The Girl from the North (Pathway of the Chosen Book 1)

by Cat Bruno

  Stunned by the man’s words, again, he merely nodded and hoped the man could see the movement from where he stood, with a shroud of darkness around him that clouded him from Pietro’s eyes.

  “Yes, I thought so. Well, what would you say if I told you that the newly appointed apprentice has some secrets she has kept very well hidden? What if I told you that I know those secrets, and, if you do as I say, that you will soon know those secrets too? Interested?”

  Swallowing hard, Pietro replied, his words thick and low, “Yes. But how can I trust you when you won’t even show yourself?”

  Again, the man laughed, and, as his footsteps echoed nearer to where Pietro stood, he called out, “Then I will bring my information elsewhere.”

  “No, wait! I need the information. What do you want from me in exchange?”

  “You think that I could want anything from you? Or need anything from you? No, there is nothing that you could offer me. Not yet. The girl, though, she is interesting. And from Eirrannia, where some say the Dark Arts were born. Does the girl seem unusual? Does she spend much time on her own or in the great library that is here? There are many ways to learn the Dark Arts, boy, and I’ve heard of a few books that promise just that. Is much known about the girl? Is she as true as she claims to be? Find out about this girl for me, Navarro. That is all I require from you.”

  “I will be back for your answers,” the man seemed to sing, the voice soft and distant.

  Before he could question the man further, the shadowy darkness lifted and the man had disappeared altogether.

  *****

  Bronwen was lying on her side with her eyes closed, although she did not sleep. Her hands shook when she tried to examine her injuries, but she knew that she had to try to stand up. She lay motionless with her thighs scraped and burning and her womanhood tender and throbbing. The bleeding had stopped there, but the gash on her cheek was still dripping and burning.

  She knew that she needed to get back to her room and clean her wounds, and shuddered as she remembered how filthy the man had been. Her body convulsed and heaved, but her stomach was empty and had nothing left to expel. Instead, she just coughed and panted, breathing the salty air as it stung her raw skin, unforgiving and harsh.

  The moon shined above, a slight, bright crack in an otherwise black sky. Bronwen looked at her fingers, sticky with sand and blood, but reached for her clothing anyway. She wiped blood and dirt covered fingers on her pants, and took a few more sips of water, this time swallowing. Her throat still burned, and the water tasted metallic, as if she were drinking from a rusty pail, but she swallowed all the same.

  Next, she sat up, slowly, and reached for the shredded robe that had been ripped from her. A large tear ran down the center of it, and she wondered how she would be able to make her way back to her rooms with it on. Her pants had been intact, but darkened with sand and blood, and, even in the blackness around her, she knew they were ruined as well. Cringing as she placed the robe over her bloodied body, she breathed heavily and looked toward the water. The man had disappeared while she lay unconscious, Bronwen realized.

  Thinking of Conri, she suddenly began to sob, angry that she still had no way of finding him. All that time wasted in the catacombs reading manuscripts has done nothing, and, now, when I have actual need of him, he is nowhere!

  She needed him and hated herself for it.

  Sitting alone, with her feet tucked under her and her head hanging low, Bronwen wept, dirty red tears trailing down her face. Never before had she felt so weak and alone. She forgot that she was Master Apprentice, forgot that she was a child of the North, forgot, too, that she had been named Kingmaker. She forgot all but the musty and sour smell of the man who had attacked her. And feared that she would never be able to wash the smell of him from her body.

  When the sky started lightening and the tide crept closer to where she still sat, Bronwen pushed herself to her knees. After a few deep breaths, she rose. Her legs were stiff and sore, but Bronwen hobbled toward the sea. With her sandals and robe stuck to her body, she staggered into the water, deeper and deeper until only her head remained visible. Closing her eyes, Bronwen sunk down and bent her head backward as the thickening waves crested around her.

  Again and again the waves came, and the water poured over her. With a weary mind and an exhausted body, Bronwen climbed out of the sea. She combed her hair away from her face with swollen fingers and looked toward the blanket. Shuddering, she walked toward the trail that she had walked down many hours before, leaving her belongings where they lay.

