The silence in the room is deafening.
“It won’t be easy,” Father says. “If we’re caught . . .”
“If we’re caught, we’ll add fuel to the fire with our deaths. We’ll go down fighting. We won’t let him claim even the victory of our demise. That’s how we beat him. It’ll take hundreds of lives – maybe thousands – to do it. But we’ll do it.”
Mother draws close again, slipping her hand into Father’s. They share a warm, pressurized squeeze, before Mother looks at Landor. “You’re a little mad, son.”
Landor cocks a solemn smirk in her direction. “Kyla was my anchor. As long as she was there, I could endure it all. I could do anything just to make sure she didn’t fall into Celectate Wood’s hands. It ripped me apart to see her as a miniscule pawn in that bastard’s game. And it gave me wings when she defied him. He took her from me – sent her to a place I can no longer protect her – and he’ll live to regret it.” He smiles at the bloody glass around his feet. “Oh, he’ll live to really, really regret it.”
Father and Mother nod in unison. “He’ll pay,” Mother whispers, her hands bunching into fists at her sides, that kindred fire burning in her eyes.
“Kyla’s death will be avenged,” Father agrees, his lip quivering as he says my name.
Landor smirks and leans against the door with a reckless swagger. “Death? I’m surprised at your lack of faith in the Bone heritage, father.”
“You think she’ll survive? That she’ll live in that wasteland?” Father asks. “Trust me, son. I have dreamed of such a thing . . . I have prayed and swore and screamed that such a thing could be true. But you know the stories as well as I.”
Landor nods in agreement. “And no one knew those stories more than Kyla. She’s been prepared for this for a long time . . . she won’t die.”
Mother steps forward. “We’ll see her again.”
The edges of the vision before me begin to close in on themselves. Darkness dances in blotted spots, stealing their faces from me one-by-one. No! Not yet. I have to stay in this dream. Have to memorize this goodness to chase away the horrors.
The darkness recedes for an instant – only a mottled circle large enough to see Mother’s face. She crosses her fingers and thumb in that curious little symbol over her chest once more. “I know we will see her again,” she whispers.
A white light cracks against my skull and my head snaps back, connecting against the sharp bark of a familiar tree. I open my eyes.
I will not die yet!
The deceased dance before me, all around me, their smell assaulting my senses.
“Join us, wanderer,” that sultry voice whispers in my ear once more.
My groping hands find my objective – the dagger! The mangled figure screams, a sound that vibrates down my throat and into my legs with a force faster than light, when the blade cuts across it. There is no flesh – nothing but empty air. The deceased begin to fade, one by one, until only one remains – the one I cut. It stands before me, a hand pressed against the diagonal line across its foggy chest. Then, it too, disappears.
I clutch the dagger close, eyes scanning the forest for demons. For shadows. For creatures not of this world. This forest is not natural. This forest is cursed. I recognize the panic in my limbs and will myself to calm down. To ignore the curdling veins beneath my skin.
This forest is torturing me. It makes me see my family. Makes me see the dead. Makes me see my death, sweet and serene, with no worries.
I have to get out. But I can’t move.
My eyes close.
A strange prickling sensation crawls up my back and something sharp sticks me in the side. I hear a small chipping noise – like bark being cracked – and then flesh is torn from between the whip lashes on my back. When I open my eyes, a scaly creature is straddled atop me, its tail flipping in my face, studded with tiny prongs. I scream and jump, all grogginess dissipating immediately.
The creature falls off of me, a piece of skin from my back dangling in its mouth, and scampers off into the trees with its new prize. I picture the smell of flesh drawing something larger, more horrifying, in my direction and grab the pouch of water and my dagger and run. I hurl over underbrush, avoiding thorns, and feel more alive then yesterday as my heart beats in my chest. The darkness doesn’t scare me anymore. I can see into its foggy gray colors. No thorns rip my dress. No brambles trip me. As I run, I remember the vision from last night – the faces of my family determined to avenge me.
It’s just a dream. But it felt so real!
