Ostracized (The Ostracized Saga Book 1)

by Olivia Majors

  I sit down on the woolen blanket and tuck knees beneath my chin until I hear fat sizzling over the fire. He’s speared the creature and has it roasting over the fire.

  The heavy silence that follows is like death. Hugging my legs closer, I press my nose against them and stare at the boy. His appearance has always been sketched in my memory – a vague but burning presence. Now that he’s this close it’s hard not to look at him. He’s grown so much taller since the last time we met. His hair is a dark brown and rumpled in uncombed strands around his face. His nose is straight, but a small scar at the top lays claim to the fact that it’s been broken, at least once. His jaw is firm and angled. Clean-shaven too. He wears no shirt. Only a black vest with strings to tie it shut. They are unbound, opening his chest to the night air. I can see scars lining his torso, some disappearing beneath the pants loosely belted around his waist.

  A dagger is stuck in his waistband, partially hidden by the corner of his vest. The same intricate carvings of his moon swords mar its hilt. Strange little gashes adorn the golden pommel and stare back at me. Marks for how many he’s killed? I shiver just thinking about it, for there are many.

  As if suddenly aware of my keen observance of him, the Wild boy lifts his head to look in my direction.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  I know I’ve spoken wrongly when a strange dark sheet passes over his face. He returns his eyes to the fire. “Keep the hell out of my business, Kelban!”

  I don’t say anything else.

  When the Wild boy handed me a chunk of meat from the creature, the smell was enough to drive me crazy. I waited a decent amount of time – maybe, ten seconds – before devouring the roasted flesh and retrieving another. Though he made an effort to appear nonchalant, I saw the way his eyes darted to me. Saw the wince he tried to hide whenever I licked the fat from my fingers or choked because I was eating too fast. If I hadn’t already admitted to bearing noble blood, he’d never guess from the lack of feminine delicacy I portrayed now.

  The night has lengthened and the chill arrived. My skin shivers to life at the familiar feeling.

  The Wild boy rests on his blanket and leans back against the tree casually. A small flask rests beside him and he raises it to his lips. I don’t have to ask what’s inside it when the color in his cheeks deepens with each sip.

  For a while all we do is stare across the fire at one another. I count the sparks that the flames release.

  “The siratha . . .” He coughs violently. When he recovers, his voice sounds almost normal again – if not for the ever-present lull between his words. “How did you defeat it?”

  “I outran it.”

  “You lie, Kelban,” he sneers, shaking his head lazily. He takes another drink from the flask. A long, slow drink. It drips down the sides of his mouth. He wipes it away with the back of his hand. “Your kind always lies.”

  “A feat every human is capable of, I promise you,” I retort.

  “Human,” he snorts. “My deepest gratitude for the compliment, Kelban. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I know all the tales your kind spreads about this land – about us. Cannibals?” He laughs so dryly my insides knot. “The knowledge your kind possesses is so foolish. Don’t you ever look beyond your cowardice for the answers that hide?”

  “If you’re going to insult me, I’ve nothing more to say to you. You’re drunk and . . .”

  “Drunk?” His eyes widen and he raises the flask. “On this fool’s brew? Hardly. I’m merely relaxed . . . at ease. You’ve made me tense all day, Kelban.”

  “Likewise.”

  He frowns. “How the hell your husband put up with you I’ve no cursed clue!”

  His outburst shatters the frigid stare I intended to level on him and, instead, draws my eyes to the scar on my wrist. It has healed over. No one could tell it was made only seven days ago.

  “I’m not . . .” I stop myself. Seven days! How the hell did it heal so quickly?

  “You’re not what, Kelban?” His eyes darken.

  That niggling, warm, uncomfortable feeling inside of me throbs like a second heartbeat. That scar protects me from my past. My true identity. My true story. If I tell him I’ve no husband, he will ask questions. That part of me – who I am, who I was, who I wanted to be – belongs to me and me alone!

  “I’m not ready to talk about that,” I answer.

