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

by Cat Bruno

Lord Crispin, heir to the Rexterran throne, had been arguing with his brother earlier in the day regarding their father’s health. Delwin wanted their father to stop all treatment and had even suggested that it might soon be time for him to abdicate the throne, while Crispin felt strongly that their father could recover with the right healer. He was not ready for his father to give up the throne, even if it meant that he would be named King of Rexterra. His whole life had been in preparation for assuming the kingship, and, when it was the right time, he would gladly take the throne. But, not yet, not when more could be done to help his father. If Delwin wasn’t willing to assist their father when he most needed it, then Crispin would do it himself.

  His brother only saw their father as a symbol of Rexterra’s troubles, a figurehead to blame, not realizing, regardless of how many times Crispin had tried to explain it, that the large scale of building that the king was supporting would eventually pay itself back, refilling the royal coffers with gold raised through increased taxation. But Delwin believed that the solution could be found in Rexterra’s powerful and well-trained army, returning to the times of the legends when the Royal Army controlled not only Cordisia, but other areas as well. The two brothers could never agree, and the thought worried Crispin, as he wondered what would happen between them if their father did not survive his illness.

  Up ahead of him, Crispin watched as the king’s personal guards slowly lowered his litter to the ground, carrying the king toward a richly-wrought iron chair topped with piles of colorful cushions. Once his father was settled amid the vibrant jewel-toned pillows, Crispin approached him. The guards stepped back to allow the King’s Heir to proceed.

  His father held a book in his lap, an ancient text, the gold lettering on the outside cover too faded to decipher, and the spine tattered and fraying. Crispin felt as worn and damaged as the book as the sun peeked out through the morning clouds, casting a soft, yellow haze on the quiet courtyard. He had not found time to sleep yet, as he had spent the hours following the evening meal locked in discussion with his brother and had hurried to find their father once he spied the procession making its way across the yard.

  As he neared, Crispin called out in a strong, clear voice, “Good morning, Father. You have risen as early as the sun, which I hope doesn’t mean that you had a fitful night. Can I send for your breakfast?”

  The rheumy-eyed king sat atop his pillows, leaning slightly to the left and resting his splotchy arms in the fine linen of his lap. A red, lacy rash chased up and down his arms, visible where the soft, white cotton shirt folded back onto itself. The king’s eyes were cloudy, the grayish blue irises hidden behind a murky covering. Crispin had recently asked his father if his vision was worsening, but King Herrin had answered that, despite how they looked, his eyes were still functioning normally.

  Over the last several moon years, the king had suffered, unusual for one of royal blood. Often he recovered, yet occasionally the illness would leave its mark upon his body. Across his forehead and cheeks appeared pox-like scars, marring what once had been an attractive, strong face.

  Crispin knew that under his father’s shirt a scar the size of a man’s lower arm lay atop his heart, remnants of being sliced open by a healer who had attempted to remove a piece of mage-fired steel that had broken off into him during his service with the Royal Army. The healer, who had spent years studying across the Salted Sea, had returned to Rexterra after a royal decree had been issued proclaiming a need for a new team of royal healers. After a complex examination of the king’s body and a lengthy interview with him regarding his past injuries, the healer had decided that the steel was poisoning the king, and, to survive, the poison would have to be removed from his body.

  Crispin had been traveling at the time, inspecting the King’s Road, at its northern border with Planusia, or he would have fully objected to such a dangerous approach. Delwin had been with his father, and so it had been done, with the healer removing a small, fingernail-sized bit of mage-steel from the king’s chest.

  King Herrin’s recovery had been difficult, confined to his beds until his chest started to scar over and the risk of infection decreased. When Crispin had arrived back at the castle, his steward told him of his father’s condition and his brother’s role in it. Crispin had been angry enough to want to harm his brother and had thought about it for a few violent moments until his steward, Talbot, a calm, rational man, convinced him of his folly. The killing of one’s own family, especially royal-blooded, was a crime unparalleled in Rexterra and punished in kind. But, after that, Crispin no longer trusted his brother and tried to avoid leaving the King’s City altogether, which had only further infuriated Delwin.

