Ostracized (The Ostracized Saga Book 1)

by Olivia Majors

  “Has he offered to arrest Lord Belman for his attack on my father too?” Landor asks, sarcasm and hatred burning in his words.

  A kindred hatred simmers inside of me. High Lord Belman, the sole owner of half the coal mines of Kelba, was known for being on the sidelines when it came to disagreements between the Community and Celectate Wood. Most of the time he sided with Celectate Wood in attempts to become his personal lapdog. If he was behind the attack on Father, then Celectate Wood was the one who orchestrated the plot.

  “Thank you, Clive,” Mother says ignoring Landor’s outburst, “but you may tell him we have no need of his services. The Bones have had many misfortunes as of late – another shall not be too trying.”

  Clive hesitates, for a moment, but bows, at last, and exits the room to inform the guard of Lady Bone’s answer.

  “Do you really think that was a wise choice, Mother?” Landor asks, but a twitch of a smile plays at the corner of his lips as he looks at her.

  The Lady of House Bone smooths her skirts and lifts her chin. “That man may be the ruler of this nation but I’ll be damned if we’re to become the ‘rabble’ he throws his condolences at. I am sick of his presumptuous offers. House Bone will do just fine without his pity.”

  With that, she exits the room, Landor trailing behind her, respect shining in his eyes.

  Chapter XXXII

  “What the hell happened to you?” Axle asks as I exit my room the next morning, packed an ready for the return to Agron. “Your face is pale as death.”

  “Nothing. Nightmares.” How can I tell them I’m mourning my father – mourning the leg he’s lost? The confidence he’ll lose. The battle he’ll face.

  Shade regards my face curiously, but doesn’t say anything.

  Our group gathers outside the palace, and we are presented with horses, as a gift from his highness, for our return journey. A black, glossy stallion becomes my ride.

  I fail to mount it the first time.

  Keegan snickers nearby.

  I glare at him and his reins fly up and smack him in the eyes. He snarls.

  I mount my stallion the second time with no trouble.

  With horses, it will take us only one night to reach Agron. We pass the remains of Brunt by half-day and at nightfall, we make camp in a large clearing near a rustling creek. Several of the men in the group disappear, and from the sound of laughter and splashing, I presume they’re bathing. I help Gregor find enough wood for a fire while Shade and Axle discuss perimeters with the more responsible members of our group.

  After a modest meal of dried meat and porridge, most of the men retire for the night. Axle takes first watch with several others, and, from the way he grins at Shade, I don’t think he plans to spend it idly.

  I make my bed in the farthest corner of the clearing, between two sturdy tree roots, and pull the Wilds history book from my sack. It smells strange among the trees and stench of the forest, but I open its pages and lose myself in the words. The firelight is very dull, but my eyes are good, thank the gods.

  I read about the horror the Wilds inhabitants experienced after the poison came. There were monsters. There were cannibals. There was poison. But not everywhere. Eventually the deserted found a part of the Wilds that had not been destroyed by the poisons. They tried to establish connections with Kelba again, but were always killed on sight – because of the rings around their eyes. Because they spoke the “old” language. And then the wall went up and everything changed.

  I am in the middle of a story about an ancient warrior named “Cartava,” which means “white-hair”, when the presence of someone close behind me pulls me from my stupor. I stare up a muscled abdomen and find Shade’s dark eyes staring at me. The shadows from the firelight dance across his features, and my heart skips a beat. He looks so handsome.

  “What?” I ask.

  He tosses his bedrolls down beside mine and spreads it out. He stretches across it and props his chin in his hand. “The question is . . . what are you doing?”

  “Reading. It’s what educated people do.” I can’t resist the barb.

  But he doesn’t frown or glare like I’m used to. Instead, he presses closer and peers over my shoulder, the tip of his chin grazing my skin. Heat catapults through my veins. His eyes narrow. “That’s an old book,” he whispers. “From the king’s library. How did you get it?”

  “The prince gave it to me . . . as a farewell gift.”

  There. Now he’s frowning. “Really? What compelled him to do such a thing, I wonder?” He leans back again and studies me through slitted eyelids.