  He shrugs. “Then answer me this one question. How did you defeat the siratha?”

  “I don’t know.” It’s the truth.

  His eyes lower into slits. “I’m going to tell you something, little girl. You listen good. A siratha feeds off of your fear. Your memories. Your nightmares. It takes and distorts and forms and destroys whatever joyful or happy moment you ever possess until you long for the sweet abyss of death. Those with the least memories go first. Others hold out a little longer. Fight it. Battle with themselves. Until every memory is a curse. It turns everything around you dark and forbidding. Hopeless. You can not outrun it because it is everywhere.”

  “I know what a siratha is!” I snap.

  “Like hell you do!” he snaps. “If you knew what a siratha was you would know you’d never survive it. Never!”

  “But I did.” He leans back against the tree, balancing the flask languidly on his knee with an unsteady hand.

  “All I want to know is how. How a little girl – a Kelban – like you defeated such a creature. Remember? I asked you why you were ostracized. You wouldn’t tell me.” The bite in his words is savage. “You’ve given me no reason to trust you, Kelban. No reason to allow you to survive this place. No reason to lead you to the others.”

  “Others?”

  He knows he’s made a mistake, and I see the anger that crosses his face – anger at himself. He slams the flask to the ground and it shatters on the bent half of a tree stump. “Yes. Others. Did you think I was the only one? That I alone occupy this land you’ve invaded? But until I’m satisfied that you pose no threat to us – to my kind – you will never see them. And if I decide that you are a threat . . .” He pauses long enough to give me one long stare, his head cocked in that inhuman way. “You will never see again.”

  I count the sparks again, trying desperately hard to ignore his stare from across the flames. He says nothing. Only leans and stares and occasionally glances at the moon swords resting at his side, inches from his fingers.

  So he’s been testing me. Deciding if I’m a threat – a danger – to his kind. I try to stir the rage inside of me, but can’t find it. If I were in his position – if he were in Kelba – I’d do the exact same thing. I’ve given him no reason to trust me. No reason to consider leaving me alive.

  He could go to hell for all I cared. But my family . . . they were counting on me. They believed in me. I wouldn’t let them down. Not when they were risking their lives – for me! For Kelba.

  “I tricked it.” He doesn’t move, but his eyes refocus. “I’ve been around nobility – around blood-sucking, lying leeches – my entire life. Enough to recognize a desperate attempt when I saw it. When things are at an end . . . when the victim is about to slip from their grasp . . . they get clingy. Get earnest. The siratha made that mistake.” He still hasn’t moved. “I let it pull me in. Let it grasp my memories and take me into its arms.” I shiver at the recollection of her bony grasp around me.

  “And then I drove my dagger into its back.”

  He doesn’t say anything and his features are unidentifiable in the darkness. Slowly, he lies flat on his blanket and grows still. His breathing steadies but he’s not asleep.

  I roll to my side and face the fire. The rhythmic sparks and flames raise a heavy curtain behind my eyes I didn’t know existed. I curl into the wool of the blanket and tuck my dagger beneath my right hand. Should the Wild boy determine me a threat before morning light, I will not be without a weapon.

  I’m in a dark tunnel and there’s a spot of light ahead of me. I am moving towards it. Faster, faster, faster. The darkness shatt
ers with blinding yellow light that rolls a nauseating crack throughout my skull. It collides against the back of my eyelids, forcing them open.

  I am not in the clearing. I am not in the wood. I am not even in the Wilds. No. I am back in Kelba. In Kirath. In the inn I know so well I could taste and smell the spice of apple cider, the bitter-sweet of ale, the fat of stew. It is packed. Merchants and miners and pirates and fishermen of all kinds mingle in the crowd. They brawl over tables. Chairs. Ale. Women.

  But one table remains at peace. No one dares bother the three men sitting at that table. I move closer.

  A girl flutters by, carrying a platter of mugs, and I prepare for the pain in my jaw as the platter heads straight for me. It doesn’t come.

