Daughter of Light (Follower of the Word Book 1)

by Morgan L. Busse

  “You’re welcome.” Lore moved to stand.

  Rowen reached out and touched his arm, stopping him. “And…thank you for your room last night.”

  Lore looked at her and smiled. “It was not a problem. I’m glad I could be of service to you.” His eyes wandered toward the bag that lay near the long table behind them. “Is that your bag?”

  “Yes,” Rowen said, glancing at the dark lump on the floor.

  “Here, allow me.” Lore walked over and picked up the bag. He looked at her, surprised. “Is this everything?” It felt…light. At least, lighter than he thought it would be.

  “Yes,” Rowen said. “I did not pack much.”

  Lore shrugged and turned toward the staircase. “For now, you will stay in one of the rooms here in the Guards Quarter.” He walked toward the staircase. Rowen followed. At the top, he walked along the balcony and opened the last door on the left.

  The inside of the room was dark except for pale light streaming in from the window in front of them. A single bed lay against the left wall, a wood chest and small table on the right. On the floor was a braided rug.

  Lore placed the bag on the floor beside the bed and went back downstairs. He lit a lamp near the fireplace, then brought it back up.

  “There, that’s better,” he said. He walked in and placed the lamp on the table. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rowen begin to rub her arms as she looked over the room.

  “I’m sorry there’s no fireplace. I’ll send a servant up with a warming brick for your bed.”

  She turned toward him. “Thank you. That would be nice.”

  “First thing tomorrow, meet me in the common room downstairs. And wear something comfortable to move in. You’ll be measured for your uniform and training attire in the afternoon. Until then, the shirt and pants you’re wearing now will suffice.”

  Lore moved toward the door, then turned. “If there is anything else you need, don’t hesitate to ask.” Rowen nodded. It was time for him to go. “Good night, Rowen.”

  Lore heard the door shut as he headed back downstairs. He still felt dazed by the turn of events. Part of him truly thought Commander Jedrek’s daughter would turn down the varor position. To move from a small country village to the White City was a big leap. And most of the Ryland villages took care of their own. But here she was—and the same woman from the Mostyn inn, no less.

  Lore recalled Rowen’s likeness as he began his trek through the castle toward his own private quarters. She looked nothing like her father. But perhaps she possessed Commander Jedrek’s sense of honor and respect. And she’d said her father had trained her. Knowing Commander Jedrek and his skill with the sword, there would probably be very little he would need to teach her.

  • • •

  The next morning Rowen stood in the doorway that separated the guard’s common room from the training room. Her mouth hung slightly open. The training room was at least two stories high with a glass dome to let in natural light. Bright blue sky shone through the glass. She kept staring at the ceiling. She had never seen a roof made out of glass before.

  Slowly she looked down. White stone encased the room, a room large enough to hold at least three cabins from her village. The floor was made of long wooden boards placed tightly together. A long white line had been painted halfway across the room. The far side of the room had a large circle painted on the wood floor. The side nearest her held no circle.

  Along the right wall hung blunt practice swords. Lore stood in front of the weaponry. He appeared to be choosing out their swords. Benches were set around the room. Dull grey rags were tossed on the benches or lay on the floor underneath.

  “This should do,” Lore said. He turned and held a practice sword in each hand. He crossed the room, his boots echoing against the walls and floor. He stopped and held one out to her.

  Rowen reached for the sword and felt her stomach tighten. She had the skills and knew it. But it did not ease the fear that she would somehow fall short of Captain Lore’s expectations. She was grateful the training room was empty.

  Lore led her to the middle of the first half of the room. “Let’s warm up first.”

  Rowen nodded. She started out slow and jerky. Her fingers were cold and she had a hard time gripping the hilt. A moment later, the sword dropped. She blushed and bent down.

  “Relax.”

  Rowen looked up to find Lore smiling at her.

  “There is no need to be nervous,” he said. “Take your time with your warm-up. We will begin when you feel ready.”