  Watching his father now, Crispin could scarcely believe that he still lived. Perhaps it would be a mercy for the gods to take him, he thought briefly, before banishing the traitorous idea from his mind, angry that his brother’s words had affected him, spreading like poison through his body.

  Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Crispin addressed his father, “Have you broken your fast yet, Father? The oranges are ripening quite nicely right now, and I would love some freshly squeezed juice. Should I send Tomaso to bring us a tray from the kitchens?”

  The aged king looked at his son with cloudy eyes, staring at him for quite a few moments before answering, “Ah, Crispin, you are such a dear boy. And one day you will make a fine king. Yet, you still haven’t been able to find a healer worth a damn, have you? Watch here,” the king said as he held out his thin, wrinkled hand with blue veins bulging beneath the skin, for Crispin to inspect, “do you see how I shake? I can’t even control my own hand! I wonder how much longer it will be before I can no longer control my own mind. Is that what you came here to see?”

  King Herrin had collapsed his hands into his waiting lap after using them to make his point to Crispin. His skin, once dark and tan, had been bleached in his illness, whitening his skin to an unnatural shade. Yet his animated rebuff of his son had energized him a bit, and ugly blotches of red peppered across his face. It had been this way with his father of late, with the king alternating between weakness and bitterness, lashing out in anger at times or sleeping for more hours than even a babe.

  Crispin noticed that his father’s men were looking out the corners of their eyes at him, trying hard not to be noticed as they listened to the argument between father and son. Tomaso, a Southern Rexterran who had long served his father, seemed to be the only one among the King’s Guard who stood unruffled by the king’s outburst, his face showing no hint of emotion.

  Crispin called out, ignoring his father’s words, “Tomaso, find a serving girl to bring my father some boiled eggs and warmed bread. Have her bring it here. And the rest of you, if you wouldn’t mind, my father and I will require some privacy once we have eaten. See to it that we are not interrupted.”

  The men looked to King Herrin and, when he did not object, set about finding new positions in the courtyard that were out of earshot, yet close enough to intervene if needed. All those who surrounded the king were loyal and silent to prevent word of the king’s condition from spreading, which was his brother’s idea, yet one with which Crispin agreed, knowing that Rexterra did not need any additional turmoil.

  Lord Crispin looked at his father once again, gently this time despite his harsh words, and feared anew what would happen if his father died.

  For a moment, Crispin envied his cousin Willem, the one man whom he always trusted, yet his father had exiled him long ago to appease his brother. At least Willem is far removed from the politics and feuding that I have become swallowed by, Crispin thought. Perhaps I should have abdicated the throne when I had the chance. Perhaps I would still be with my love instead of battling with both my brother and now my father. Exile might be a mercy compared to what I am facing and what might come next.

  24

  Across Tretoria, the sun was rising, spreading an orange glow upon the large palm fronds that waved in the morning breeze. Shades of blues, greens, an
d sun-bleached whites dotted Kennet’s vision as he looked out his tower window toward town. He crinkled his forehead and massaged his temples, trying to lessen the ache across the front of his head, no doubt caused by all the ale that he had consumed the night before with Pietro.

  The sun seemed to be shining too brightly this morning, burning through the morning haze and pouring into the long windows that fanned around Kennet’s office. As he continued to gaze out the window that faced the center of town where he had spent most of the evening, he felt nearly blinded by the reflecting rays of light upon the gleaming white buildings that lined the Litusian streets. From his viewpoint high in the library’s tower wing, Kennet enjoyed surveying the town, unable to identify individual buildings from so far removed, yet appreciating the town’s original builders for their precision in erecting the early homes and shops that founded Litusia. The buildings were all aligned in straight rows, the streets neatly maintained as they all flowed into the central square, which had been left untouched. Each morning--and Kennet assumed today would be no different--farmers, clothing merchants, jewelers, winemakers, barbers, leather workers, even traders from lands that Kennet had only read about, would set up stalls to sell their wares.