  “I compelled him.”

  “How?”

  I look around to make sure no one is watching us and lean close to his ear. The scent of smoke and pine drives my senses wild. Beneath my lips, his skin is hot, too. “I threatened to tell his father what a bastard he was.” I pull back, but not enough to lose his comforting smell.

  Shade’s lips turn up, slightly. A half-smile. “Did you? He should have given you the library.”

  “I wish he had.”

  “I bet.” He leans over my shoulder again, this time resting his chin atop it. His eyes scan the pages but, if he’s feeling any of the emotions swirling in my belly, he’s not even reading the words. Gods, I want to do so many things to him right now. What is wrong with me?

  I grunt, but he doesn’t move.

  “Tell me some of the stories you’re reading. I’ve never read this one before,” he whispers. He shifts closer to me, until his chest is against my spine. The upraised scar on his abdomen presses into my lower back, and I realize he’s taken his shirt off.

  “O-ok!” I stammer and begin to read him the myth of the “Cartava.”

  According to the legend, Cartava was a man born during the chaos of the poisons. It, supposedly, turned his hair white at birth, and gave him the appearance of a mad-man; with his dark, ringed eyes and his snowy locks. While the horrors of the poison aftermath shook their nation, Cartava hardened himself by purposely putting himself in dangerous situations. He learned to survive before, at the age of twelve, he killed his first shadow with a bit of silver moon-glass he kept as a souvenir. He was the first to discover that moon-glass, hardened in forges of intense heat, could slaughter any shadow. His discovery spurred the “Age of Restoration” in which, slowly, the Wilds inhabitants took back their land, piece by piece, driving the evil that had enveloped it into farther lands. Until the conquest was over, and they had their land back.

  “‘After the fight for the land, Cartava disappeared. Some say he ventured into the far north and spent the remainder of his days learning new things about survival in the tundra wastelands. Others think he settled down with a woman, her hair red as the autumn leaves, and raised a family. Either way, history will never know what became of the warrior. We can only surmise.’” I close the history book. “What do you think, Shade?”

  His cheek is against my neck and a low growl emanates from his throat. I resist the urge to chuckle. He’s asleep.

  I slip the book beneath the blanket I’ve rolled into a pillow, and slowly move away so Shade can rest his head on his own pallet. He grumbles something under his breath before looping an arm around my waist and pulling me back against him. He repositions his chin on my shoulder, the edges of his hair tickling my neck and cheek.

  “Shade . . .” I whisper.

  My only response is another snore.

  I should push him away. I should give him a tongue-lashing. I should . . . but I don’t. Instead, I relax my body against his.

  His hand rests across my stomach, burning through the layers of my clothing to the skin beneath and beyond. I rest my own hand on top of his, the harsh feel of his skin scratching my palm. The rough patches of his knuckles betray his fighting past.

  Gods, why? Why can’t I hate him like I used to?

  Or had I ever hated him? Now that I think about it, I felt things for him before I really knew him at all. He was the hero who saved my life. Then the as
shole who saved my life. Then the warrior who saved my life.

  I love him.

  But does he feel the same about me?

  Or was Prince Ivan right, and I am just a piece in his collection?

  When I wake up, Shade isn’t beside me. He’s by the fire discussing something with Gregor and doesn’t even look in my direction.

  Axle does, though, and walks over, extending a bowl of porridge towards me. I take it. He grins.

  “What’s got you so amused?” I ask, taking a bite of the steaming mush.

  “Nothing much,” he says casually, hands in his pockets. He steps closer, until he’s looking down at me and I am staring at his lanky legs. “Did you sleep comfortably?”

  I resist the urge to choke and swallow my food before saying, “Yes.”

  “Unusually warm anywhere?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Strange.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when I came to wake Shade in the middle of the night for his turn at the watch, he and you were . . .” He links his two pointer fingers together, a sly grin on his face. “And Shade’s hand was here . . .” He presses a hand to his stomach. “And his mouth was here . . .” He puts a hand to his shoulder. “So, I’ll ask again, are you warm anywhere?”

