Spark and Sorrow

by Rachel A. Marks

  Copyright © 2019 by Rachel A. Marks

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2019

  ASIN: B081CBLXM9

  www.RachelAnneMarks.com

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome to the realms of the Otherborn. If you are new to these paths, please know you must tread lightly, the fae here are nothing to toy with. Read these stories in any order, but always at your own risk.

  Some may wish to open the door to this world through the tale in FIRE AND BONE. However, if you peek in at this break in the trees up ahead instead it won’t go too poorly for you. Just be aware: goblins roam in these woods. Their teeth are sharp. Their trickery well-honed. And a bargain with a goblin will last for generations.

  You’ve been warned . . .

  Mischievously as always,

  The Pixy

  For the struggle and the hope . . .

  SPARK AND SORROW

  A prequel to FIRE AND BONE

  By

  Rachel A. Marks

  ONE

  Blood

  I nock an arrow and lift my bow, aiming at the sprawling oak in the center of the abbey’s clearing.

  There are countless nicks and gashes in its flesh from previous sessions I’ve had over my three years cloistered here. Some of them have healed into gnarled balls on the surface, some fresher ones are still clogged with sap. I consider which wound to reopen with my arrow and find myself distracted, counting in my head again, the moons since Imbolc.

  My seventeenth Beltaine must be nearly here. It has to be.

  The abbess, Mother Catherine, hasn’t spoken of it. Of course, the sisters would never celebrate the old ways. But it was in the agreement made with the Church—my seventeenth Beltaine would end my time here. Still, no preparations for my removal from the abbey have been discussed. No hunter, no envoy has arrived to bring me back into the arms of my own kind.

  The silence is a raven pecking at my nerves. Have I been forgotten?

  As Mother Catherine constantly reminds me, I spend too much time pondering these things. According to her scolding, all my constant wondering has filled my head with chaos and spider webs.

  “A curious mind wreaks havoc on the soul, Lily,” she always says. “Stay busy and keep your hands occupied, and you’ll settle that flighty spirit.” Then she gives me a gentle pat on the head, as if unaware of my blood.

  She’s the only human within these stone walls that doesn’t eye me with suspicion and fear.

  Soon after I arrived, she put this weapon in my hand and set the quiver of arrows over my shoulder, telling me to keep to the field for safety, that I needed to perfect my shot. “Perhaps it will help you down the line—help you to focus that wavering mind, when you’re learning to control your curse. Not to mention that temper.”

  My curse. This is how the sisters speak of my mother’s blood.

  Goddess blood.

  Blood made of fire. Blood made of unpredictability. And according to Sister Agnus, it’s this blood that makes me a demon.

  I am born of the goddess Brighid. I should be a queen, I should reside with my own kind, within the Old Order. But . . . instead, I am here. Abandoned to the humans.

  As I live now, a soul would be hard-pressed to sense any thread of my mother’s power inside of me. Within these abbey walls, I’m forced to suppress my true self. Here, my blood is wicked. Tainted. The moment I arrived at the gates this thick torque was placed around my neck. A shackle to reign in my powers, keeping them tight within my skin. The torque also numbs my moods a little.

  And keeps me from feeding . . . properly.

  After three years of remaining trapped here I’ve turned into a waif. A weakling. I’m starving, really.

  I became a woman the summer I arrived here, yet I’m treated like a child. My body is a prisoner inside these abbey walls, just as my power is a prisoner inside of my skin. And all I can think of, day in and day out, is the envoy’s arrival. My freedom.

  Please, Mother, let it to be soon.

  I wish more than anything to go home, to see my guardian, Lailoken, the kindest of all souls—even if he is a human. The yearning has become a constant ache in my chest.

  It’s a pointless yearning, though. Because what if my kin have truly forgotten me? What if they never come to fetch me? Am I to live out my immortal life here in this dreary place?

  Danu, forgive me, I won’t let that happen. One way or another, I’ll find my way home.

  I take a deep breath, pull back on my bowstring, allowing my pulse to fill my ears. And I focus. Until everything around me, everything twisting inside of me, fades to a hum in the background.

  I choose my target. Count three heartbeats. And loose.

  The arrow hums through the air, hitting its mark with a thunk—shaft protruding from the small dark spot, just below a larger knot.

  I lower the bow and release a sigh. This has gotten too easy. I need more of a challenge.

  My gaze skims over the tall grass that stretches to the twenty-foot high wall surrounding the grounds. The expanse is populated by sage and foxglove, humming with bees from the sisters’ hives. I see nothing else to sink an arrow into, though.

  The only thing I’ve yet to hit is the abbey wall. It’s several hundred yards from where I’m standing right now. A difficult target if I can find a place to sink my arrow.

  It’s certainly something I’d love to skewer.

  I reach behind me and pull another arrow from my quiver, nocking it, and take aim at one of the thicker rose vines climbing the stone edifice. The spot is a bit blurry from here but if I focus on the shape of the leaves, it’s not impossible to make out. And from this angle, I’ll be shooting through a gap in the oak branches, which is a nice added challenge.

