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

by Cat Bruno

Impatiently, he said, “Take me to them.”

  For the next few hours, he and Dantano, he had since remembered his name, searched through hundreds of books. More than once, the boy whispered that he should report back to Master Tywinne, but Pietro insisted that he stay and help him on his search, promising to speak with Tywinne himself if necessary. After glancing through several manuscripts, which were more often than not filled with useless information, Dantano handed him a thick, leather-bound book entitled, The Warrior-Mage, which caused Pietro to raise his eyebrows at the boy,

  Hissing through clenched teeth, “Why are you wasting my time with this? I know about the warrior-mages, and he is most definitely not one of them! He is nothing but skin and bones.”

  Dantano replied, not daring to look Pietro in the eyes, “Sir, did you not say his name was Aldric? That is a most unusual name. Agerian, I think. Hand me the book, and I will show you what I found.”

  Sighing loudly, Pietro handed over the book to the boy, “Hurry up with it then.”

  Thinking of the Tribesman and not knowing when he would return, Pietro ran his hands through his hair, tense and ill at ease. Dantano gently, and slowly, turned the thick pages of the book until Pietro wanted to rip the book from his hands.

  Finally, the boy exclaimed, “Here! Yes, see, here, this passage makes mention of a man named Aldric, and how the warrior-mages were forced to destroy what he had created.” Pointing slender fingers near the bottom of a page, the boy said, “Again his name is mentioned, and how he was tempted by the Dark Arts, and how he gave into those temptations, until the warrior-mages banished him from the castle. I remember his story now. I heard it as a child from my nana.”

  Pietro grabbed the book from him, no longer able to restrain himself from reacting, especially after he heard what Dantano was reading. The boy stumbled back as he let go of the book, righting himself and standing beside Pietro, again pointing to the page from where he had been reading. As Pietro read, a fluttering sensation expanded over his chest as a tiny flame of power ignited.

  Aldric is a Dark Mage and has been expelled from the Mage-Guild. What need does Kennet have for such a man and why would he seek him out, knowing his uncle’s history?

  Jumping back from the book shelf and nearly knocking Dantano over again, Pietro held the book to his chest, yelling over his shoulder, “Thanks for your help, boy! If you ever need anything, ask for Pietro de Navarro!”

  Clutching the book, he ran down the light marble steps, laughing at the new development that had just landed in his lap.

  41

  The light outside her window had only just darkened, but Bronwen was exhausted, and, anticipating that she might not get much sleep the next evening, she mixed herself up a fairly strong elixir of herbs and blended them with a steaming cup of lavender tea. As a final touch, one that she had not used on herself before, she added a few drops of poppy milk into the tea, certain that the combination would result in a deep, undisturbed night’s rest. Soon, she could feel her eyelids growing heavy.

  She allowed her eyes to close slowly, drooping ever so slightly until they were too thick to open. Her arms were weightless and felt as if they were floating beside her, even though she could feel the hard cot beneath her fingertips. Her lips curved upward into a slight smile, and Bronwen wrapped herself in the sweet embrace of sleep, peaceful and empty.

  *****

  Aldric had left Kennet back at his office, then set about to explore the great library, impressed by its splendor and size. While he had visited many lands throughout Cordisia and beyond the seas that flanked her, he had never come upon such a vast space and collection of books, and he envied his nephew. Aldric had long believed that any knowledge acquired was a strength, and, by nature, he had always been curious and questioning.

  Once, as a child, he had discovered a system of caverns buried beneath towering pines and oaks near his home and had spent nearly all summer exploring them with his brother. He remembered the day that they had found chipped mugs and charcoal ashes, remnants of a forgotten time. Their best discovery had been when Talaric had stumbled upon some bleached bones, the skull watching them from the dirt floor of the cave, its hollow eyes inquiring about their intentions. His brother had been troubled by the skeleton, but he had been impressed, piecing the bones together like a puzzle while Talaric stood behind him in fear. When he had finished, a nearly complete set of human bones stared back at them.

  When his brother realized that Aldric was still visiting the caverns, their father was the next to know, and he had been whipped hard as punishment. The caves were no places for boys of the light, his father had said, as way of explanation for the beating.

  Soon after, both boys had been sent to Rexterra to study at the School of Magery, and the caves forgotten. Moon years later, Aldric remembered about the cavern, and, by then, it had been too late. He had long been lost from the light.

  Meeting Leorra had altered everything, he knew. Sitting amid the shelves of books, Aldric recalled their first meeting.

  He had been hired by a wealthy shipping merchant to replace all of the lanterns throughout his fleet with mage-light. The job had been easy and the pay high, requiring nothing more than a few evenings of work. On his last day, he had worked long and had been hurrying back to the guild-house. As he made his way from the piers, where venders hawked the day’s catch and others sold all sorts of goods and trinkets, he had tripped over the uneven cobblestones that paved the street, falling to his knees and tearing through the silken pants that he favored.

  Blood dripped from his knew, yet the pain was merely slight, and he jumped up from the busy street. Before he could continue on, a woman was beside him.

