by Trudi Jaye
Jena’s hands clenched into fists at her side, and she struggled to understand what was happening. She had family? Someone who was related to her? For the first time since they arrived at Flamehaven, she stared properly at Breanna, into eyes that matched her own.
Breanna smiled first. “I’ve never had family,” she said softly.
Jena shook her head. “Me either.” A thousand thoughts filtered through her head, as she tried to understand what it meant. Then her attention reverted to the High Witch as Miara heaved a sad sigh.
The raven ruffled its feathers on Jena’s skin. The younger Miara filled her head, tearful and grieving, crying on Thornal’s shoulder. Jena tried to see the same grief in the lined face in front of her, but it was a hurt long gone.
“We shall have to start at the beginning. Sit, both of you.” Miara gestured toward the hearth and they sat, Jena and Breanna opposite each other, Miara on the couch.
“I will tell you how we came to find Bree. Then you must tell us what you know of your own life. It may tell us more about your relationship.”
Jena nodded, her eyes intent on the old woman’s face. She still didn’t understand what was happening.
“Bree was discovered as a baby by Rallo. He found her in a hidden corner of the forest, some eighteen years ago.” Miara paused, as if gathering her thoughts. “She was wrapped in a bloodstained blanket and had protection in the form of a charmed owl amulet placed on her stomach.”
Breanna pulled a small battered owl necklace from around her neck and handed it to Jena. As soon as she touched the ancient wooden amulet, a jolt went through Jena’s body. A distinctive magic seeped out of the small token and curled itself around Jena’s hand. “It’s powerful,” she whispered.
“Yes,” agreed Miara. “We believe we know who placed the protection. She had an impressive gift.” She cleared her throat. “There were wolvans in the forest that night; they had help getting through our protections. We found out too late to prevent their entry and too late to stop their hunt.” Miara frowned, her eyes drawn to the owl amulet that Jena held in her hand. “We have corrected that fault. We believe they were hunting Bree’s parents. They found them, but not before her parents hid Bree.”
Jena nodded slowly. She glanced at Breanna, her expression solemn. It couldn’t be easy knowing your parents had suffered such a brutal death, and that they had saved you from the same fate.
“So who do you think Breanna’s parents were?”
“You will be aware of the ancient stricture against marriage between a witch and a mage?”
Jena nodded. Another of the great Mage laws that could not be broken. The raven scratched at her skin with its beak and she grimaced. She was a living example that the old laws could be, and often were, broken.
“I believe her parents were the High Witch Dalafine and the Mage Primus.”
Jena stared at Miara. She’d never heard either name, but it seemed incredible they’d risk their lives for the sake of love. Even more so, because their gamble hadn’t paid off. She shivered. Death seemed a likely end to her own gamble against the old laws as well; she just hoped it wasn’t at the hand of wolvans.
“Dalafine and Primus disappeared about that time, and they were both powerful. It also explains how the wolvans managed to get into the forest. They would have had help from the Council of Mages.”
Jena’s mouth dropped open. “The Council? They wouldn’t have sent—” She glanced at Breanna, not wanting to say the words in front of her.
Miara’s lips tighten into a severe line. “Yes, my child, they would. Mage law is inflexible, and some follow it without thinking.” She paused. “Thornal would have known.”
Jena shook her head violently, a bitter taste in her mouth. “No. You’re wrong. Thornal would have saved them. He wouldn’t have allowed it. The rules... he didn’t believe in them like that,” she said, trying not to give herself away.
Thornal hadn’t been afraid to break the rules. He wouldn’t have cared about this either. He wouldn’t have killed two people in cold blood. Not by wolvans either. Anger rose within her, and dark images flicked through her head, too fast to catch. She didn’t know if they were her own thoughts or the raven’s memories.
“My dear, he was Guardian back then as well. He was on the Council. He would have known.” Miara held up her hand when Jena tried to argue. “I don’t say he agreed with it. But he would have been unable to fight a vote by the rest of the Council on such a breach of mage law.” Her voice was firm.
“Did you know him well, then? Thornal?” demanded Jena, struggling to keep a lid on the anger still boiling below the surface. The strength of her emotions frightened her; it was the same instinctive rage she’d felt when she killed the Hashishin. She couldn’t let any of her mage magic escape, not here, not like this.
“Yes, child, I did. We grew up together. He even visited us here in the forest,” said Miara.
“He helped you. In your grief.”
“He told you that?”
Jena didn’t acknowledge the question. “You were at the Royal Court with him as well.”
“You know more than I realized.” Miara smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I knew him long before your time, child. He is an old friend.”
“Then you should know he wouldn’t stand for it.” She jutted out her chin. She’d been living in close quarters with Thornal for the last six years. She knew him.
Flashes of memories were going off in Miara’s eyes, and Jena wondered what the old woman was remembering. But the waves of anger inside her weren’t yet quelled. “He had a stronger sense of justice in his little finger than most people have in their entire bodies.”
Miara sighed, and picked at a non-existent piece of fluff on her dress. She looked back up at Jena, her eyes piercing. “Let’s not argue the matter. You may be right. I do not know.”
Jena remained silent, unwilling to agree to disagree. She was right in this; she knew it.