  I settle my breathing again, relaxing my muscles as I focus on the far-off point and make allowance for the distance, the curve my arrow will take in flight—I wish it was a battering ram instead.

  I breathe out my frustration. And loose.

  The sinew sings a satisfying note as the arrow flies, a bit of my tension going with it. I watch it arch perfectly through the branches, flying true, right for—

  A screech of pain rises into the clearing, something falling from the tree.

  I go still, listening. The sound comes again, a cry of pain. A frantic caw, the beating of panicked wings.

  My throat tightens as I realize I must’ve grazed a bird. A pang of guilt twists in my chest and I drop my bow, moving quickly to the spot, fifty yards or so away.

  It goes quiet before I get there, and I have to search the grass. My gaze catches on a cluster of red drops dotting a leaf. Then on the creature. It’s an odd bird, not a type I’ve seen before, small and silver, with an onyx beak. It’s lying on its side, stomach moving with quick pants, beak open, tiny black eyes wide. Its neck is shiny red with blood.

  Danu, what have I done?

  I kneel in the grass and reach out, my fingers brushing through the soft feathers. It’s so strange and beautiful. And I’ve destroyed it?

  A thin silver mist begins to rise from the back of the bird as the spirit lifts from the body.

  There must be something I can do. Something.

  Lailoken told me once that som
e of the gods’ children were born with the ability to heal. That some could even return life to a vessel. I’ve never tried to do such a thing—my guardian wouldn’t allow it. But he’s not here.

  I reach up to the torque around my neck, the iron stinging my fingertips on contact.

  I’m useless with this thing trapping me.

  Try to take it off, my insides whisper.

  I attempted removing it once before. It was agony—my hands sizzling, blisters boiling up on my palms.

  The bird’s spirit coils around its thin form, its body turning rigid. And I can do nothing. Except watch it die. Because of my arrow.

  Panic stirs in my chest. Will this make me the animal Sister Agnus claims I am? Wicked. A taker.

  A demon.

  I reach up to my torque again, pulling harder on the latch. My hands instantly blister, skin burning. The scent of cooked meat fills the air.

  I hiss out a breath and whisper a prayer to my mother, not caring that there are no flames, that she won’t hear me. Oh, gods, it hurts.

  My fingers catch hold of the clasp. But they slip along the edge, unable to get a proper grip as my flesh melts.

  I cry out in agony, having to stop.

  I cradle my twisted hands in my lap and hunch over them, gasping. Tears wet my cheeks, blur my vision. But it’s no use, I sense the bird’s death become final. I feel its spirit slip away.

  I release a sob. But it’s just a bird. It was so small. Insignificant.

  The pain is so big, though. My hands, my heart—it’s all an agony.

  “I saw that!” The words screech across the field, coming up behind me. Sister Agnus, her voice a scratch at the air. “I saw what you did! Messing with your torque.”

  I don’t have the will to move.

  “Trying to free your black soul, are you?” Her wheezing grows louder just before she grabs me by the hair and yanks.

  I cry out again, reaching for her grip with my wounded hands as I follow her tug. She only pulls harder, forcing me to choose between coming with her or getting my hair torn out.

  “Should’a cut these fire locks from your skull, you wretched thing.” And then she kicks at my legs, making me stumble. “Get up!” she screams in my face, as if I fell to the grass on purpose. “Mother Catherine is gone to the village and isn’t here to save you. I think it’s time you receive the proper punishment for your corruption.”

  She drags me back to the main building and tosses me onto the gravel at the center of the courtyard. Then she walks over to the statue of Saint Peter and breaks a branch off of the rowen tree beside it.

  A large raven perches like a silent shadow on the saint’s upraised arm, tipping its head at me, its black eyes watching. I wish with all my heart it would pluck Sister Agnus’ eyes from her head and wisk me away on its dark wings.

  But even as the thought comes, I know it makes me a fool. Wishes are for children and fae stories.

  I look away from the bird and press my forehead into the stones of the courtyard. Preparing for what’s to come.

  Sister Agnus taps the switch on the ground bringing my attention back to her. “You should be with your own heathen kin. You shouldn’t be here in this holy place.” She makes the sign to ward off the evil eye and spits on the ground. “Twelve lashes, perhaps? To start. I’ll have mercy and stop only when you confess your sins.”

  I crawl a little away, glancing at the raven again. My ruined fingers ache, bent oddly even as they begin to heal. I mend torturously slow with my torque on. I need it off. I need to be free.

  “Please,” I whimper to anyone who’ll hear me. “It hurts.”

  “Good,” Sister Agnus sneers. Then she lifts the switch and brings it down across my back with a heavy thwack, forcing a scream from my lips.

  *

  I had passed two moons in the cloisters before I was taught my first hard lesson about the dark things that a bitter woman can conjure—two moons of being introduced to my new home in which my days were peppered with pinches, quick slaps, and hissed curses. Then Sister Agnus broke my arm for the first time. I lied and told the Reverend Mother it had been an accident, that I’d fallen from the white oak while fetching a stray arrow, because I was afraid of what Sister Agnus would do to me if I spoke the truth of how she’d tossed a heavy stone at my head, knocking me from my perch.

