Prologue
A young boy stared down at
his warm and sticky hands. Night veiled all, yet he knew what slicked his
fingers; blood, but not his own.
His shadowed form stood
amid a cluster of cottages. The village slept on, oblivious and undisturbed.
Horses soundlessly slept in their stalls. A bat flailed past, its fanged mouth
open in a silent scream. A breeze touched all with cold fingers. The lad’s
mud-caked bare feet sloshed back and forth as he frantically grasped for
reality. The night’s chilled air forced goosebumps along his arms and he shook;
not with cold, but with terror.
At his feet lay another
lad, sprawled and trembling. His labored breath filled the silent village as
his hands clasped his stomach, blood pouring from a gaping slice onto the
sludge-covered ground. The attacker stepped back, his chest heaving. He let the
knife slip from his hands. The two looked at each other with equal horror.
A scream tore through the
silence.
The attacker wheeled
around. He eyed a young girl beginning adolescence standing in the doorway of
the cottage nearest to him. Her face paled, whiter than her nightgown, as the
dress dragged across the door’s threshold. He swallowed hard. She looked at him
with a hand over her mouth, her eyes glistening with tears. She backed away,
her beautiful face contorted by panic.
“No, no, no,” she moaned,
shaking her head. “Ralker, get up. Please, love! You can’t--we’ve got to marry
and be together and . . . Get up!”
The youth watched her hug
herself, rocking, a gesture he knew meant horror filled her. He wiped his hands
on his clothes as though to hide the blood, never wanting to cause her pain.
Red blood smeared with the mud already soaked through the fabric. The wind
raced between them, her nightdress flapping like a trapped bird’s wings. She
turned to the murderer, her watery gaze searching his hunched form, as she
fumbled to understand. “What did you do?” He turned away, suddenly cold.
“Warrick! What did you do!” Her words pierced the lad’s heart.
He fumbled for words as he
listened to Ralker’s desperate gasps. The girl scoffed, tears streaming down
her paled cheeks. “How could you do this?” Warrick had no reply, his heart
quivering. “You’re a dog, Warrick. A Wraith’s dog!”
Buzzing whispers lifted
from the cottages as a dog began to bark. Voices drifted through the village
and people stepped from their homes. Some lit hissing torches and looked out
with squinted eyes. The guilty lad stared at each in turn, his fire-red hair
bright in the torches’ glow. A shiver snaked up Warrick’s spine as he saw their
wide eyes, confused and searching for answers. They would see his bloody crime,
see the young man battling for life at his feet in the mud.
He turned back to the lass
as a tear slid down her ashen cheeks.
“How could you—”
He charged down the muddy
streets and through the village he had once called home. His lungs burned as he
ran. His eyes looked intensely into the darkness that lined the horizon. As he
rounded a corner, he slammed into a man. They staggered and nearly fell. The
murderer caught himself and hurtled onward before the man could react. A wail
jutted through the night, and he knew the villagers had discovered his deed.
Ralker lay dead in the mud, and Lahanna . . . she had looked at him with such
hatred—
Warrick flew from the
village. The wind slapped his face, stinging his nose and cheeks with ice. His
heart beat against him as he ran over one hill, then another, the hills’ tall
grasses tangling his legs like green fingers. The darkness on the horizon grew
nearer until he could see the forest’s jutting silhouette. The young man
stopped once he reached its edge, and collapsed.
Warrick’s loud gasps
rattled in his throat, and his stomach turned. He doubled over with a
cough and vomited. His chest heaved, fighting for air as the night’s cold, the
villagers’ distant cries, and the vomit made his thoughts spin. He groaned and
spit the vile taste from his mouth, eyes closed tight. Hearing distant shouts,
he jolted upright and looked back. The village was dotted with dozens of
torches. As he watched, some grew nearer. They were coming for him.
The lad turned back to the
forest, but he did not rise. Warrick stared at the horror-infested trees as
they swayed in the cold wind, remembering unsettling tales told and retold
about the haunted wood: Wraith’s Hollow. The forest’s shadows seemed darker
than the night. An owl called. It was a low, mournful song. He froze and looked
for it, his eyes leaping from tree to tree. He knew the owl’s orange gaze could
see his hidden form. It could tell the villagers where he knelt! It could be
hunting for his blood too! With a labored breath, he struggled to his feet, and
stepped forward.