  Rowen nodded and grabbed her sword. She straightened up and turned away. She breathed in deeply. This time the exercises came more naturally, more assured. She went through each set her father had taught her until her limbs felt warm and limber.

  “Are you ready?”

  Rowen stopped. She looked over at Lore. “Yes.”

  “Good. Let’s begin.”

  They turned and faced each other. Rowen went into position.

  “Good,” Lore said. ”Now keep your sword slightly upward. If you let it drop, you leave yourself open.”

  Rowen tilted the blade a bit higher but kept the hilt near her body. Unlike the large broadswords used by the military, she used a smallsword. This made it easier to handle. And the purpose of her sword was not to hack at an enemy but to defend and protect.

  Lore began to circle her, his sword pointed upward, looking for an opening.

  Rowen kept her eyes on him, wary that his superior height gave him an advantage. In her periphery she paid special attention to his sword. When she was younger, she could always sense when her father was going to strike—just by a twitch of his eye or a sudden muscle movement at his neck. She was finding this to be true of Captain Lore, as well.

  He lunged, twisting his sword to his right.

  Rowen bounced back, dropping the end of her sword a fraction and caught his blade near her hilt.

  He brought his blade up again and went for her other side. She parried his attack.

  Lore changed his move and went for her other side, moving faster.

  She snapped her hands down and blocked the blow.

  Each time she blocked, he went for the area she left exposed. Thrust, parry. Thrust, parry, thrust again.

  Rowen felt herself drawn into the duel, no longer thinking but acting on instinct. Memories began to flow through her mind of another time and another place, when her father had first taught her to use the sword.

  At first it had been a coping mechanism, something for Jedrek to do just after her mother had died. Perhaps he’d felt that, if he could train Rowen to defend herself, she would be more protected in this world where death could come at any moment. Not that a sword could do anything against the ravaging disease that had taken Ann Mar away from them.

  But after a few months, it had become a bonding time between them. Through their exercises, Rowen had become stronger, and Jedrek had worked through the death of his beloved Ann. And both had found comfort in their father-daughter relationship.

  Rowen swallowed the wave of grief that swept over her and brought her mind back to the duel, moving faster and faster, her hits strong. Soon, she started answering Lore’s moves with ones of her own.

  Captain Lore made a great opponent. He was fast and creative in his movements. She quickly parried one of his thrusts and blew at a wisp of hair that had come loose from her braid.

  He let his guard down.

  Rowen struck.

  It wasn’t hard enough to do any damage, but by the way Lore was now massaging his side, she was afraid that, in her eagerness, she had hurt him.

  Rowen brought her sword to her side. “Are you all right?”

  Lore glanced up. “Yes. I’ll probably bruise, but that’s common.”

  “I didn’t mean to hit you so hard.”

  He laughed and stopped rubbing. “Are you jesting? I want you to be so good that you hit me when I let my guard down. Besides, it’s nothing compared to when Aren and I spar. Some
times I think he’s out for blood.”

  Her concern changed to confusion. “Aren?”

  Lore laughed again, and Rowen found she liked the sound. “Aren is a guard and one of the varors for Lord Gaynor. You’ll meet him soon enough.” He sheathed his sword. “That’s enough for now.” Rowen followed suit. “Come and sit.” Lore walked toward one of the benches that surrounded the large training room.

  He sat down with his back against the wall. Rowen took a seat nearby. His eyes were half closed in thought. For a moment she studied him. Lore was taller than her, broad shouldered, but not heavyset. His hair was damp from perspiration, and she thought she could detect some grey near his temples.

  “You did well today.” He opened his eyes and turned toward her. “Your skill with your sword is exceptional. But there is more to being a varor than just being able to fight. A varor uses whatever means necessary to protect his or her charge. And unlike a guard, a varor swears to protect even at the cost of his or her own life.” He looked away. “That is something you will need to think about before you choose to become a varor.”