  In a voice as smooth as water, she had offered to clean his knee and mend his pants. Her deep, brown eyes were kind, yet wild and untamed, and her words lushly accented.

  Before he could decline her offer, she had smiled, and his words never left his lips. He said nothing, but followed as she walked toward a narrow door nestled among a block of aged and faded buildings. A metal sign, loud and rusty as it swung in a heavy wind, hung above the door. The sign was wordless but for a strange shape, little more than three interlacing circles. A chill had gone down his back, but he feared little, and entered behind the woman.

  Soon, he learned that Leorra had magic of her own, pure and untrained, yet powerful in its own way, although the Mage-Guild would not have one such as her. Wild magic, they called it, and many thought that it was based on the Dark Arts. Aldric knew differently, realizing soon after meeting her that Leorra had a truer heart the most mages in Rexterra.

  Earth magic, she had named it, calling upon the fire, water, and wind around her and taming it with her voice. He had only watched her work once, and, even then, it had been from afar, having followed her from the city to a shore north of the ports. From behind a field of tall sea grass, he had witnessed her work, although his recollection of the night was clouded and foggy, as if a veil had been raised around her. Yet, an image of her still existed, burnt into his memory. Her feet soot covered, her hands blackened with ash, her cheeks wet. From her mouth, fire had blazed.

  True flames, as if she was kin to the fabled dragons of the southern lands. Aldric had been spellbound after watching her. Within a moon year of that first night, and after many nights spent at her shop, he had decided that she should be his wife and asked her often, although she declined as many times as he asked, worried about what his association with her would do to his position in the Mage-Guild. He had not cared what others thought, knowing only that Leorra had been meant for him, despite Talaric’s warnings, for Aldric had mistakenly told his brother of the woman.

  One night had changed all for both brothers, and Leorra lay dead outside the shop, a gaping slice across her chest, and the trinket shop burning.

  Aldric could still recall how, when he arrived, he had found the shop in flames. The fire had flickered and dipped, the heat of it searing his brows and lashes. Yet not even the strengt
h of the flames could keep his from her. He had gone to visit her as he did often, but, even from a great distance, he knew what the flames were. He had known.

  Her body, unmoving, lay outside the shop, crimson splotches mixing with the purple cotton of her dress.

  As the fire burned beside him, he hurriedly picked up her body, drawing on the mage-power inside of him, and carried her to the Building of the Mages, unaware of the eyes upon him. He had run the many blocks to the side entrance of the stone building, the one that the Mage-Guild had constructed for their own uses, hoping as he ran that he would find his brother.

  After he had arrived, Aldric had placed Leorra’s body onto a cushioned bench just inside the gate, gently setting her down before he raced off again to seek help. As the gods would have it, he had found Talaric, who followed him, without Aldric having uttered a single word. When they had come to Leorra’s body, his brother had gasped, and, Aldric could recall as clearly as if it had just happened, backed away, warding himself with a protective shield and refusing to help despite his pleas.

  There were a few mages who were capable of drawing life back upon a dying body, thus restoring breath to a breathless body and healing the fatal wound, and he had long suspected Talaric to be one such mage. But his brother would not aid him, refusing to save the woman that he loved and fearful that her dark magic would try to enter him as it left her. He had screamed at his brother, pleading with what little strength he had had left, but nothing swayed Talaric to help, and his brother’s words still haunted him.

  The light has spoken and has killed our enemy. Long live the light and we in her glow.

  Talaric had chanted it until his voice had become hoarse, yet Aldric had heard little, as he attempted to revive Leorra on his own. His own skill had not been enough, despite his years of training and a skill stronger that that of Talaric. The sun had risen hours later, shining upon him in her bright glory and awakening him from a sleep he had never known that he had entered. Talaric was nowhere to be seen, and the bench where Leorra had lain was empty, stained with blood upon the yellow cushions. He had wept, sobs shaking his weakened body, the last tears he had shed.

  Despite his searches, her body had never been found. Talaric had sworn to him that, when he left the courtyard, she had still been atop the bench.

  In the following moons, Aldric had not known what to believe, hearing that her death had been a warning for her father, who owed money for gambling debts throughout the lower streets. However, he doubted those tales and had never been able to find her father to question him. Leorra’s death seemed to serve no purpose, and his search for answers had led him away from the Mage-Guild. And toward the earth magic that Leorra had mastered.

  When his own skills multiplied and took on elements that no other Guild-trained mage could do, accusations surfaced. Eventually, even Talaric had turned against him, and when Aldric would not explain how his mage skills had deepened, exile had been ordered. With that exile came further limitations, as before he had been released, the majority of his mage-craft had been mind-locked away from him. Aldric found himself without power, but with full memory.

  The rest of his life began then, and when no one else would welcome him, the earth magic did.

  42

  As he entered the main doors, Rova’s eyes took a few moments to adjust to the brightness that greeted him. When he had recovered, he set about to find Kennet, although he planned to stop off at Master Tywinne’s office first, hoping that his old friend could direct him to where he would find the young librarian.