  Once again, I am not in this reality. I am watching through unseen eyes. The experience is enough to raise the hairs on the arms I cannot see.

  The three men are dressed in Celect Knight garb, their swords gleaming viciously alongside the edge of their cloaks purposefully. One of them turns his head to signal the girl again.

  Lan.

  He looks right at me. I call his name and hold out a hand, but he turns away. The action tightens my chest even though I know he cannot see me.

  The girl fills their mugs again and moves away, her steps undeniably eager. I notice the white pallor on her cheeks. She’s afraid of them.

  The other two Knights lift their heads. Craig and Asher. Asher has lost considerable weight since I last saw him. His face is thin and pale, and decked with several new bruises and cuts. Craig’s eyes – eyes that used to sparkle with playfulness – are dull and slanted.

  None of them are smiling.

  Landor drains his mug in moments and that sisterly concern rises in my gut. The red flush in his cheeks is too bright and the hardness in his eyes chills my blood. His jaw is lined with stubble and his clothes are rumpled. He looks like a vagabond.

  “It’s unbelievable how much life a girl added to this sorry outfit,” Asher says. He glances nervously from Craig to Lan. “Never thought I’d say those words of course. She always was a little inquisitive and made us act like fools. But . . .”

  “Would you shut the hell up?” Craig snaps.

  “Hey!” Lan barks. Craig’s shoulders jerk. “Don’t ever . . .” He doesn’t finish but the look in his eyes is threat enough.

  “I don’t want to hear about her anymore.” Craig waits for Lan to contradict him. When he doesn’t, he continues. “Everywhere we go, it’s Kyla this, Kyla that. I want to put it behind us. I want to let it go. I want to forget it ever happened. To move on. There’s nothing but pain and rage and ache if we wallow in this.”

  “And vengeance,” Lan adds.

  Craig turns an icy glare on him. “I know she was your sister. I understand. She was my friend. Our companion. But it’s over. This happens every day – we have to let it go.”

  “First thing’s first, Craig, she is – not was – my sister. Second, it is not over. Yes, this happens every day. Innocent people banished to a wasteland for crimes they did not commit. It has to stop. And it has to stop now!” He slams a fist to the table and behind those eyes I see a pain to deep and dark to describe.

  “A little late for such ferocity, don’t you think? She’s dead!”

  “She’s not.”

  Craig sighs. “Lan, I know you loved – love her, but . . .”

  “She’s not dead,” Lan growls, so viciously that Craig pales. He looks up intently. “Kyla knew things – things important enough to survive in that wasteland. She spent years researching all the myths, legends, and folklore about the Wilds. She is the bravest, fiercest, smartest girl I know. She is not dead!”

  “You’re entertaining a fantasy, Landor Bone,” Craig says sadly. “And I’m sorry it’s going to destroy you.”

  “I believe him,” Asher whispers.

  “What?”

  “I believe him,” he repeats, looking up from his half-empty mug. “Kyla had the balls to defy Wood. Nothing in the Wilds could destroy her if he couldn’t.”

  Craig huffs in disbelief and drains his mug.

  Lan and Asher share a long look, and Asher is the first to turn from it, and stare nervously at his hands. Lan doesn’t pressure him and waits quietly, eyes never leaving the young soldier’s face.

  “I loved her,” Asher whispers.

  “I know,” Lan replies.

  “Do you think she knew?”

  I had.

  Craig slams a palm onto the table. “She didn’t love you, you doe-eyed bastard,” he snaps.

  “I know that!” Asher says with equal violence. “And I didn’t mind.” He bites his lip and blinks rapidly for a moment. “But I wish I’d had the guts to tell her openly how I felt before all this happened. I wish I’d had the courage to visit her cell. To give her a weapon. But I was a sniveling little coward afraid of displeasing Wood, so I didn’t. I’m glad she didn’t like me. I am not worthy of her. She deserves someone with equal courage. Equal fire. Equal passion.”

  “You should have been a poet,” Craig jests.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, Craig!” Lan cuts in. “We are your friends. There is no reason to treat us like shit.”