  The light grew as she walked, but Bronwen did not notice the rising sun. Feeling little, she kept her gaze on her feet and stumbled back to her rooms.

  *****

  Thanking the gods, Bronwen sighed in relief as she fell into her door, grateful that none had seen her. Raising a shaking arm, she pushed open the door and slowly entered her room. With half-open eyes, she stripped the wet clothing from her body, letting it fall to the floor, and collapsed onto her bed.

  The salty seawater had cleansed the blood from her thighs, face, and hands, but Bronwen still needed to tend to her injuries properly. After several long moments and with effort, she rose from the bed and walked toward her desk, naked and shivering. She gently sat down on the hard chair and lit several candles to lighten the still-dark room, then reached for a small piece of reflecting glass.

  Bronwen braced herself for what she would find when she looked into the mirror, yet still she gasped at her reflection.

  The left side of her face was swollen and already turning from red to purple. The gash under her left eye was nearly as long as her little finger, and it appeared to be deeper than she had originally thought. Bronwen gently pressed on her cheek, noting that it was sore but the bone had not been cracked. The right side of her face had a few bruises, but nothing serious and nothing that would scar.

  When she placed the reflecting glass on the desk and raised her chin to get a clear look at her neck, she stopped breathing, as if frozen. Then, she grabbed the glass to look closer. Her vision clouded and her hands trembled, and the mirror fell to the floor, slipping from shaking fingers, shattering as shards of metal scattered.

  She could very clearly make out the impression of two large shapes. Swollen, purple blots that wrapped around her throat. In the early morning light, the shapes looked like bloated, black hands.

  Bronwen’s heart fluttered, and, crying anew, she cradled her face in her hands, weeping with fury.

  14

  As Kennet walked from his room to the library, he thought about Bronwen and how troubled she seemed of late. Despite his efforts, she was still focused on learning all that she could about the Tribe. While he cautioned her against becoming further entangled in her search for information, Kennet himself renewed his own attention to the Tribe, yet kept most of what he found from her. He felt guilty for doing so, but had decided it was better to wait until he had an explanation for Conri’s interest in her, and, then, he would share what he had learned.

  Within moments, Kennet found himself a few steps away from Bronwen’s room, and, having not seen her for a few days, he paused. Before he could change his mind, he knocked on the door.

  After a few moments, he called out, “Bee, are you in there?”

  Kennet turned to leave, but heard a loud crashing sound behind the door, as if something had been thrown.

  Growing concerned, he called out, louder, “Bronwen! Are you okay?”

  When there was still no response, Kennet yelled, “Open the door!”

  Kennet continued to bang his fist on the door, an uneasy feeling overtaking him. As his knuckles reddened from his pounding, he finally heard her voice, yet her words were mumbled and lost.

  As he leaned into the door, it creaked, opening slightly. Bronwen murmured, in a voice that he had to strain to her, “I’m not feeling well. Can you stop by the clinic for me and let Master Ammon know that I won’t be able to come?”

  “You sound awful.
Is there anything I can get for you? Maybe some honey or fresh juice?”

  “I will be fine after a few days,” she said, barely loud enough for him to hear.

  Bronwen looked around her room and noticed how little she had in the way of food, and her stomach rumbled in reply. It had been nearly two days since she had arrived back at her rooms from the beach, and she had eaten little since.

  For the first day, she had barely risen from her bed and walking was almost too painful to bear. While her throat was still swollen and raw, Bronwen had forced herself to swallow as much water as she could, and, looking toward her desk, she realized that she was on her last cask. She needed something to eat, and, more, she needed fresh water. Yet, she could not leave her rooms knowing that she looked beaten, even though she had tended her injuries. If anyone were to see her, she would be forced to come up with an explanation for what had happened, and it seemed easier and safer to remain in her room until her bruises faded and the swelling subsided.

  It hurt to talk, yet she whispered, “My throat is aching something fierce, yet I’m too weak to leave my rooms. Could you bring me some water and soup and anything else that you think of?”