  And while Litusia was not nearly as large as the King’s City to the east or Dinnaan to the north, it had the benefit of being a coastal town with a well-developed port. Traders from many directions would often arrive with their boats loaded with mysterious items, tiny ivory figurines in the shape of unknown gods, colorful spices, luscious fragrances, finely woven baskets, and much more.

  Once a moon or so, the market would be crowded with various foreigners sparring for stall space with local farmers selling seasonable fruits and vegetables, breads and meats, baskets and fabric. Suddenly, he remembered Pietro mentioning an afternoon picnic with Shanna and Talia. Panicked by the idea and unable to recall if he had promised to join them, Kennet turned from the window.

  “I’m never going out drinking with Pietro again,” he mumbled as he crossed the room, no longer able to bear the bright morning, moaning with each step, as if his head was too heavy for his neck to hold.

  Kennet sat down at his desk and attempted to read over a new manuscript that needed to be translated and transcribed before it was returned to Rexterra. As he stared at the scrolling words on the thick paper, the black ink began swirling together, the writing unreadable and blurred. Within moments, Kennet gave up, found a blanket he must have placed on the floor the previous night, and curled upon it with his back toward the windows. He doubted very much that he would be able to fall asleep in the sun-touched room, but before long, he was dozing on the wool blanket thrown atop the stone floor.

  *****

  Bronwen rolled to her left, taking a soft sheet with her and wrapping it around her body, and continued to roll until she came upon a solid object blocking her path. With her eyes still closed, she reached out with stiff fingers to feel Master Ammon still asleep beside her.

  Quickly, but as softly as she could manage, Bronwen rolled away until she nearly fell out of the massive bed, and then she waited, in thought, on the edge. She felt dizzy, from the wine or the conversation, she was no longer certain. Bronwen listened to Willem as he lay still beside her and heard his gentle breath enter and exit his body as it whistled softly through his lips. As she listened, her back still toward him, Bronwen suddenly remembered what she had asked him shortly before she collapsed into sleep. After another moment, she could hear his reply echoing in her fuzzy head.

  Yet, with the new sun rising, Bronwen was no longer as certain that finding Conri was what she wanted. But when she remembered why she needed him, what she wanted from him, even the golden rays of the morning sun couldn’t lighten the darkness that invaded her thoughts. She hoped that Conri would be able to help rid her of that darkness and rid her of the man who had created it.

  Do no harm, she reflected, knowing that she was risking all she had gained. Not this once, she cried silently, even as she knew it to go against all that she had been taught.

  Conri had no such oath.

  Bronwen’s stomach rumbled, cramping and tightening, and her throat burned. When her mouth began to water, Bronwen raced to the privy room, tripping over the plush pillows that littered the floor, remnants of the previous night.

  Once inside the spacious room, Bronwen crumpled to the floor, naked and spinning. Her stomach heaved and, half-blindly, she fumbled for a large clay jar she had noticed earlier, relieved when her fingers graced the edge. Then she dragged it by its smooth handle until it was near enough to remove the lid, all the while her stomach churning. As soon as the lid was off, Bronwen threw her head over the jar, vomiting up the contents of her stomach. Over and over she convulsed, spittle dripping down her chin, her hair dull and matted across her face, dampened with sweat and bile.

  After several spasms wracked her body, Bronwen leaned back, her cheek resting on the cool stone tiles, her body limp and exhausted, wrecked and beaten over the last half-moon. The drugged wine had been too much for her already aching body and now it sought to expel all that she drank. Bronwen raised her fingers to her cheek to brush away the tears that were pooling there before splattering on the stones, adding a gloss to the tiles. Weak and weary as she was, Bronwen did not hear when Lord Willem entered the privy. When he sat down beside her, she did not argue.

  He gently placed her head in his lap and started washing her face with a warm, wet towel, and still she wept.