“Let us move on,” said Breanna gently. Her eyes were dark with sympathy as they rested on Jena’s face. “Tell Jena what happened after you found me.” She glanced back at Miara, and Jena let out a breath. It was hard work to be this close to someone like Breanna. Someone so good.
“We raised Bree here in the Forest. She is as gifted as her parents, a talented witch and healer. But we do not tell people her full story. The penalty for the child of such a union is unclear. We do not take chances.”
Jena nodded. “I won’t say a word.”
Breanna smiled, and leaned forward in her chair. “What is your story, Jena? I’m dying to know.”
Jena shrugged. “I only know what I’ve been told. And I don’t know if it’s true.” The gypsies she’d grown up with weren’t known for following the truth.
“Just tell us what you know,” encouraged Breanna.
“I was a baby orphan, picked up by a band of gypsies—of the Utugani people—led by a woman called Elsa and her son, Otis. She could have taken me from anywhere; she was always very vague about it. She would see things she liked, and simply pick them up and take them with her. Her caravan was covered in shells, stones, natural things, mostly. Sometimes a scarf or a piece of jewelry.” Jena shook her head, clearing it of the memories. She gave a small, hard bark of laughter and looked into the fire, her hands clasped tightly together. “I guess I was just another trinket she found.”
“Were they... were they good to you?” asked Bree.
Jena hesitated. “Elsa loved me as well as she could, I know that. But it caused problems. Otis didn’t want me; he was jealous. He tried to get rid of me, but Elsa defended me.” Jena stopped. She saw Elsa stirring the big pot over the fire, her long red-grey hair tied up in a colored cloth and her solid frame covered in the jewelry she loved. It was still hard, even now, to talk about it.
“When I was about ten, something happened.” She paused and then touched her hand to her burned face. “Otis was angry for some reason; I can’t even remember why. He
pushed me into a roaring campfire. He was trying to hurt me, and he succeeded.”
Jena felt a hand on her knee and looked down to see that Breanna had moved to sit on the floor beside her chair. “Elsa nursed me back to health, but while I was recovering in her caravan, Otis convinced the others I was bad luck. That the Royal Flames had marked me as an outcast.” She took a deep breath. “As soon as I could get up out of bed, he sold me to a traveling merchant.”
Jena heard Breanna’s small gasp. She looked away from the pity in her eyes. “I had some luck. Because of my burns, I was only considered good for hard work, and a couple of years later, when he needed some extra money, the merchant sold me at the markets. Thornal bought me. I don’t know why, because he set me free almost immediately.” Jena shrugged, her mouth twisted. “I stayed with Thornal for more than six years. He taught me to read and write, to do numbers, and to think for myself. He is... was... a great man.” Jena swallowed over the lump in her throat, and looked at Miara, daring her to contradict.
Miara’s lips curled slightly. “One of the greatest,” she said in a soft voice.
“Why did he tell me to come here?” Jena asked, her voice plaintive, almost begging for the answer. She held her lips tightly closed on all the other things she wanted to ask.
“I think you know why he sent you here.” She looked at Breanna, then back at Jena. “You both look exactly as Dalafine did at your age. He would have recognized that in you Jena. He knew you had family here.”
Jena had sometimes wondered about her real family, but she could never have invented anything like this. She shivered. The raven shifted and again flickering images chased each other across her mind. But she couldn’t see them properly, and Jena didn’t try to understand them. It was too much, right at this moment.
She glanced at Breanna. If they both looked like Dalafine, what did that mean? Could they be cousins? Or something closer? The thought was tantalising, but Jena pushed it down. She was probably a poor distant cousin who just happened to look a little like the family’s golden child. Because if she looked like Breanna, then Dalafine had definitely been her family’s golden child.
Perhaps there was a way she could see what Dalafine looked like, to determine what she looked like for herself. “Did Thornal know Breanna’s parents? Primus and Dalafine?” If Thornal had known them, the raven might be able to show her images. Jena leaned forward, suddenly eager for the answer.
Miara turned large sad eyes to Jena. She paused. “He knew him very well, Jena. Thornal was Primus’s father.”
Jena went still, a shaft of pain going through her body. “His own son?” The raven clawed at her skin, and she drew in a quick breath on the pain. Jena glared at Miara. “You think Thornal sanctioned the murder of his own son?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The house was a large wooden structure, with a veranda running around the outside of the three sides that Nate could see. The land around the house had fields with cattle and sheep roaming, chewing on hay, or sleeping. The animals looked well fed and content; the farm buildings well kept and tidy. There was even a stable out the side of the house. Perhaps he could convince them to give him a horse? Nate hesitated, and glanced around him. Despite the fact he’d been walking for at least three hours, the dark of night still cloaked the surrounding landscape. He wouldn’t be able to go in for at least another hour.
“Go ahead. Wake them all up. Lazy bastards.” The ghost swirled impatiently next to Nate, but he ignored its ranting.
“Which of your sons killed you?” he asked. Probably best to be prepared. And to avoid being alone with that particular son.
“The eldest, Zeb.”
“How many children did you have?”