  “Okay, I will see what I can do. I’ll hurry back,” Kennet answered, still uneasy.

  He rushed off, happy to be able to help Bronwen, but certain that she was hiding something from him. Again.

  *****

  First, he quickly made his way through town to the clinic. Although he hadn’t found Master Ammon, Kennet gave Bronwen’s message to one of the senior healers, a tall, light-haired woman that he did not know. Then he walked across the wide, pebble street to the nearest bakery and grabbed a few honeycakes for Bronwen. When he left the bakery, he noticed Pietro walking in the direction of the clinic, but the Rexterran looked too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice anyone else, and Kennet walked along a few fruit stalls without Pietro seeing him. After finding what else Bronwen had asked for, he hurried back to her rooms, suddenly realizing that she had never fully opened the door. He quickened his step at the thought.

  When he got back, he knocked heavily on her door, and called, “Bronwen, it’s me. Open the door.”

  Hoarsely, she answered, “Just leave the food. I don’t want to get you sick, Kennet.”

  Her voice sounded unusual, husky and thick, but her words were hesitant, as if they were not fully true.

  Still troubled, he paused before placing the bundle of food outside her door, making as much noise as he could. After everything was arranged, he hid beside the exterior wall of Bronwen’s room, and waited, not really knowing what he was hoping to find, nor what he would do next. But when Bronwen opened the door and stepped out into the evening light, moving gingerly, Kennet watched.

  The medium-sized, densely leafed juniper tree that dominated the area in front of Bronwen’s home cast its shadow across her figure as she bent down to collect the food. Kennet noticed that she was not wearing her robes. Instead, she wore an ill-fitting, unbleached cotton shift that overwhelmed her narrow frame. Her hair was hanging freely down her back and looked unbrushed, but it was her face that held his gaze.

  As Bronwen stood up, the sunlight struck her, casting her in an unworldly halo and temporarily blinded him. When he recovered, Bronwen was juggling the items while trying to shut her door, and he rushed over, just behind her, grabbing the door before it could close. He entered after her and gently closed the door behind him.

  For the first time all morning, he glimpsed Bronwen in full light and fell back against the door, thankful that it was there to support him, as his legs had suddenly buckled underneath him.

  “What in the hells happened to you?” he gasped.

  “I wish you would have listened to me, Kenny,” Bronwen whimpered.

  For a brief instance, Kennet wanted just that, to leave without any further involvement in Bronwen’s life. He had no doubt from whom her injuries had come, and he had tried to warn her to stay away from the Wolf leader, but it was clear that she had not listened. Now, Kennet knew not what to do, nor what to say, so he stood mouth hanging open and eyes wide.

  “What did he do to you?” he asked in a high-pitched voice, the simple words he spoke cracking and splintering around the room.

  Bronwen knew it was too late, but, still, she did not want to tell Kennet, or anyone else, what had occurred on the beach. Busying herself so she would not have to explain her condition, Bronwen placed the tray and the bags of food on her desk, slowly opening the canvas bag from the bakery. She could smell the honey before she even realized what Kennet had brought and quickly tore a corner off the large sweet loaf and chewed gently, delaying swallowing for fear that it would be too painful.

  Kennet, having regained his strength, walked up beside her, close enough to see the gash under her eye. It wasn’t the laceration that had him concerned, even though her eye looked serious. Even though he was no longer training in the healing arts, he knew it would heal, scar maybe, but heal nonetheless.

  When his eyes dropped further, he gasped uncontrollably.

  “Have you taken a look at yourself? Do you see what he has done to you? You are lucky to be alive!” he sputtered, staring at her blackened neck.

  Even though she was tired and sore, Bronwen understood his words.

  She laughed, a harsh, bitter sound, and, when she spoke, her raspy words were almost unrecognizable.

  “You’re such a fool sometimes, Kennet. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Conri would never have done such a thing to me.”

  Shocked that she could defend the man who had tried to kill her, he let his next words explode from his trembling lips.

  “Then explain it to me, Bronwen! Tell me why you have a massive gash under your eye that needs to be stitched and terrible bruising all over your neck! It looks pretty clear to me what has happened!”