  Rowen glanced down at her hands. If she wanted this position, she would need to be willing to die for Lady Astrea. Her heart thudded faster at the thought. She stared at the leather glove and swallowed. Better death when saving another than death because of her mark.

  “In the next few weeks, I will teach you what it means to be a varor,” Lore said. “After that time, if you find you cannot commit, you will be allowed to leave. But if you choose to stay, you will take the vow of a varor and remain here until released by Lady Astrea or…for other reasons. Do you understand?”

  Lore looked directly into her eyes. For one moment Rowen felt as though he could see right through her. He couldn’t, could he? After all, with one touch, she could see inside others. His eyes pinned her in place. Rowen clenched her gloved hand and nodded.

  “Good.” His face relaxed into a smile. “We will spend the rest of the day going over exercises that will help improve your accuracy and endurance.”

  • • •

  Later that day, Lore found himself rubbing his side again as he watched Rowen work through the exercises he had taught her earlier that morning.

  “Who’s the new guard?” a voice asked nearby. Lore turned to find Aren standing just behind him.

  Aren stood a couple of inches shorter than him. He had light blond hair, which was pulled back with a leather cord, revealing the black tattoos that adorned the right side of his face. The black tattoos contrasted with his bright blue eyes. He was dressed in a simple white shirt and dark pants. A smallsword hung at his side.

  “Actually, she’s not a guard. Rowen is training to be Lady Astrea’s new varor.”

  Aren’s eyes went wide and he glanced back at Rowen. “That’s Commander Jedrek’s daughter? She looks nothing like him.”

  Lore laughed, remembering similar thoughts. “No. But what did you expect? A large bearded woman?”

  Aren’s face morphed into a mischievous grin, all the more accentuated by the black tattoos along the right side of his face. “You wouldn’t need to fear an entire city of guards falling for a bearded woman. But that one,” he nodded in Rowen’s direction, “is quite the opposite. She’s beautiful.”

  “And fast and strong,” Lore said, massaging his side.

  Aren glanced at him. “She got you?” he said in surprise.

  “She did.”

  Aren looked back toward the training circle with renewed interest. “Then I guess I will need to introduce myself. It’s not every day the captain is bested by a new recruit.”

  Lore watched Aren walk toward Rowen, knowing the young man had every intention of doing just that.

  Rowen stopped her exercises when Aren began to talk to her. Lore gave his side one last rub and headed out of the Guards Quarter. There was still a lot left to do today. But first, he was going to stop and see a healer about getting something for his side.

  6

  Nierne kept one hand along the curled edge of the parchment. With her other hand she dipped a white feather quill into a vial of black ink. At her elbow lay a half rolled scroll, its edges ragged and stained with age. Her eyes darted from the scroll to the parchment beneath her hand. With stained fingertips she copied each word carefully, exactly. Dipping her quill again, she scanned the scroll, then copied the next three words. She did this for another ten minutes before placing her quill on the desk.

  Nierne rolled her wrists and glanced out the window. The sun shone brightly across a brilliant azure sky. White puffy clouds chased each other over blue-green waters. Just over the Monastery wall and beyond Thyra’s gates, she could see hundreds of ships moored along the docks, their bleached white sails whipping in the wind.

  Houses of stone lined the narrow streets leading up from the docks. Women wearing white caps chatted on the street corners. Children ran along the cobblestone street. Dogs yapped at their heels. Squeals and laughter drifted up through the window like the sweet sounds of summer.

  The gate creaked below. Nierne leaned over her desk and watched a white-cropped head move through the narrow opening and step out onto the street. She would know that head anywhere. Father Reth.

  A basket was tucked beneath one arm, and his brown robes billowed behind him. The children nearby stopped and turned. They ran with smiles on their faces toward Father Reth. Nierne watched as he pulled a dark brown loaf from his basket and handed it to one of the children. The little boy beamed back up at Father Reth, then ran up the street, the loaf clutched securely under his arm.

