Heart of Time (Ruined Heart Series Book 1)

by Skye MacKinnon

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Epilogue

  Untitled

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  About the Author

  Illustrators

  Thank you

  Heart of Time

  Skye MacKinnon

  Contents

  Untitled

  Untitled

  Author’s Note

  Untitled

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Illustrators

  Thank you

  Heart of Time

  By Skye MacKinnon

  © 2017 Skye MacKinnon

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Skye.mackinnon@hotmail.com

  Cover by Rebecacovers- Fiverr.

  Illustration on back cover: Frances Quinn.

  Published by Peryton Press.

  Author’s Note

  This book has been written by a Scottish writer, and as such uses British English spelling and grammar – so ‘mum’ instead of ‘mom’, ‘realise’ instead of ‘realize’, etc. If you’re from the US, please don’t mistake these for errors, it’s just a cultural difference (a weird one, I know).

  Pronunciation

  K’tuin – KEH-tueen

  Nythea – Neh-THEEA

  Oisín – Oi-SHEEN

  Sa-Lia – SAH-lee-AAH

  For my big little sister.

  Instead of a tattoo.

  Prologue

  No one knew where the girl had come from. She was found on the road, half-starved, cloaked in dirt, unable to utter a single word. There was only one other person who knew the story, and she didn’t speak of it until much later, when the events that would change the land forever began to unfold.

  This is the tale that was forgotten, as it is still told in the story houses of Allembach:

  Once upon a time, there was a mother and her child, who loved each other dearly. They lived together in a small cottage in the rolling green hills of a faraway land, surrounded by sheep, whose wool was the means of the small family’s survival. One day, the mother fell gravely ill and had to lie in bed for months and months. The child, not yet a woman, but strong and healthy, tended to her mother in the most caring way, but there was little change in the woman’s condition. Time passed, and the cottage grew dusty and unclean, for the girl did not have the strength to care for both her mother and the little farm. The sheep were no longer sheared, and there was no money left to spend for food. The girl knew that they needed medicine to cure her mother, but they had neither the coin nor the means to get it. So they lived together in the cottage, which slowly fell apart, and the hills behind it no longer seemed green, but dark and unfriendly.

  One day, the girl went to the market to buy food with her last few coins. She was half-starved, having given all the food she could spare to her sick mother. But at the market they laughed at her and told her she did not have enough money to buy anything. So she walked home, with hanging shoulders, thinking that now she would surely starve.

  On the road she met a man, whose face was hidden under the hood of his long, black cloak. He asked her for the way into the village, and because she was a dear and friendly girl, she told him without hesitation. He thanked her and asked her if he could do something in return. At first, she shook her head, but the man persisted until she told him of her sick mother and the empty coin box. The man seemed to think, and said: “I know of a remedy that would cure your mother fully, and I have it here, in my pocket.” With that, he pulled a small vial from his cloak and held it high up into the sun. The girl was overjoyed and wanted to reach for the vial when the man put it back into his pocket and asked what she was prepared to pay for it, as giving directions into the village was not nearly enough for such a powerful remedy. The girl thought hard, but could not come up with anything valuable she or her mother possessed. When she told the man, he laughed, and said: “You have something that is worth more to me than any coin you could ever have in your pouch.” Without thinking, the girl cried that he could have it, anything, if he would only give her the vial of medicine. But then he grabbed her and stretched a clawed hand towards her chest. He sank his hand into her flesh and pulled out her beating heart, dripping with blood. “This is what I want as a payment, your heart, all loving and fresh and innocent. You will not die, little girl, for I do not want you to. You will live, your mother will be cured, but I have your heart. If we meet again, tell me if it was worth it.” And with a chuckle, he walked off, leaving the girl kneeling in the middle of the road, clutching her chest.

  When the girl came home, she fed her mother the medicine, and colour came back in the mother’s cheeks, and for the first time in half a year she stood up from her bed. But the girl could not rejoice over her mother’s cure, for she no longer had a heart, and she could no longer feel for others.

  The girl became a woman, but she didn’t notice it. She walked through her life empty and unaware, but only her mother noticed the change, for all the intimacy and love between them had gone, and they lived their lives next to each other, not together. And the mother was very upset by this, for she did not know that her daughter had traded her heart away.