  Bronwen hated arguing with Kennet, and, until recently, the two very rarely disagreed. Now, she wanted nothing more than for him to leave, wishing that he had never come at all.

  “It isn’t what it looks like.”

  “Oh really. Perhaps I should just go find Master Rova and bring him here! We can let him decide!”

  Bronwen paled, and pleaded, “Kenny, if you care for me at all, you will keep this our secret. No one else can know. No one can see me like this, especially the Masters.”

  “You are fond of secrets of late, Bronwen. What is going on with you? Give me a reason why I shouldn’t go straight to Rova.”

  And now he decides to stop being the mouse, thought Bronwen. It seemed that lately her whole world had shifted, and she was lost, confused, and wandering alone through the darkness, with a throbbing head and an aching body. She crossed the room and lay on her bed, hoping that Kennet would be gone when she opened her eyes. She had to think of something to say, to convince him that Conri was not involved. But, still, she was reluctant to share the truth with him.

  “Can’t you just trust me? Conri did not do this to me. Why would I lie about that?” she called.

  Kennet countered, “You would lie because you have feelings for him, Bronwen. You would lie because you know his true nature, but wish he were otherwise. You cannot change him. He is his father’s son. He is not like us. The only thing that surprises me is that he did not kill you, which he could have easily done.”

  Emotions rising, Bronwen cried, “He could have let me die years ago! He has had many chances to kill me since, yet has never harmed me. Never! He may be his father’s son, but that is not all he is.”

  “Bronwen, you cannot believe that he has any light in him! There is a reason why his kind is hated and feared. That hatred and fear are justified! Have you ever asked him how many deaths he is responsible for in the course of his life? The number, even if he couldn’t give you an exact answer, would stagger you. Listen to me! He is not who you think he is.”

  “Kenny, leave me alone. Just go and forget you were ever here.”

  Trying to calm himself, Kennet tried
a different approach, which he had been forced to use more often with his old friend.

  “Bronwen, the Tribe is nothing like us. They live, breathe, and exist in a way that is opposite to the way we do. While it would take you and I days to reach Rexterra, they can be there before the sun changes position in the sky. What feeds us all day, they need to eat in one meal. Their hunger for all things is far, far superior to ours. Food, death, power. They take and take, yet are never satisfied. They live in the dark, but crave the light, the bosom of their mother. But they are not us, Bronwen. He will destroy you if you let him.”

  “You don’t understand, Kenny.”

  Sitting up on her cot, she continued softly, “It was not Conri who did this to me. It was not Conri that wrapped his filthy hands around my neck. It was not he who squeezed until I stopped struggling. It was not he who tore my clothes from my trembling body. It was not he who raped me as I hovered between light and dark.”

  “It was not Conri, I swear,” Bronwen sobbed, the words pouring from her, kin to the tears falling heavily down her bruised cheeks.

  She rolled on her stomach, coughing, and hid her face from Kennet.

  Unsure what to do and confused by what Bronwen had just said, Kennet sat on the edge of her cot, then said, “Let me help you. Tell me what happened. Are you sure that you don’t want me to fetch Master Rova? I think your eye needs to be stitched.”

  Between sobs, she whispered, “No one else can know. Please, Kenny, allow me that much at least. My cheek looks worse than it really is. I would have stitched it myself if that was what was needed. My throat, oh gods, hurts so much. I feel like I can’t breathe at times. Did you bring me any soup?”

  Kennet retrieved the soup from where Bronwen had placed it earlier and was pleased that it was still warm. He offered it to her and waited while she sipped the broth. After a few sips, she seemed calmer and had stopped crying.

  “I was on the beach, by myself like I often am, when a man came up to me. He said his name was Byron, but who knows if he was telling the truth. He reeked of sweat and ale, but I tried to be polite, even though there was something about him that I did not like. I don’t know, maybe I said something wrong, offended him in some way, but soon I realized that I needed to get home, no longer wanting to be alone with him. While I gathered up my stuff, he pushed me down.”