The chill in the morning slowly recedes, replaced with a humid heat that traps air in my lungs and halts my breath. My legs come to a slow halt, and I lean heavily against a tree, dashing a hand across my soaked forehead. The water pouch sags at my side, its rubbery surface sliding against my thigh. I run a hand over the cap longingly – from somewhere inside my throat a low growl of hunger releases itself. My stomach responds in kind, so I press firm palms to the center of my abdomen, against the rawhide belt, against . . .
The vial! I frantically search the ties of rawhide. The bodice of my tunic. Even the torn gaps in my garment. It’s gone.
The thin strand of control I’ve been struggling to maintain snaps. The one object that promised me a safe haven – a reprieve – an escape from this hell . . . I’ve lost it.
The forest seems to have loomed closer – its claw-like branches reaching for me in ravenous positions, the brambles growing higher to obstruct my path, the thorns thickening with deadly sharpness.
I must go back. I must find the vial.
Before this darkness eats me alive.
This is one battle I will not win. The tree branches jostle me in all directions, thickening, groping, pulling. I will not be able to find my way back. Every clearing looks like the next. Every large tree stump is the wrong one. Every tree is black and fearsome.
The heat has grown unbearable, sweltering around me in patches of warm vapor that assault me from all corners. I cannot breathe. I cannot think. I can only feel. Feel the fire coursing through my veins from hundreds upon hundreds of cuts and sores and bruises. Feel the buzzing in my backside and shoulder were the lash and the iron did their work. Feel the pounding in my head from lack of oxygen. Feel the merciless talons ripping at my stomach with hunger.
I must wash my wounds. The idea of using even a morsel of the precious water for anything other than quenching my thirst is unbearable. But common sense warns me of the consequences of such an action. If the wounds get infected there is no solution to the slow, agonizing death that will overtake me.
Peeling the damp, shredded dress off my chilled skin takes longer than I thought it would. Blood had caked through the shreds on the back of my tunic, drying the fabric to my wounds. Rivulets of blood tickle my tailbone and drip onto the ground. I must hurry before the smell attracts larger predators.
Using the tunic as a rag, I soak it generously wipe my arms from the shoulder downward. The crusty layer of blood and dirt and skin peels away, leaving a prickling sensation that, despite the pain, brings a sigh of relief from my mouth. I do the same to my torso, my legs, my feet, taking note of each cut, each bruise, each blister that mars my body and reminding myself that Lan – that Father – will avenge each and every one of them. My backside is the most difficult to endure. The open wounds on my back scream their disapproval as the filth is removed. By the time I’ve finished, I’m on me knees, fingers digging into the dirt and blood running across my lip as I struggle not to scream – not to wail in distress.
A stick snaps in the darkness. Instinctively, I crouch low to the ground, naked limbs sprawled beneath me on the brambles. I scan the tree-line but nothing catches my attention. The bark bristles against my bare skin.
Another stick snaps. Closer this time. Five feet from where I lie.
Tentatively, I peek over the edge of the tree root.
Two glowing red eyes stare back at me.
With a shriek, I fall backwards, hands flailing
wildly to soften my fall. One of them strikes the lip of the water pouch resting against the tree root. Horrified, I watch the pouch fumble on its side and liquid shoots out the open cap. Pooling on the ground. Sinking into the dirt.
Forgetting all about those beady eyes, I lunge for it, belly scraping the thorny ground, and tip it upwards. Panting heavily, I cradle the bag against my chest – and it depletes into a sunken shell of leather. For a moment all I can do is stare. I tip the opening downwards towards my mouth and a few stray drops wet my lips before the pouch becomes barren.
I allow the pouch to fall to the ground, body shaking uncontrollably. I pull the dagger and turn around, fully intending to gut whatever creature so cruelly robbed me. I imagine twisting the knife between those beady red eyes. Listening to it whimper in pain for the death it has hammered upon me.
The creature is gone.