  The girl felt no love for anything, not for the sheep she had cared for so lovingly before, not for the green hills, which she had walked on all her childhood years, not for her mother, not even for herself. She did not feel anything, only once when she had to kill a sheep that had broken its legs she felt something, something terrible, stirring within her. And because she yearned to feel again, she sought out this feeling. In time, she noticed that the suffering and death of others would bring her a moment of release from the emptiness within her chest. So she began to kill bugs and spiders first, then mice the cat had brought in, a new-born lamb, and later even the cat. And it became an addiction, for even though she no longer had a heart, she remembered how it had felt. But her mother never noticed any of the cruelties her daughter committed in secret.

  After several winters had passed, a young man rode by the cottage, who was sent by his father to find a suitable girl for marriage. When he saw the young woman standing with the sheep, he was struck by her beauty. In that moment he knew that he could have no other wife than her. And so he asked her, and she agreed to marry him, because she did not know what else to do. The mother was happy, for she hoped that her daughter would find happiness with the young man, who was
well spoken and seemed to care a great deal for her daughter. And even though the man noticed that there was no love between him and his chosen wife, he thought to himself that love might grow with time.

  And they lived together for some time, and even though there was no love between them, he was happy. One day the woman fell pregnant. Her husband was overwrought with joy, but in her, the deep dark feeling stirred whenever she looked at her swollen belly. When the child, a girl, was born, the husband often caught his wife looking at the baby with a dreadful look, but he pushed these thoughts aside, for he could not believe that his wife was evil. But she was tempted every time she saw her child, and in time the pressure in her became too much. So one day, she took a knife and went to the crib in which her daughter was lying. When she raised the knife high over her child, the husband, who had entered the room unnoticed, threw himself in front of his daughter. The knife pierced his heart, and with a final breath, he sank to the floor. Trembling, his wife let fall the weapon and fled the house. She ran as fast as she could, never looking back, and was never seen again in this part of the country.

  Her mother, who had heard of the events, came and took in her granddaughter, and cared for her lovingly. But she was growing old, and with every day more of her former strength left her.

  Then, one day the grandmother died, and the girl, old enough to walk but too young to survive on her own, left the house, for there was no one to care for her. She walked through woods, over hills and small streams, until she came to a road, where she lay down, for she had not eaten in many days. There she was found by some travelling folk, who took pity on her and took her in. With them she travelled far and wide, forgetting the place she had come from and the people she had known as a child. She became part of the travelling folk, never knowing how different she was from everyone else.

  In the village she was born in, they never heard of her again, and they did not care, until later, much later, when the elders regretted not taking care of what had happened in the little cottage in the rolling hills.

  And this is how the story begins…

  1

  Fifth War

  Even though the Fifth War undoubtedly complies with the definition of war - ‘a state of armed conflict between different nations or states’ - some scholars argue that it cannot be called a war, as that term implies that both sides have an equal chance of winning. In the case of the so-called Fifth War, invaders from the Western Counties took over the former Elasia, now the Kingdom of Fer, and conquered and wiped out the unprepared Elasian people in such a way, that some scholars prefer to call the Fifth War the ‘First Obliteration’ instead. However, this term is unheard of in the present-day Kingdom of Fer as it is seen as treason against the current King Gynt of Fer.

  - A Guide to Military History

  The creaking and groaning of the vardo was my lullaby. It carried me forth from the endless journey atop the wagon, soothing my mind and caressing my senses. From time to time, the vardo shivered when it reached yet another pothole, but Old Mare Lily dragged it along without pause. Her musky smell tingled my nose before the soft wind carried it off again. Birds warned each other of our passing through their territory, their song loud, but beautiful.

  The sun warmed my entire body, and its strong rays sank through my eyelids. I squinted them shut further. There was a light breeze that tousled my hair, but I didn’t mind. All I wanted was for this moment to last forever.

  I rarely got peace and quiet like this. There was always something to do, or someone to talk to. But today, I had the warm roof of the vardo for myself, and Mara had taken over the reins. I was so relaxed that my mind lingered in that fuzzy place between sleep and consciousness. When was the last time that I had some time for myself? Usually, even if there was no work to do, there was always someone who would disturb my thoughts. Cino was so full of questions that I rarely had the time to answer one before he came up with the next. Mara always fussed about me, asking how I felt or what I planned to do that day. Sometimes, I liked how she cared, but on other days, her mothering felt crushing. Although it was better to be around people than to be alone. I had been very alone once, so I shouldn’t complain about being among caring and happy people now. Still, I enjoyed this moment of peace and quiet.