A stooped form blocked his
path.
Warrick let out a cry that
hurt his throat, and fell back, gaping at the stranger who appeared out of
nowhere. Before him stood a tall man hunched with age, dressed in a cloak with
the hood drawn low. The wind wafted over the cloak, distorting the dark fabric
like a shadow’s sadistic dance. He held his hands before him and toyed with
golden rings strung on his fingers. A sharp nose poked from the hood’s empty
mouth, and two eyes, so gray they appeared black, stared down sharply as though
trying to cut the boy in two. The gray eyes twinkled with dark amusement.
A smile twitched at the
corner of the stranger’s mouth.
“I’m terribly sorry,
Warrick.”
The stranger thumbed a ring
and began to pace around the young murderer. The lad hunched lower into the
grass as his hair stood on end. The stranger grinned, his cloak waves of black
in the wind.
“They should not have
denied you Lahanna.”
The fallen boy swallowed
hard and wiped his mouth, smearing blood and grime across his face. Warrick
said nothing as his mind whirled with thoughts he did not understand. The owl
hooted again, long and low, like a mirthful laugh.
“But you must come now, and
speedily.” The stranger held out his hand, his eyes sharp as knives. “They are
coming. I will take you to your new home, to a hidden world. I will train you
to be strong and invincible so no one will have the power to refuse you any
wish again.”
The haunted boy stared up
at the elder. He looked so tall, so powerful. Villagers’ voices drew closer
still. He flinched at their distant cries and wiped his mouth again.
“Lad. Do you know how long
you shall kick when they hang you?” Warrick ducked low, his breath shaking as
it hissed through his clenched teeth. “Your face will turn blue and your tongue
will swell, protruding from your purpled lips. You must come with me. You have
no other choice. You know that.”
The villagers shouted
orders, organizing themselves to begin the manhunt. Warrick swallowed hard and
rubbed his throat, already feeling the noose coil his neck and wrench the life
from him. With numbed fingers, he took the elder’s hand. The boy stood and
faced the stranger as the wind blew between them. He looked into the man’s gray
eyes; the shadow of power was in their depths. With a nod, he glanced back at
all he had ever known, his village, his family, his love—
“Don’t look back!” the
robed man hissed. The boy stiffened and dropped his gaze. “Don’t ever look
back.” He motioned to the Wraith-infested forest, and the two walked forward.
With a swallow, the boy stepped under the tree’s gnarled branches. His gaze
hardened as the darkness enveloped him.
He did not look back.
Chapter 1
Stranger, my Betrothed
Lady Olivia swallowed hard,
and eyed the king’s royal summons clutched in her hands. She bumped shoulders
with her three handmaidens, cramped in her uncle’s wagon. The thudding of
horses’ hooves and creaking of wagon wheels pounded in her ears. She had seen a
gang of beggars trailing behind them, like dogs looking for scraps at the
dinner table. They were getting braver; a few were caught within their camp the
night before.
Olivia shivered and pulled
her wool cloak closer, her blue kirtle offering little resistance against the
late morning cold. Mist hung over the land between the destitute villages and
towns they passed. Her long blonde hair wound about her head, woven with silver
ribbon bought from Han Ciese merchants on her fifteenth birthday.
Her emerald eyes darted out
the wagon’s window to an oversized sedan chair held by two poles between a pair
of horses. Within the carrier sat two outlined figures wrapped in thick furs as
their dreary gaze turned away from the other. As Olivia watched, one shadowed
profile shifted and dark eyes fastened onto her. Countess Primis lifted her
chin and glared at her young niece with eyes as cold as the morning. Olivia
grimaced and looked away.
A lump formed in her
throat, and she clenched her hands together until her grasp threatened to
destroy the summons. A small hand reached out and lay over Olivia’s. The young
woman looked up, and her eyes met with those of the seasoned woman sitting
across from her. The woman’s wrinkled face and gray-speckled hair contrasted
from the two other handmaidens’ younger, vibrant features. Olivia and the aged
woman stared at each other in silence until the younger looked away with a
heaving sigh.
“What do most think when
they meet their fiancé, Nan?” the young lady asked, her voice as small as her
courage. The conversation between Olivia’s two other attendants, Krea and
Cedany, hushed to silence.
