuck in bed with a “headache.”
The first ostracizement had taken place a month after the nightmarish attack in the alleyway and the Celectate had forced all High Lords and lower nobility to attend. Mother had dressed me in a dress of blood red and pinned our family seal to my shoulder. Since father was the High Lord of the white diamond mines he had a front row seat – and so did I. Fifty people were ostracized that day alone – and the city had made a spectacle of it: offering food, tokens, and spectacles to enjoy the event. Like it was a celebration or something. People had cheered and clapped whenever the screams of the damned echoed over the square. I had cried.
For a whole week, I had to attend the event while the dungeons emptied and hundreds of guilty convicts were branded and thrust behind the Wall of Kelba into the dark abyss of the unknown. Until, finally, I could not take it any longer and had shoved my way through the crowd and run home as fast as I could. I had locked the door of my room and refused to see anyone – even Father. At last, Mother found a key and entered. I expected her to be very cross with me for abandoning the Celectate’s order, but she didn’t say a word to me. Instead, she sat on the bed beside me and let me lay my head on her shoulder. I refused to cry. Our silence was sad enough.
I have seen what comes from the Wilds. I have been attacked by demons.
I have never told anyone.
What happened that night went down as a simple mugging. When Father woke up he could remember nothing – only that he had been talking to me and lost consciousness when something touched his neck. I had been too terrified for days to say anything. When I finally did speak I went along with the general knowledge – Yes, it was a mugging. No, I was not hurt. Yes, they got away. No, I cannot remember their faces. They were shadows.
That last part, at least, was no lie.
I reach the main streets of Kirath. People hurry in the same direction – towards the Main Square. Towards the ostracize platform. Towards another poor fool’s banishment.
Nausea rips at my stomach and the scars on my neck begin to pulse as I sense the heady aroma of the crowd. Excitement practically drips from them and their eyes shine.
Bastards!
My head pounds furiously, echoing in my ears, buzzing along my spine, and wreaking havoc inside of me. Hesitantly, I glance behind me. The mob is gathering. Already I can hear the cheers as a wagon makes its way through the grasping hands.
I had heard the rumors around town about the unfortunate High Lord Telman of Escar, a city in the East of Kelba. A city with one function – the breeding of an army for the Celectate. Only Lord Telman had not been building an army for the Celectate. No. Rumors started months ago that he was planning to overthrow the Celectate and place a new ruler on the throne. A ruler, who, he said, would respect the Community instead of trying to make them his lap dogs. A ruler who would understand the people instead of trying to silence them. A ruler who would value strength instead of craving it. His words had not been wasted. Many people were whispering his name in back-alleys and on street corners. But that was all they were. Whispers.
As I grow further away from the crowd, the pain in my head grows. Invisible talons tear at my skin. I know what they want. They want me to turn around. They want me to join the crowd.
They want me to see.
Grinding my teeth viciously, I swivel around and join the mass. It is a slow process. Commoners are used to the crowded throngs of the streets. I am not. I do not have the educated ability to slip through arms and legs, especially with a thirty-pound book-bag hanging off one shoulder. I use my height and my false scholar attire to weave in and out of the packed bodies.
The noise of the crowd grows and somewhere in front of me, wagon wheels creak laboriously. I am close. One more shove of my arm, one more elbow in someone’s gut, and I am at the forefront of the crowd, standing barely six inches away from the square of Celect Knights that surround the public platform. They block the crowd from slipping through with their spears and look exceedingly powerful in their ebony black armor.
The creaky wagon emerges from the crowd and stops beside the platform. Two Celect Knights remove the lone occupant, a man clothed in a tunic that was once pure white, but has succumbed to the filth of two days in a dungeon, and set him on his feet. The man was once clean-shaven, but now has speckled brown and white hair on his strong jaw. His hair is infested with dirt. His hands tremble as a leather tie is wrapped ar
ound his wrists, cinching them together. The knights pull him roughly by the shoulders, and he stumbles forward.
I have met all the High Lords of the Community during the many events, festivals, and special parties hosted throughout the city for them. Lord Telman was one I knew a bit more than all the rest. He did not make much effort to engage me in conversation because I was a rather quiet, sullen child after the night of the “mugging” but he always smiled. Always nodded when I showed respect. Always raised a brow when I’d purse my lips after Father would mention the “esteemed” Celectate. I knew Lord Telman as a brave man with a potency for speech making that could rouse or dissuade a crowd. If he had succeeded in producing an army, he would have been successful in overthrowing Kelba’s current leader.
The guards bind Lord Telman to the tall, metal pole in the middle of the ominous platform and the knights return to their respective places.
Another cheer rises in the crowd. I recognize that cheer. A cheer of loyalty. A cheer of recognition.
Celectate Wood has arrived.
As Kelba’s ruler makes his way up the steps of the platform, his bejeweled hands modestly accepting the praise, his eyes rest briefly on Lord Telman. The two exchange a look I rarely see – a look of pure hatred for each other. Celectate Wood masks his true emotions with an immaculate smile. Lord Telman makes no such efforts.
Behind me, someone elbows me in the spine – hard! I turn around; ready to give the person a good tongue-lashing, and stop short. The man is so tall – so ugly – I shut my mouth. He has a patch over one eye and a cruel scar running the length of his face, over his lip, and underneath his chin. I shiver and he looks down his nose at me, his thick eyebrows drawing close together. A glint of something dark shines in his eyes and I realize I’ve taken a hesitant step backward.
“What are you looking at, boy?” the man snaps, his voice so deep, so terrifying, my throat curls in knots.
Ostracized (The Ostracized Saga Book 1) Page 2