  Bronwen wanted to crawl home, curl up in her tattered bed, and forget what had occurred, not the previous night, but the last half-moon. Her thoughts stopped when she felt Willem slowly back away from her and rise. When he stood above her, she could not look up and closed her eyes, weak still, but ashamed to be seen so.

  Quietly, he said, “Bronwen, will you excuse me for a few moments? I will start a fire in the water heater for a bath.”

  With puffy red eyes, she watched as he walked a few steps to where a large, black pot hung over a small, brick fire pit and grabbed a tinderbox that lie on a dark stone mantle. Striking a stick, he held it into the pit until until a small flame burned underneath the pot, smoke rising and exiting out a slightly opened window just above.

  “There is already water in the pot, so when you are ready and the water is comfortable, just tip the pot forward and the hot water will pour into the tub. This lever here will fill the tub with cool water, a rather wonderful invention I must admit, a gift from a Rexterran builder I met at the port many moon years ago. I will give you some privacy and return later with food.”

  Before Bronwen could object, Willem was closing the privy door behind him, his footsteps detailing his trail down the long corridor outside his sleeping chambers. She was alone, with only the sound of splashing water as companion.

  Deciding that a hot bath, a luxury she knew not when she had last enjoyed, and a rinse for her dirtied hair were just what she needed, Bronwen carefully rose from the floor and crossed to the large soaking tub that sat beneath a series of three windows. With no worries of being seen, Bronwen rose.

  As she twisted the knob, cool, clear water rushed from a bronze faucet built into the side of the wall, and Bronwen had to hurry to close the drain before too much water could escape. By now, the fire in the hearth was strong, and Bronwen heard the water bubbling, so she glided the pot to its side, letting the water flow into the tub. On a small shelf, Bronwen found bottles of ointments and lotions, uncapping them and breathing in their scents, finally selecting a jar of salts with a delicate floral fragrance, gardenias, she thought, the scent delicate and gentle.

  After she mixed the boiling water from the hearth with the water from the pipe, Bronwen poured the salts into the still hot water. The scent that greeted her reminded her of the perfumed air of the herb gardens in bloom, and she slowly lowered herself into the water, laying her head back onto the edge of the fine marble that surrounded it. With closed her eyes, she tried to think of nothing but the gardens. When she c
ouldn’t quite forget everything, Bronwen dipped her hair under the steaming water.

  When she had worked another small bottle of scented soap through her hair, letting the bubbles linger there, Bronwen set about scouring her arms, legs, and chest, and when that too was complete, she lay back once again. She had gone from bleeding herself at the clinic to here, naked and oiled in a massive bath in the home of her once-mentor Master Ammon. In half a moon, she had felt as if she had aged ten moon years or more.

  As the water cooled, she roused herself and rinsed the soap from her hair, running fingers through the long waves to free the tangles. Climbing out of the tub, she pulled at the chained plug, listening as the water hummed from the tub. Willem had placed a bathing towel beside the hearth, and Bronwen slowly walked toward it, dripping scented water in her wake before wrapping herself in the large, soft cotton.

  Once dry, she realized that her dress, the one from Sheva, was nowhere to be seen, nor could she remember where it had last been. With the long, fine towel snugly draped around her body, Bronwen tiptoed back into Willem’s room, now brightly lit with sunlight filtering through the thinly curtained windows, suggesting that she had been in the rub for an hour or more.

  The bed was still unkempt, pillows tossed aside, blankets askew, the wine glasses the two had been using shattered on the floor. For a moment, she was taken by how much the room looked like two lovers had just departed. The thought made her blush from the edges of her damp hair to her dripping feet.

  She searched for her dress, picking up and discarding items as she did so, but suddenly stopped when she noticed stains dotting the bottom sheet of Willem’s bed. Upon inspection, Bronwen discovered that the dark-purple splotches near the edge were spilled wine, but the dark-burgundy ones that smeared the blankets where she had been sleeping could be nothing but blood. Bronwen recognized the blood stains easily, being well familiar with the appearance of dried blood on bleached blankets. Another reminder of the herbs that she had taken, she knew.