Nan smiled,
though her brows knotted together. She shook her head and sighed.
“Oh sweetie, I don’t rightly know. Excited n’ maybe little
jittery, I’d say. Just take a deep breath . . . that’s a good gi’l.” Lady
Olivia took another breath of the rain-dampened air, but her knuckles were as
white as ever.
Olivia looked out
the window again, past the barricade of her uncle’s men-at-arms, a few knights,
and squires on horseback. Their armor was still wet from yesterday’s rain, and
their gray cloaks matted against their backs. Her gaze lifted beyond her aunt
and uncle’s own litter. Her rosy lips stiffened to a thin line as her mind
drifted.
Prince Theron . . . Prince
Theron . . . Why must it be a prince!
Couldn’t she marry that
viscount who visited last spring or the knight with the long beard who only
talked about his falcons? But the prince! Olivia looked down at her hands and
thumbed the red seal. The waxy surface was smooth and hard. A prince was
different, making her life difficult. A prince meant she would be queen. Olivia
closed her eyes tight as a weight pressed on her chest and threatened to crush
her glass heart.
“Sweetie.”
Olivia blinked and turned
to Nan.
“Talk to me, child.”
“I do not wish to
talk.” Her eyes avoided Nan’s stare. She shifted her weight in her seat and
lifted her chin, attempting to look unaffected. It didn’t work.
“You must. You’re
driving yourself close to crazy with this boy.”
Olivia shot Nan a
sharp glower but turned away, swallowing a retort and clearing her throat.
“Where is Valsara? I have not seen her for . . . stones on bones, I cannot
remember when!”
Nan’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t
you try to change subject.”
“Krea, have you seen Valsara?”
Krea helplessly glanced
between Nan and her lady. Cedany nudged her, and Krea shook her head without a
word, her head bowing.
“Huh,” Olivia hummed
thoughtfully.
“My lady, talk about the
prince!” Nan urged.
Olivia snuggled deeper in
her cloak and flicked a strand of blond hair from her eyes. “Where’s Valsara?”
“And why must you know so
badly?” Nan crossed her arms over her chest.
“A lady should know where
her double is,” Olivia said. “Without her, my trek through Wraith’s Hallow will
be much more dangerous! And those beggars they caught the other night! The
men-at-arms swore they came straight to my tent. My tent!”
“They were just looking for
grub, my lady,” Nan muttered.
“I need Valsara. Where is
she?”
“Stay focused, Olivia.
We’re talking ‘bout you and that prince fellow. Forget Valsara.”
Olivia huffed and crossed
her arms over her chest. “He’s not a mere fellow!”
Cedany and Krea bit their
tongues and tried to shrink against the wagon’s seats, their lips closed and
eyes darting from their lady to the older woman.
Nan waved a finger at her
mistress. “He’s still a lad.” She smiled. “He still puts him shoes on one foot
at ah time, and he still practices sword handling, and hunting, and everything
them men do. He is just a mere fellow.” Nan mimicked the young lady with
her last words. Olivia shot her an annoyed look. How absurd Nan made her sound!
But she knew Nan was accurate; she could always mimic voices with perfection.
“The Wizard wants you to
marry that man, sweetie. He’s leading you here ’cause he wants you here.”
“Yes! Yes!” Krea grinned as
she set down her needle and thread. “That’s what he’s doing! Sorry . . .” She
ducked away from Olivia’s stare and hid behind Cedany with her stitch-work
covering her face.
“And The Wizard won’t lead
you wrongly, my lady,” Cedany said as she wound blue yarn into a ball and
elbowed Krea away.
Olivia looked
between the three women and shook her head. “The Wizard did not orchestrate my
marriage. It is unusual of him and unkind of you to suggest it.” She huffed and
looked out the window. “Unkind . . .”
“Ah! But what if
he’s doing just that?”
Olivia opened her mouth to
respond, but she found no words to say. She shook her head and focused on the
world outside the wagon. A smudge-faced girl followed a band of geese down the
road and avoided a limping man and his gangly dog. Krea and Cedany exchanged
glances but continued their busywork. Nan watched her mistress and sighed.