“Seven. Three sons and four daughters. A more useless lot you’d be hard-pressed to find.”
Nate nodded absently. It was a common number; seven was lucky for parents. He glanced at the ghost. Well, most parents. “Why do you want them to find your body? You don’t even seem to like them.”
“Because it’s not right that the head of the family lie out in the desert, left to rot. I want the proper gravestone that’s due to me.”
Nate let out a breath, trying not to regret his decision. He was beginning to think he might not be welcomed by any of the family still here. The ghost was a cantankerous old bugger who had probably deserved to be sent off to the next life. “What’s your name?”
“Seamus Flinty. I ran this place with my ungrateful children. It was the most prosperous farm in the region.” The ghost swept an arm across the view in front of them. “Now look at it,” he said with disgust.
Nate blinked, and suddenly the farmyard changed. The stable had holes in the boards that had never been filled, the veranda looked rotten, and there were only three thin cows in the field beyond. Everything was plunged into disrepair and neglect.
“How did you do that?” said Nate, his gaze flicking around the new scene. He’d never seen magic like this before. The ghost was more powerful than he’d realized.
“They’ve let my legacy go. The lot of them. What you saw as we walked up? That’s what it used to look like when I was alive. That’s my memory of the place. They’ve destroyed it.” He spat into the dirt beside him in disgust.
Gazing around at the farm that was before him now, Nate could only agree. It looked like they hadn’t done a lick of repair work in years.
“There’s only one good one among them, my little granddaughter, Lily.” The ghost’s eyes softened. “She could do it. She could bring this farm back from the grave.” He glanced at Nate. “She’s there now. Come home to visit her mother.”
“How old is this granddaughter?” Nate asked suspiciously. “Did you meet her while you were living?”
“She’s in her third decade. Smart girl. She’s only heard stories about me from her da and her uncles; she was born a few years after I was murdered. But I’ve watched her grow, at least from the time I was able to pass beyond where my body lies.”
Nate didn’t speak for a moment. The ghost was one of the oldest he’d ever encountered. Usually they disintegrated after a while, each year taking a little more of their substance and their sanity. Plus Seamus had figured out how to move away from his body, which was something he’d never seen before. “I’m surprised that you managed to travel so far,” he said.
The old ghost shrugged. “Nothing a bit of determination can’t achieve. It took me a long time, but I did it in the end.” The steel in his voice was obvious.
Nate stared at the ghost in front of him. The old man hadn’t just accepted his fate; he’d fought with everything he had against the usual physical bounds. And he’d won.
Walking slowly to the rotting front porch, Nate climbed the stairs and sat down on an old wooden bench seat. It creaked under his weight, and the whole structure shifted as if it was about to collapse. But it held, and he leaned back, closing his eyes. His stomach rumbled and he put one hand across it, trying to still the sound. He hoped they would at least offer him some food before they kicked him out.
An hour later, as the sun was glowing over the edges of the landscape, Nate heard someone moving around inside. He waited for another few minutes and then stood. He may as well get this over with. He wanted to be on his way as soon as possible. Argus was probably awake and hunting for him by now. The thought of being tied up again and stuck to the horse for another day made his hand clench. He wouldn’t go back to that, not for anything.
Knocking on the door, Nate shifted from foot to foot. Confrontations like this never went well. He might have a bit of leverage based on his mage tattoo—people always believed mages could do more than they actually could—but it would be a difficult sell to have them believe he knew where their father’s body was to be found.
An older woman answered the door, her lined, weathered face marking her years. She wore practical working clothes and a stony expression on her face. “Yes?”
“I... uh... I’m here about Seamus Flinty?”
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The woman stared. “I haven’t heard that name in a long time.”
“Are you related to him?” Nate wasn’t sure what to say, now that he actually had someone to talk to. This woman was older than the thirty years Seamus had given his granddaughter.
“I’m his daughter, Grace.”
Nate glanced around to where the ghost was hovering on the veranda. The old man made forward motions with his hands. “Can I... uh... come in? I have something you might want to hear about your uh… father.”
Grace hesitated in the doorframe, glancing behind Nate and then at the black raven tattoo on his face.
“I promise you have nothing to fear from me.”
She sighed. “It’s not like you couldn’t force your way in here if you wanted to anyway,” she muttered, and held the door open wider, gesturing with her other arm for him to come inside.
Nate followed her into the kitchen area. He was immediately struck by how warm and cozy it was inside the room. It was basic, but well maintained.
Nate hesitated. “Is your daughter here?”
Grace raised her eyebrows. “What makes you think I have a daughter?”
Nate glanced over at Seamus, who nodded. “She’s here, all right, still upstairs. Grace is tryin’ to protect her.”
“I think you should call her down. I have something to tell you both. About Seamus.”
Grace stared at Nate with a hard expression for a moment, then blew out an exasperated breath. “Fine.” She walked to the stairwell, and called up. “Lily. Get yourself down here. There’s someone who wants to talk to us.”
As they waited for Lily, Nate looked around the room. There were photos all over the walls, most with group photos of people, from young children to older grandparents. “Where are the rest of your family?” he asked.
“They left.” Her face hardened, and her lips narrowed as if she was holding part of the story back.