  “Avraga!” I snap and threateningly raise the bowl of porridge. He stumbles back to the fire, chuckling.

  Shade finally glances at me. His cheeks are red. He quickly looks back at Gregor.

  I blush.

  Keegan is staring at me from his perch near the tree-line where he’s feeding his horse. One look in his eyes, and I know Axle isn’t the only one amused by the previous night’s events.

  It is late in the afternoon when Gregor announces that we’re only an hour’s ride from Agron. We’ll reach the city before nightfall. Our guide resumes a slower pace to allow his horse to rest, so Shade, Axle, and I roam a few miles ahead with a couple impatient Agronites, Keegan among them.

  My stallion – who I’ve nicknamed Torch – slowly pulls ahead of the others. I don’t slow him down. I want to get to Agron. I want to rest. I want to eat. I want to return to the ruins early in the morning and train again. It’s amusing how much I’ve actually come to miss the place.

  “So . . .” Keegan pulls up alongside me, cinching the reins of his horse in tight with one hand. Much as I hate to admit, he’s an excellent rider. A born horseman. “How long have you and the shadow-killer been sleeping together?”

  I tilt my head away from him. “You know the answer to that question. Since the journey started.”

  “And do you two just sleep?” he probes.

  “I don’t see how that’s any of your business!”

  “Don’t you? You tame a horse quite well, Kyla. I wonder if that’s all you’ve tamed.” He leans across the space between us, sniffing like a bloodhound on a hunt. I pull away, and he grins. “Never fear. Just wondering if I could detect traces of your latest victim.”

  The sound of a horse closing in on us from behind thumps in my ears.

  Keegan looks towards the noise. “Shade, my friend, we were just talking about you.”

  My spine tingles with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. I don’t dare look at Shade as he pulls up alongside me.

  He doesn’t speak.

  “Have you started letting Kyla use your body wash? She smells unpleasantly of smoke. It’s almost overpowering.” Keegan pinches his nose shut in a mock gesture.

  I meet Shade’s eyes. Swirls of suppressed anger swim inside them.

  “Just one question, Shade, for old times sake. When you two tangle, who has more experience? Who’s the dominant force? Tell me – is the little whore good at bed?”

  Shade’s lips go a deathly white.

  “Everyone knows Kelban females are the most fickle creatures in existence. It’s a rumor that they’d spread their legs for the glory of it.”

  Shade shocks me by smiling. “Keep in mind, Keegan of Brunt, that your grandmother was a Kelban.”

  Keegan turns red. “You . . .!”

  The voices fade around me. The air no longer smells of trees and fresh dew. Something stronger wafts the air. It fills my nose, my mouth, my ears in dreadful, painful memories.

  Everyone else smells it too. One by one the horses stop.

  Shade straightens atop the saddle, his nose in the air, trying to discern its origin.

  “Oh, shit, that smells awful,” Keegan grumbles and pinches his nose shut.

  Indeed, to him, it would smell strange. But, to me, it awakens a terror so deep and so old inside that it takes all my inner effort to control the shaking in my hands.

  It is the smell of shadows.

  Never has it been so powerful. It fills the air and makes Keegan and Shade choke with its stench.

  It shouldn’t be like this. It shouldn’t be this overwhelming. Unless . . .

  Oh, please Calaisar, no!

  My head begins to buzz. Slowly, gray and white swirls appear in front of my eyes. I see Otis’s face through the foggy tendrils of my mind. A wave of emotions crash into my skull. Pain. Guilt. Anger. Sorrow. Grief. The white wall comes from nowhere and lashes across my face, but I am prepared for it. I open my eyes, despite the pain.

  I am in Agron. Smoke and fire surrounds the houses. The well is tipped sideways, its stones scattered like an ancient artifact. Everywhere, shadows of men dart between the smoky embers and attempt to dash water on the fires. But the well’s destruction makes it difficult to draw water.

  Wounded lie in streets, bleeding profusely. All around, women and children run with medicine and water, but their attempts are clumsy. Screams fill the air. Sheet covered bodies are carried out through the gate. Lots of them!