The wagon jolted down the
muddy road, and the villages’ farm fields gave way to small trees. The land
transformed into rolling hills, and the number of travelers lessened. They were
nearing Wraith’s Hallow. Even the commoners knew to stay away from the infected
forest. It never made sense to Olivia why Duke Aldret would build his estate so
close to the Wizard-forsaken tree line, or why the royalty of Tulaun sought
solitude there. She looked up and saw a hawk soaring high among the gray
clouds, its beady eyes staring down, feathers waving in the wind. Olivia sighed
and leaned her cheek against the window’s frame.
Uncle, she
thought. Her eyes darkened to narrow slits as she glanced at the litter. She
glowered at one of the darkened forms lounging inside. Why is he so . . . so
. . . ?
She stopped in mid-thought. Earl Quinn did not deserve her curses,
though it seemed so at times. Olivia knew if her father was in her life,
he would have asked for her approval of the matrimony instead of agreeing
without her consent. She knew he would! He may be a self-centered, grief
consumed man, but not a cruel one. Olivia gritted her teeth. She let out a slow
breath, and closed her eyes as her thoughts flowed on.
The only thought
which brought her comfort was, when married, she would be free from Earl Quinn
and Countess Primis. Though they allowed her to grow up under their roof,
teaching her everything a woman of nobility and grace requires, Olivia was
never treated like a wanted family member. She was a nuisance to them,
misunderstood and ill-treated. It was as though they never considered her heart
breaking at such a young age. A young girl who loses her mother should not be
handed to another family member and expected to live life as though an empty
hole had not been carved into her soul. Olivia’s furrowed brow relaxed as her
eyes darkened. She would be free of their constant critiquing, never pleased
frowns, and Uncle Quinn’s sudden blows. Olivia took in a breath, the cold air
chilling her nose, knowing freedom was worth her present turmoil.
Yet, what if the
prince was worse?
What is the prince like?
What if he already loves another? Does he have a temper? She touched her cheek and prayed the mark of Earl Quinn’s slap was
no longer seen. She adjusted her hair and tried not to think of the other night
when he had struck her. She had been afraid of the beggars creeping about her
tent and reacted with screams and blubbering tears. Earl Quinn had not
understood her outburst, and refused to tolerate such behavior.
Olivia lifted her chin with
a deep breath, though her bottom lip trembled. The responsibility she would
hold! She would be the hostess for lords, be present at court and stand by her
king, and conduct business when needed. Who knew how many other endless tasks?
Olivia wondered what would happen if Prince Theron died after they were wed.
She knew the kingdom would be given to her family, as was the law. Custom
demanded she promptly wed another, but a man she chose herself, with the advice
of others of course. She would have to lead a nation she scarcely knew. She
shivered, and knew she could not live under such a weight.
Olivia glanced out the
window and saw two birds perched on a tree, their winged shoulders touching
each other. Does The Wizard really want me to marry Prince Theron? she
wondered. He wanted her to be at peace, and to live an abundant life. That’s
what he sang of, right? An abundant life? 1
She swallowed hard, yet the
lump in her throat stayed all the same. The cold of the morning bit her nose,
but she did not draw away from the window. Her brow furrowed, and she closed
her eyes. She shook her head and longed to throw the royal summons from the
window into one of the road’s murky puddles.
– – –
“Where’s Grem?” Horven
asked, his walking stick held by both hands before him.
The young man’s sunken,
red-rimmed eyes darted from hill to hill. He and Vintron were traveling through
endless grassy knolls stretched in every direction, the Hilled Country, with
the closest village miles away. Both had donned tattered clothes riddled with
holes and stained in mud like any commoner, though they were far from it. The
assassin and his uneasy apprentice walked on, though Horven could not restrain
from looking back with wide eyes.
“Where’s Grem?” he asked
his master again.
Vintron did not answer as
his grip on the discreetly sheathed sword tightened.
“Master? Master—”
“By the blind ghosts,
Horven!” Vintron snapped. “Stop whining like a she-elf wench and be a man!”
Horven fell silent and the
men walked on. Vintron said nothing, his shoulders bunched as his eyes darted
to and fro, though he kept his head stationary. Both men trailed drops of blood
as their swollen, bruised feet carried them on. They had traveled nonstop since
the night before, their limbs now heavy and eyes drooping. Yet they could not
stop; they had to flee because of their failure. Their employer was anything
but a forgiving man.