  Since then she has become my tormentor. But worse than that, everyone knows of her cruelty. They watch and frown and do nothing to stop it. Even Mother Catherine—who’ll root out an incident if it rises—she does nothing to cast Sister Agnus out and save me. I can’t understand it.

  Unless the truth is worse than I want to believe. That the fae, the demigods and underlings, aren’t the true measure of evil in this world. The humans are.

  TWO

  Broken

  Sister Agnus brings the rowen switch down again, her strike weaker now as she tires from her work. The tenth lash. My body is hunched on the ground as I concentrate on the grey pebbles under me. Crimson blood speckles them, like drops of red rain.

  A jarring ache radiates down my spine, my arms, but I squeeze my eyes shut, grit my teeth, determined to hold in my cries.

  When I tried to scramble away she only hit me harder. But I can get through it. I can’t be weak. Only two more and it’ll be over. Let it be over soon.

  Her breathing is labored, her anger a thick cloud around us both. “Say it,” she snarls for what feels like the hundredth time. “Confess that you’re a demon.”

  I shake my head at her, growing mindless from the agony of it all. She’s a beast, a wicked thing, her dark habit flying out around her, snapping in the air, her eyes as black as pitch.

  The other sisters watch from the edges of the courtyard, some whispering, several with their mouths covered in shock. And yet they do nothing to stop it. Why? If they could see the dark billows of rage boiling from this creature’s chest as she bears down on me, they would be terrified. They would see true evil.

  “Speak the words,” Sister Agnus spits, her voice scratching at her throat. “Confess!”

  “No,” I gasp, more to myself then to her. A part of me nearly gives in, wishing for it to be over. When will she tire and leave me be?

  I release a cough and taste blood.

  She growls and another strike hits my ribs, harder than the one before.

  The meaty thud of wood meeting flesh echoes in the small courtyard. Something inside my body shifts, and searing agony radiates across my chest and down my side.

  A gasp escapes my lungs, blood spilling from between my lips as I collapse finally.

  Shame fills me, but quickly flutters away as I panic. I can’t breathe. I’m drowning.

  I reach up, pulling at the torque. It’s choking me, smothering me. Keeping me from healing properly, from being free from this hell.

  The iron sears my healing palm again but I barely feel it this time.

  I need it off. Now. I need to be free.

  The dark sister screeches over me again, “Say it! Confess!”

  I can only shake my head, curling into a ball, gasping through the blood pooling in my throat as the last strike comes, searing against my arm. But then another to my head, blinding me for a moment. The earth tilts.

  “Say it, you stupid whore—”

  “Enough!” comes a stern bark, cutting through the rage and chaos. And Mother Catherine swoops into the courtyard. “What madness has overtaken you, Sister Agnus? Shame! Doing this to a helpless girl!”

  Sister Agnus drops the rowan switch, but still sounds indignant. “I caught the wretch attempting to take off her torque, Reverend Mother. She is a danger who must be contained. A trickster.” She spits in my direction again. “She should not even be among us.”

  “That is an unkindness, Sister Agnus. Think more clearly. We are meant to be Love to the heathen, not violence.” Mother Catherine kneels beside me, her energy frantic as she mutters, “Oh, saints above. What a mess.” She tries to gather me in her arms then waves a
t the onlookers. “Come help, fools! Sister Lydia, go fetch some wolfsbane and willow bark from the dryroom. Sister Tamar, go light the brazier. And Sister Agnus,” she pauses, her voice lowering with her anger, “you are to speak with me in my rooms—go now and pray for your soul. I will not defend you to the envoys if they ask of this.”

  Everyone moves to action, obeying her. I’m lifted from the ground as the world blurs, my mind drifting, my bones aching. My guilt at killing the bird is only a dull throb in my heart now, crowded out by rage. Dark, thick rage. Rage at my weakness, at my prison.

  My power twists, scratching inside my skin, unable to escape to claim revenge.

  I imagine what I’ll do on the day that I’m at last free from these creatures, how I’ll make them pay. They’ll bow at the feet of their queen and beg for mercy, they’ll regret each cut, each bruise.

  But these thoughts are evil, they prove what Sister Agnus claims. I'm black-hearted, cursed. I'm a demon.

  It’s true.

  Still, as my body throbs, my head pounding in agony, my blood spilling from my lungs, I’m unable to care anymore. I can’t hold back the dark anger. If they wish me to be a demon I will claim my due.

  I won’t be whipped. I won’t sit and take the torment any longer.

  They'll regret what they do to me. They'll regret it. All of them.

  I try to speak, to say the thought aloud, but it’s no use, the fog’s too thick, the weight in my limbs too much. I can only whimper in pain and let them carry me inside as the blackness swallows me whole.

  *

  I drift awake as if the tide were bringing me to shore, my mind slowly returning to itself. A cool, damp cloth touches my forehead, another sliding down my bare back. I'm prone on the bed, disrobed. I don't feel the weight of my torque on my neck anymore, and the pain in my bones and skin has faded to a dull ache in the distance.