by J. A. White
And then, with shocking clarity, Kara realized the truth: This was Grace’s Last Spell.
“You’re not my father,” Kara said.
The thing in her father’s body nodded. “I am Timoth Clen, destroyer of Witches, Voice of the One True Way, returned to all of you in your time of direst need.”
She expected the crowd to laugh this claim away. But she saw only smiles and tiny nods, as though this was only confirmation of something they had known for some time.
Timoth Clen folded his arms across his chest. “Do your duty, my Children.”
The first stone hit her in the back of the neck. It was small, not much more than a pebble, but it stung. The second stone was much larger and missed her entirely, skipping off the bark of the Fenroot tree. Kara risked a glance behind her and saw that the congregation had come prepared this morning. They were withdrawing rocks from aprons, pockets, drawstring bags. Everyone had known except for her.
“Taff?” Kara asked.
He slipped his hand into hers.
Instead of heading back through the congregation, Kara pulled Taff toward their father (No, that’s not him, not anymore), knowing that the villagers would not risk hitting the holy man with an errant throw. Timoth Clen watched them pass with a cold, bemused expression that her real father could have never replicated.
They ran.
Rocks filled the air, whizzing past them, over them. Finding their mark. Trails of blood ran down Kara’s calves. Taff let out a high-pitched yelp as a stone clipped his elbow. The important thing, Kara knew, was to remain standing. If either one of them fell, the villagers would be upon them. She ran faster, but Taff couldn’t keep up, so she slowed down. A rock hit her in the back of the shoulder, and her arm went numb. She heard a whoop of delight, applause. It was a game now. Taff began to cry. “This isn’t fair,” he said, and of course he was right, but she told him to save his breath. They crested the rise that led out of town, and the graycloaks were waiting for them at the bottom of the hill. They were human again, but their faces were devoid of all compassion. They sat on their tall horses, ball-staffs held at the ready.
“Kara?” Taff asked.
There was desperation in his voice and, even worse, a hint of hope. He trusted that she would know what to do. It broke her heart.
“Kara?” he asked again.
The graycloaks strode slowly up the hill. There was no need to hurry. The villagers held on to their rocks and stones and spread themselves out, blocking all avenues of escape.
She looked up at the sky. Blue and clear. A beautiful day.
“Kara?”
To the west stood a large, leafless tree. Though there was no wind, its branches scratched together, and Kara heard a familiar voice in her head. Your power cannot be bound in a book. You are special. Don’t let them hurt you. Don’t let them hurt the boy. Images fluttered through Kara’s head: a nightmarish beast with a mouth of claws sweeping out of the sky and yanking the Widow Miller away; flesh tearing as two creatures fought over a screaming man; the Clen-Father impaled on the Speaking Stone, a golden tusk through his throat. You can have this, Sordyr continued. You can make this so. Kara knew he was right. She could feel the words on her lips, begging to be used. You are not like the others, Kara Westfall. Become the witch you were meant to be. The head graycloak was only a few yards away now. He withdrew his ball-staff and raised it over his head.
Kara spoke. But it was not the words in her head.
“Shadowdancer,” she whispered.
The mare appeared out of nothingness, and the graycloak’s mount bucked in surprise, throwing its rider to the ground. Shadowdancer turned to Kara and snorted—What have you gotten me into now?—but bent forward so she could lift Taff onto her back. By this time the rocks had started again, but Kara pulled herself onto Shadowdancer and they were off, leaving the villagers behind in a blur of speed.
The graycloaks set off in pursuit.
Shadowdancer was faster, but these horses were ridden by trained men and had spent countless hours canvassing the trails of De’Noran. They knew the terrain. Eventually they would catch up. Besides, Kara told herself. It’s an island. There’s nowhere to hide.
Except for one place.
Once the other riders saw her change direction, they drove their mounts harder, intending to cut her off. Shadowdancer grunted with determination and pulled ahead. They dashed across the island in a blur of motion, but by the time they reached the Fringe, Shadowdancer had begun to stumble with exhaustion. A graycloak pulled to their side and raised his ball-staff, intending to knock Kara from her seat. We’re not going to make it, she thought, but then she heard a sharp crack and a whinny of pain, followed by the solid impact of a body hitting the earth. Kara glanced behind her and saw weeds shoot out of the ground and trip up forelegs, low-slung branches grab riders as they passed.
The Fringe was helping them escape.
In front of her, the trees of the Thickety peeled open, revealing a space just large enough for a single horse and two riders. Shadowdancer hesitated, but Kara screamed, “Go!” and the mare galloped through the hole. Taff buried his face in Kara’s arm and murmured something soft. “It’s going to be all right,” Kara said, but she didn’t really believe it. She was suddenly struck by the suspicion that her entire life had led to this point, that everything—her mother’s death, Grace, the grimoire—had been an elaborate web to trap her in this place.
What have I done? she thought, and then the branches closed behind them and all was dark.
About the Author
J. A. WHITE lives in New Jersey with his wife, three sons, and a hamster named Ophelia that doesn’t like him very much. When he’s not making up stories, he teaches a bunch of kids how to make up stories (along with math and science and other important stuff). He wishes dragons were real because it would be a much cooler way to get to work. You can visit him online at www.jawhitebooks.com.
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Credits
Cover art © 2014 by Andrea Offermann
Hand lettering by David Coulson
Cover design by Amy Ryan
Copyright
Katherine Tegen Books
is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
The Thickety: A Path Begins
Text copyright © 2014 by J. A. White
Illustrations copyright © 2014 by Andrea Offermann
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
White, J. A.
The Thickety : a path begins / J.A. White. — First edition.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-06-225724-6 (hardcover bdg.)
EPUB Edition © MARCH 2014 ISBN 9780062257277
[1. Magic—Fiction.] I. Title. II. Title: Path begins.
PZ7.W58327Th 2014
2013021509
[Fic]—dc23
CIP
AC
* * *
14 15 16 17 18 CG/RRDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
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