Horven heaved a sigh as he
looked over his shoulder once again, breath quivering though his lips. “Master,
Grem has been gone long enough. People don’t take that long to relieve
themselves.” He turned to his master with a questioning gaze.
“I know,” Vintron whispered
grimly. He did not pause in his steps. He pressed on without a word, his eyes
darting between a hawk above them and the horizon.
Horven’s eyes widened in
realization and he adjusted his hold on his staff. “He’s dead?” Vintron
responded by quickening his stride. “It was just a girl!” Horven gasped as he
raced past his mater wildly. “A woman! Lady, lady . . . what’s her name?
Olivia? I don’t understand why she needs to die, just a girl. Don’t see why
it’s so horrible we failed either. Why didn’t they just send a werewolf? Isn’t
the master’s right hand man a werewolf?”
Vintron shook his head. “A
werewolf would be instantly spotted. You know how much they look like animals!”
“In their human form,
master. He would never be—”
“You know how they look,
even in that form. They’re still big, with those eyes like dogs. No, a werewolf
would be caught and Lady Olivia would’ve more guards around her. Think,
Horven!”
The apprentice bit his lip,
thoughtfully looking to and fro. “The werewolf could demolish the camp. But . .
. big that’ll clue the prince in on the manpower behind her death. One lady can
die just fine, but not an Earl and his company. Hum. I still don’t understand!
Why’s she so important? One arrow, one drop of poison would do the job! And
she’s not even queen yet; I’d think the master’ll wanna attack when she’s
queen—”
Something splattered his
face and chest, like little drops of rain. “Stones on bones—” The drops were
sticky and warm and red as blood. A heavy, limp form collapsed onto him from
behind. With a cry, Horven found himself on the ground and pressed low as a
weight held him down. “Master!” he cried. “Help!”
He writhed under the
weight, knowing their employer had found them and punishment was near. Horven’s
chest heaved as he clawed to free himself, but the weight would not budge. He
felt suddenly warm, as though taking a bath in the hot springs close to his
home as a boy. Yes, warm and sticky. Horven looked all around, eyes frantic.
Someone was gasping. Red was everywhere, red like blood.
Horven’s panting caught in
his throat, his blood chilling. Every muscle stiffened. On top of him was Grem,
his mouth open in gurgled wheezes as his eyes stared intensely at Horven. His
throat was gone and severed arteries gushed blood, similar to the waterfall in
Horven’s hot spring memories. They looked into one another’s eyes with panic.
“Horven!” Vintron shouted.
“Get up! Go. . . . stones on bones—”
His master’s words were cut
off and replaced by a shriek. With all his might, Horven shoved Grem away and
scrambled to his feet. Vintron’s shriek turned to gagging, then cracking like
splintering kindling, and cold silence. Horven commanded his feet to run, but
they did not listen. Instead, he glanced over his shoulder to see who had
killed his master and comrade. His eyes widened at the sight of the attacker
and he collapsed, hands raised above his head as he shouted pleas.
A hulk of a beast stood
before him. He had the likeness of a wolf, yet he was large as a bear with long
limbs. His fur was thick and gray, and he had fangs long enough to jut out from
his jaws. The beast’s front paws were fingered like a human hand, and his
shoulders were broad, like a man’s. The beast turned from Vintron’s mangled,
broken body and faced Horven, his yellow eyes alive as blood caked his mouth
and his fangs dripped with drool.
“Please, Lord Septimus,”
Horven whimpered. “Spare—sp . . . Oh, poisoned air!”
The beast walked toward him
and, with a sudden bounce of his front paws, stood on his hind legs and walked
like a stooped man. The werewolf towered over Horven and grinned at the shaken
human. “Lady Olivia is still alive. You failed my master,” Septimus growled,
his fur bristling. “No one fails him; unlucky thing to do.”
“My lord—”
“No one.”
“Please!”
The next day ravens and a
hawk were found picking apart three crushed bodies.
___________________________________
Highest Melody Reference
- John 10:10 –
“The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy, I [God] have come
that they may have life and have it abundantly.”
Follow H.R. Rekow on your favorite sites
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“We now have this light shining in our hearts, but we ourselves are like fragile clay jars containing this great treasure. This makes it clear that our great power is from God, not from ourselves.”
~ 2 Corinthians 4:7
Hearts like fragile clay jars.
Fragile like glass.
Hearts of glass.