  “Are you? The friends I knew were two completely different people. I want Sir Landor Bone and Sir Asher Rave to return. Chubby Asher with a knack for jokes. Boisterous Landor with his head held high. I want you both back.” He stares at each of them long and hard. They don’t say a word. He shakes his head sadly. “But I can see that’s not going to happen.”

  “What are you saying, Craig?” Asher asks.

  Lan’s gaze pierces Craig like a dagger. He knows. I know. I’d always known Craig was on opposite sides of our little group. I knew if ever there came a crossroads which path he would take. He loved his sword. Loved that Celect vigil on his shoulder. Adored the position he held in the palace.

  Craig doesn’t even pause. “I am saying this . . . Kyla broke the law. She defied our ruler. That crime is known as treason. Treason is punishable by ostracizement. She had to be punished.”

  Asher blinks in shock, mouth open uselessly.

  Lan is not so hesitant and straightens his shoulders. “You’re a fool if you believe that.” Craig bristles at the insult. But Lan’s not done. “And an ass if you don’t.”

  Craig stands. I can see the bridge between them breaking. “You know the law, Landor Bone. You are a Celect Knight and you serve Celectate Wood of Kelba. Pray remember that before I must forget our friendship completely.” He brushes past Asher without so much as a look, but pauses in front of my brother. For a brief moment, his face softens. “Please, Lan,” he whispers. “Put it behind you.”

  He exits the tavern.

  Lan’s posture breaks and he puts his head in his hands, letting the mask of strength fall. I see the heavy effect of alcohol on his senses and the deep frustration in the wrinkles of his forehead

  Asher looks equally aghast. “He won’t do it, will he?” An unspoken message passes between them.

  Lan signals the girl again for more ale. She opens her mouth to protest, but decides against it and meanders through the crowd towards him.

  Darkness eats at the corners of the vision, curling in on the image like a burning piece of paper. I am losing it. I reach out a hand for my brother again but only snatch air.

  “Everything’s going to change,” Lan whispers.

  And through the silence someone cries out in fear.

  I open my eyes. The fire crackles. The trees shudder with the push of a strong breeze. That pitiful wail that roused me from my dreams echoes again. It is very close. I search for an animal, the dagger firmly in hand, and find the source. I lower my weapon. It is the Wild boy.

  And he’s asleep.

  I watch him turn violently onto his side, then twist onto the opposite. Back and forth. Back and forth. He moans. Growls ferociously. Whimpers once. Then sits bolt upright with a cry of fear so guttural it chills my blood. He opens his eyes.

&nbs
p; I slam my head to the ground and lie still, slitting my eyes gently and taming my breaths.

  He looks anxiously around the clearing, eyes large and dilated in the dim light as he adjusts to his surroundings and regains focus. His skin is pasty white and shines with sweat. The vest has fallen back across his arms and my breath catches. Cutting across the sleek muscle of his upper chest rests a long, zig-zag shaped scar, so deep, so white, so deadly that I shiver. No battle could have given him such a blemish. A wound like that had to have been done purposefully. Intentionally. Painfully. I shudder at all the possibilities running through my head, but none of them fit right.

  The Wild boy looks towards me. I shut my eyes and focus on breathing.

  It is a long time before I hear him lie back on his blanket and an even longer time before I think it prudent to open my eyes. When I do, the Wild boy’s eyes are closed again.

  And his vest is too.

  Something cracks.

  My eyes fly open and immediately adjust to the darkness around me, forming gray and black images again. Moonlight dances over the clearing, flickering between leaves. The fire has decreased to small, glistening flames. Sparks dance.

  The Wild boy is curled in a heap on his blanket. His shoulders rise and fall with the rhythm of sleep. It’s not he who made the noise.

  Shadows?

  Rousing my senses, I press my back against the gnarled bark of the oak tree and shift upward against its trunk slowly, disguising myself with the tree.

  I clutch the dagger against my chest and close my eyes to listen. Directly to my right something rustles.