  Father Reth headed north along the street with the children crowding around him until they all disappeared around the corner. Nierne smiled and sat back. She knew where he was going. Every day Father Reth visited the poorer section of Thyra, to give bread to those who had none.

  Slowly her smile vanished and her eyes drifted across the city, past the wealthy white-washed homes on the hills, past the deep green parks, past the Senate Hall, a circular white tower that dominated the heart of Thyra, past the fortress of Cragsmoor, toward the section of the city where she knew the lowest of Thyrian society lived.

  She could not see the cracked and filthy buildings from here in the Monastery, but she did not need to. She could see them in her mind: two-story houses crushed together, blocking out every bit of sunlight. Bleak grey walls dotted with dingy windows. Sewage flowing along the street and filling the air with stench.

  Even after all these years, those images had yet to fade from her memory. Nierne shuddered and picked up her quill. But her mind, now latched onto her past, began dredging up more memories, memories of sitting in a dark corridor, her legs pulled up to her chest, listening to the other side of the wall where her mother conducted business. Blue smoky haze drifting between the rooms and rats scurrying beneath the floorboards.

  And the day the plague came.

  Nierne felt a tear slip down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away, afraid it would fall on the parchment. She glanced toward the corner where Father Reth had disappeared. If it hadn’t have been for him, she would still be in those slums, probably doing the same work her mother had done.

  At that thought, she picked up her quill and began to copy the scroll beside her.

  Minutes turned into hours. She lost herself in the work, in the precise lettering and the beautiful words. At last Nierne carefully finished the last copied word and began to check her work when a sound caught her attention. She paused, her quill hanging just over the inkwell. She cocked her ear toward the window. It sounded like shouting. Moments later, the sound faded away.

  Puzzled, she looked out her window but could see nothing. With a shake of her head, Nierne placed her quill in the inkwell and continued to check her copy.

  The shouting came back. She ignored it for a couple of seconds. Screams began to mingle with the shouts. Nierne frowned and lowered the parchment. She leaned toward the window. Below, people were staring toward the center of the city. Nierne leaned
further out the window. “What in all the—”

  The door burst open.

  “Nierne!”

  Nierne yanked her head back in. “Crackers, Simon, you scared me!” she said, clutching the front of her robe. “Do you know what is going on?

  “No time to explain.” Simon glanced back out into the hallway. “Father Cris has called everyone downstairs.”

  “Why?”

  Simon dashed out of her room before answering. Other scribes ran past her doorway, their robes flying behind them. Nierne stood and took a step toward the door, then realized she could not leave the ancient parchment on her desk. She turned around and quickly but carefully grabbed the scroll, rolled it, and placed it back into its tube.

  Outside, she could hear panicked shouts and cries filling the streets. The acrid smell of smoke began to drift in through the window.

  Nierne popped the top on the tube and left it there on her desk. She hurried out into the hallway. Other inhabitants of the Monastery were rushing toward the stairs. Nierne fell into line behind them.

  At the bottom of the staircase she found Father Cris shouting out orders. “… has happened… need to get the people to safety… hurry outside…” Nierne caught only snippets of his orders.

  She found Simon and squeezed her way toward him. “I don’t understand,” Nierne whispered to him. “What is going on?”

  Simon turned toward her, his eyes wide with fright. “The whole city’s gone crazy,” he whispered back. “Soldiers are marching the streets, snatching everyone they can.”

  “Soldiers are arresting people? But why?” The scribes nearest the doors hurried out.

  “I don’t know,” Simon said. “But we’re supposed to go and bring everyone we can find back here.”

  Before Nierne could ask any more questions, everyone was rushing toward the double front doors.

  “Come on,” Simon said, beckoning with his hand. He turned and followed the others out. Nierne stood by the staircase, fear trickling through her. What in all the Lands was going on? The whole city had gone crazy. But why? She took a deep breath and headed toward the doors.