  Suddenly, someone knocked against the wagon roof, pulling me back into the presence. “Eee, come down”, Cino shouted from below. Not again. Ever since he had seen Mara use a broomstick to knock at the ceiling, he had been doing the same thing. I was tempted to just continue lying here, but I knew that he wouldn’t leave me in peace any longer. I rolled over, opening my eyes to the beautiful day. We were traversing the high plains that would lead us to the town of Hawkfair, where we would meet with other travelling families for the autumn equinox celebrations, before making our way to our winter quarters in the Free Cities.

  There were no trees in this area, only windswept bushes and heather fields, divided into large islands by small streams. Still, the landscape radiated a strange beauty. In the distance, low hills formed a natural end to the plains. On their other side, the Eternal River flowed, never ending in either direction, cutting through the fertile land around it. I couldn’t see the river yet, but in my mind, I pictured it, the water dark blue with a hint of green, a short stretch of sand where the river meets the land, then lush green vegetation on the side. In the middle of the river, the water flows wild and fast, with droplets of white steam shimmering in the sunshine. River gulls sing to each other, and in the evening, once the birds have retreated to their nests, small crickets chirp in the brush.

  As children, we would walk along the river banks, looking for treasure such as river glass and smooth skipping stones, or build castles out of the thick sand. Even though I was older now, I was still looking forward to sunbathing and relaxing to the soothing sounds of the water.

  Sometimes, there were small rainbows over the river, spanning it in a way that bridges could not. There is only one stone bridge over the Eternal River, at the place where the river is narrowest, near the village of Ashenfields. In the spring, when the river swells and takes over the flat lands around it, not even this bridge is traversable. Then, the only safe way to cross it is the Old Ferry, hundreds of miles to the north. But in all the time I had travelled with the Ghorres family, we had never crossed the river. We never had a reason to do so, as the people on the other side are not as welcoming to travelling folk as they are on the Plains and the Free Cities. Old Mara said she once crossed the river long ago, to seek out new audiences and new tunes, but turned back after only a few days, having been turned away from inns and threatened by people in the villages. And anyway, there are enough places to visit on our side of the river.

  “EEE!”, Cino shouted again. “Come down!”

  I sighed when I heard Mara’s chuckle. I liked the boy, the youngest member of the Ghorres family, but sometimes he got on my nerves. I sat up and climbed down through the open window. It was warm inside the vardo, even hotter than outside. The air clung to the small room. All four windows were wide open, their red curtains gently swinging in the breeze. There was a fresh cake sitting on the shelf next to the kitchenette, baked with cherries that we had plucked from a tree by the road earlier that day. I was tempted to cut myself a piece, but I knew that Mara wanted to keep it for dinner. Instead, I slid onto the bench next to Cino, stretching my legs under the table.

  He had cleaned his slate and set it out in front of him, next to a selection of chalk and charcoal pieces, carefully sorted by size. Not many travelling people would spend money on such items, but Luca had always been a little different from his kin. Back when I was Cino’s age, he had taught me to read and write, and now I was passing that knowledge on to his son. Even though right now I would have preferred to lie in the sun and do nothing, I still felt honoured that Luca had the confidence in me to teach Cino what he needed to know.

  My student was looking at me expectantly. For a moment, I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to teach hi
m today. My mind was still half asleep. Well, there was always a solution to that problem. I cleared my throat, and asked him, “Let’s see if you have done your homework. Which letter did we learn last time?”

  Cino smiled and started to draw a large, shaky M onto the slate. The chalk made a rasping noise; he was still pressing it down too hard. Once he had finished the writing, he took his chalk-covered hand and wiped his blond hair out of his face. His pale blue eyes were looking straight at me; his stern glance reminded me of his father’s. One day, Cino would surely look like Luca does now, and like his father, he would be besieged by girls and women of all ages. At the moment, his face was caught up somewhere between childhood and adolescence. Over the last few months, his cheekbones had become more pronounced, but his lips still had a childish look to them.

  “Try it again, and see that the last line is a little straighter.”

  Again, he drew the letter M, this time a little quicker and with less pressure on the piece of chalk. He turned the slate towards me, proudly presenting his work. I envied his enthusiasm. Cino could rejoice over anything, even if it was nothing but repeating the same letter over and over again.

  “Can you give me five words that start with an M?”, I asked him and watched him crinkling his brow as he pondered the task.