The dagger fumbles in my hand before joining the water pouch on the ground. My stomach screams for a reprieve from the endless torment and the very bones of my body cry out their protest. Fresh tears sting my eyes. Soak my cheeks. Wet my dry lips. The shield I’ve tried so hard to maintain around me falls away. I allow myself to feel everything. The whip on my back. The brand on my shoulder. The pain of Aspen’s kiss. Landor’s goodbye. Mother’s pride. Father’s grief. The hunger. The blood. The endless nightmare. I try to cup a hand over my mouth, but the sobs come anyway, racking my body with spasms of gagging breaths and chest pain.
“Why?” I slam my fists against the ground, hardly recognizing the pain that shoots into my limbs at the connection. “Why?” I stare at the trees that refuse to show me blue sky. To show me the life I know exists outside this nightmare. “Why! Why! Why!” My wrists protests in pain, but I punch the dirt. It squelches in my hands. Forms a circle of compacted earth.
I sprawl out on the ground, the humidity hugging my naked body, and stare up at the jagged black limbs, energy completely spent and eyes heavy with fatigue.
“Why won’t you let me die?”
I don’t receive an answer.
I open my eyes to darkness. To the never ending night of my nightmares. The chill has returned so it must be night. The bones of my throat vibrate with tension, pleading for water. My mouth is so dry, even saliva is paste. It clots in my throat and chokes me.
Above me, the tree branches point their fingers at me; taunting, laughing, judging. Their thick forms draw close together, like a group of bullies preparing an assault.
I search the ground for my tunic and find it carelessly tossed against the brambles. Pulling it free, I press it to my cheek. It is still wet and the dampness cools my cheeks and dissipates the heat, the fever, the headache hammering in my skull. It smells of blood and dirt – and water. That low growl erupts from my mouth again, so I press the dress against my lips and suck. My senses protest, but I force the ill-tasting liquid down my throat anyway. Another. Another. Until my stomach rolls with warning.
I slip the dress over my shivering shoulders and cinch it around my waist again. Above me, the trees creak and groan as a sharp breeze twists down through the wooded prison and circles around me, whipping my filthy hair around my face.
The trees!
I hurry to the nearest black monstrosity and jump for the lowest branch. Whether the desperation of my condition or the loss of weight, I’ll never know, but my fingers latch onto it. My arms fall weakly at my sides by the time I pull myself onto the thick, elongated throne of bark. But I won’t need them. The branches are so thick, so close together, so perfectly criss-crossed, the journey upwards will be easy. Then I will know my bearings. Perhaps I’ll even see the end of the forest. The edge of my nightmares.
And if you see only forest? I force the horrible thought down.
My heart pumps madly at the hope that re-surges in my breast. I feel alive again. Feel the oxygen, the blood, in my body. I kick loose bark from my path whenever I can, relishing the sound as it hits the forest floor beneath me. I cannot see five feet into the darkness below me, do not know how high I have gone – and my chest tightens at the thought.
I shove the memories into the depths of my mind but it’s too late. Whatever nightmares this forest feeds on have located my fears. I feel the tug at the back of my mind. The swirling memory returning to the forefront of my thoughts. It opens before me like the opening of a dark cave and no matter how hard I struggle, fight, scream I enter it.
I am a child of nine, scampering through the halls of a palace – the Celectate’s palace. The golden oak walls, the exquisite paintings, the glassy light pale against the deep black of my midnight hair. Against the dark of my eyes. Eyes lit up with mischief. Behind me, voices assail me – children’s voices. They ask me to reveal myself. To come out of hiding.
I search around frantically, cheeks red with the thrill of the chase, and spot an elegant, oaken staircase. I grab the rail and dash up the soft, carpeted steps. The candles lit against the walls illuminate the staircase in a dim, eerie light that mystifies my child-like examination. I remind myself to paint the staircase – to draw its luster – when I return home. A door comes into view at the top of the steps – a single, white door. I open it without a care and slam it behind me, turning to survey my hiding place.
It is the roof of the palace – not a usual roof though. A glass roof. I stare in fascination beneath me at the outline of Calaisar’s sun in the gigantic room beneath. It is magnificent and beautiful and good. I spread arms wide against the expanse of blue sky and begin to prance upon the glass, watching my reflection in its mirrored exterior. I don’t notice the looming shadow approaching from behind me. The soft swish of robes against the wind. The heady scent of “Barron” for the royal line.