  I glimpse a white, bloodless arm hanging from one cot.

  Otis stands in the middle of the court looking around with blank, bloodshot eyes. Blood runs from a cut in his forehead. His entire body is covered in guts and stench. And he’s crying. Crying as two men carry a heavy-set form towards a wooden building. Crying as he looks at the woman’s face. Crying as he watches the men disappear inside with the woman.

  Claws grip me by the throat.

  The woman is Mama Opal!

  “Hellfire!” Keegan snaps, moving his horse aside as I tip over the back of my horse and fall flat on the ground. My spine thrums painfully.

  Axle reaches me before Shade, his bony arms latching beneath me and lifting me to a sitting position. His hands wander my back and shoulders, searching for broken bones. They pause over the ridges beneath my tunic.

  “Damn that horse!” he hisses. “Why the hell did it do that?”

  I grip Axle’s hand, which he’s placed on my shoulder, tightly.

  Mama Opal is dead! Mama Opal is dead! Mama Opal is dead!

  Gregor finally joins our group and sniffs the air. His aged eyes widen and he slaps a hand to the sword at his side. “Agron’s under attack. Let’s go!”

  “Was under attack,” Shade says underneath his breath.

  They will find you.

  Agron’s attack is because of me. People are dead because of me. Mama Opal is dead because of me.

  The shadows came for me.

  Chapter XXXIII

  We enter through the north gate and the destruction becomes more evident as we enter the heart of the city. The air becomes smokier. Flames lick at the corners of stone homes. Blood coats the cobblestones. The horses snicker nervously.

  We reach the city square.

  The well is broken and its stones scattered – just like it had been in my vision.

  Otis stands in the middle of the fray, dictating to several men what to do. Bodies are lined up against the defense walls, their forms covered by white sheets stained a deep red.

  We dismount.

  “Otis!” Dirk calls. Agron’s leader turns around. He shows no sign of surprise at seeing us.

  He glances at me. “So the king decided favorably,” he says in a voice that is much too soft. “Good for
you, Kyla.”

  “What the hell happened here?” Dirk snaps, gesturing around at the destruction. Keegan hovers behind him, the flames reflecting in his green eyes. He says nothing though.

  “What do you think?” Otis sighs tiredly.

  Dirk growls a curse in ancient Kelban under his breath before turning around and backhanding me across the face.

  “Father!” Keegan gasps, grabbing Dirk’s arm and preventing him from landing another blow.

  I press a hand to the sting against my cheek. Tears well in my eyes.

  I don’t say anything. I don’t look at anyone. I look at the ground. At the blood staining the edges of my boots a crimson reminder.

  I did this. I’m the reason they came here. I’m the reason everyone is dead.

  I am the reason Mama Opal is dead.

  “You bitch! You did this to us! Bitch! Kill her! Kill the damn bitch!” Dirk screams at me. He struggles against his son. “Let me go! Let me go, you bastard, and do me proud. Lay the bitch on the dirt!”

  “That’s exactly what he’s wanted to do all along,” Axle snarls through grinding teeth. He steps forward, a finger raised in Dirk’s line of sight. “If you ever . . .”

  “Touch her again, I’ll slit your throat, old man!” Shade finishes, sliding one of his blades from his back. His eyes are like pits of dark flame. “Slowly.”

  “Enough!” Otis snaps. He looks at Shade. “They came in the dead of night. Without a sound. A trace. A whisper of wind. They were in the houses – inside, for gods sakes! Watching us. Surrounding us. Mama Opal found them and sounded the alarm. The bastards stabbed her because of it! Tell me, Shade, what possessed them to do that?”

  “They’ve . . . they’ve never done that before!” Axle stammers, mouth open in disbelief. “They d-don’t attack like that.” He looks at me. A glimmer of fear flickers across his face, and then it’s gone.

  They were looking for me. That’s why they went into the houses. They wanted me.

  I can’t breathe. I can’t stand. I have to lean against something. But there’s nothing to lean on. Nowhere to run. To escape. To hide. I am trapped. Cornered like a beast in a cage – a frightened animal surrounded by bars of fear and anger and hate.