“What are you doing up here, little one?”
I startle at the voice and turn around. Celectate Wood stares back at me, clothed in his usual dark colors, but his regal robes gone. He wears a simple tunic, tied at the front. As a young child, my eyes marvel over the gleaming muscles of his arms beneath the silken fabric and the handsome chisel of his jaw.
“Kyla Bone,” he mutters.
I smile innocently.
His eyes darken. “What are you doing?”
I launch immediately into a child-like explanation. “Selena and Aspen are trying to find me and I . . .”
He steps forward, and I stop speaking, instinct hitting me full in the gut. His eyes have no mirth. No light. And they stare at me mercilessly. He continues forward, until he’s standing inches from me, and I have to tilt my head up to look him in the face. The sun settles behind his head and rays encircle his skull. I marvel over his resemblance to Calaisar’s symbol.
“Have you not been taught to bow in my presence, child?” he asks with a smile that doesn’t look like a smile at all.
“I . . . I . . .”
“Perhaps your manners have been dimmed of late by the constant interaction in my heir’s presence, but you cannot forget your place, child. Do you understand?” He glares down at me.
“I . . .” My tongue is in my throat, and I can’t speak. Young I might be, but I could recognize a threat to my existence - and it frightened me.
Celectate Wood’s frown deepens. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Walk with me, child.”
And walk we do. To the edge of the glass roof.
“Look down, child.”
I do. I see cliffs and meadows and forests and mountains. I see a lake. A bird soaring just above its peaceful water. A deer grazing off sweet, yellow grass.
“This is something you must learn, child, and your parents have been fools not to open your eyes earlier. There are two types of people in this world: ruler and ruled. Argue it. Debate it. Fight it. A simpler truth cannot be spoken. It is the only truth. An endless cycle of who will conquer, who will rule, who will fall, and who will rule instead.” His fingers tighten on my shoulder-bone. “Who is your ruler, child?”
For some reason, I falter. I try to think of words to say. The right words. But I don’t say the
m. I only stare at that lone deer. That soaring bird. That peaceful lake.
“Rulers stand up here,” Celectate Wood continues, his voice light and soothing, as if he were speaking to a newborn. “Do you know where you stand, Kyla Bone?”
Slowly, slowly he pushes me forward – towards the mountains, towards the forests, towards the deer and the soaring bird. Towards the edge! His hand moves to my neck. Bends me over. Everything sways around me in colors of yellow, green, and blue. The hazy focus of the trees, hundreds of feet below, beckon with tangled branches.
“Down there,” he whispers, low and menacing in my ear. “You, your parents, the Community, Kelba . . . all down there. The ruled always try to climb up to the highest position . . . they battle each other for it. But eventually . . . they slip.” One of my feet loses touch with the edge and dangles in the air above the forest below. I whimper but don’t scream.
“They fall.” My remaining foot teeters on the edge as his fingers apply more pressure, more leverage. My body sways between gravity and solidity.
“They die!” He releases me.
I catapult forward, sun and trees and meadow coming to meet me face-to-face for a windy kiss, hands flailing wildly for an escape. Someone grabs my shoulder and pulls me backwards. I land solidly on the glass roof.
“Do be careful, Kyla Bone. You don’t want to fall.” He pats me gently on the head and exits through the door, leaving if open for me to follow at will.
I shiver. I shake. I stare. I shiver again. I look through the glass at Calaisar’s sun once more and the contents of my stomach slowly rise as I stare at the fifty foot drop between the glass and me.
Ears buzzing, I crawl across the glass, praying it does not crack beneath my weight. I leave the glass roof behind and flee down the staircase. The last of the steps fall away from my feet, and I’m in the hall again.
Celectate Wood stands to my right, arms placidly locked behind his back. “Well, Kyla Bone, did you learn the dangers of journeying so high?”
Ostracized (The Ostracized Saga Book 1) Page 15