  In a corner room off the main floor, the bearded librarian welcomed him gruffly, “Ah, Rova, how interesting to find you here. Please sit.”

  He accepted the offer, dropping his fatigued legs into a heavily cushioned chair. Tywinne was old, Rova thought, and the man had spent nearly his whole life in study. Tywinne’s knowledge seemed limitless, but he knew little of the Dark Arts and knew less about the Tribe. When Rova had first approached him about the black-ice, Tywinne had offered little, explaining that it was one area that he had chosen not to explore.

  “What can I do for you Rova?” Tywinne bellowed, his voice always louder than it seemed it should be coming from such a thin, grizzled body.

  Rova answered, softly, “I know you have said before that there is little you can tell me about the atraglacia, but perhaps you could direct me to a book or manuscript that might aid me in my search. The boy, Kennet, perhaps he would be of some assistance.”

  Tywinne laughed, his chest shaking and his beard swinging about, and answered, “Boy? He has been with me for over five moon years and knows more than me about much! You will find him on the fourth floor, in the northwest wing. Now, if you don’t mind, I must finish this translation, as the king himself has requested that I send him a copy.”

  Feeling dismissed, and he was sure that he had been, Rova rose and offered him a small nod before leaving.

  After climbing the curved staircase, he found himself on the fourth floor, staring out into the dark night sky from large windows, the moon winking at him from her corner as her children twinkled around her. He pulled his gaze from the windows when a sudden chill crossed his body, and walked to the corner of the library. On his way, he eyed a reading area with long rows of tables and chairs and shelves of leather-bound books. The library was one of the great achievements of the Academy and Rova smiled proudly as he walked.

  Lined neatly in rows, Rova read the edges of the books, titles from across the seas as he went. When he next looked up, he saw a man seated at a table, too old to be a student and yet he was no master. The library, and, too, the Academy, welcomed all, and he walked past the man, who was turning the thick pages of a manuscript.

  Just as Tywinne had mentioned, he found Kennet without delay, the boy seated behind a large, cluttered desk.

  Taking a seat across from him, and noticing the surprised look on the boy’s face, Rova said, “I have been searching for Bronwen, with no luck. Have you seen her lately or know where I can find her?”

  With a stutter, Kennet answered, “I saw her earlier today. She was at her rooms, Master.”

  Nodding, Rova continued, his words short and direct, “Master Tywinne tells me that you know nearly as much as he. What do you know of the Tribe?”

  The boy paled and said nothing.

  Rova responded, “Yes, you are wise to want to keep your knowledge safe. And I understand your need for secrecy. It would not serve to have everyone here knowing that our library is stocked with books on the Dark Arts. But, there are some questions that I need to have answered.”

  Explaining what little he knew, Rova talked while Kennet sat quietly, his hand gripping a feathered pen, telling him of the protection spell that the Mage-Guild had placed around the Academy.

  Finally, Kennet sighed and said, “I myself have never seen the atraglacia, sir, but I have read of its existence. Truly, I had never much believed the tales that it could be used as such. But if you have seen it, then I must read the stories anew and with greater heed. If you give me a quarter-moon, I shall know much more.”

  Rova nodded his head, then quietly rose from the seat and walked stiffly to the door, opening it slowly, almost deliberately, before turning back to Kennet, his light eyes locked on Kennet’s.

  “Kennet, tread lightly, my son. The darkness tempts those of us who live in the light with whispers of power. It offers endless knowledge, then swallows us whole. Tread lightly indeed.”

  *****

  “Kennet, what in the hells is wrong with you?” his uncle asked as he crossed the room to help his nephew from the floor.

  He stood up as Aldric pulled him, rubbing his sore back that was still scabbed, and murmured, “I wish that Bronwen had never met Conri, uncle. I fear for her. For all of us.”

  Aldric replied, evenly, but with more emotion than Kennet had yet seen, “Is fear not what feeds the darkness, Kennet? Do not allow it to overtake you. She has chosen. Allow her that.”

  “Now
tell me why you were on the floor?”

  Removing his glasses, he replied, “It seems Master Rova would like me to find out all I can about the Tribe. His visit left me feeling unwell, I’m afraid, and I needed to lie down.”

  Both uncle and nephew looked at each other then, yet neither spoke.

  43

  When Bronwen finally woke, her room was blanketed by gray. The mage-lights had been extinguished, and the sun hid behind thick clouds, purple, black, and nearly bursting. Heavy with sleep, she dragged her body across the room until she reached the small basin in the corner, splashing cool water across her face. She had no idea how long she had been sleeping and could barely remember lying in her bed after ingesting the sleeping mix she had prepared. However, she thought that it must be nearly sunrise, as rays of light could be seen at the bottoms of the clouds.

  Looking down, she noticed the same robe that she spent all yesterday in and, shaking her arms loose, lifted it from her body and threw it to the floor, removing her underclothes as well. Then, Bronwen tiptoed to the old trunk that she kept at the end of her bed, lifting the heavy lid and exposing the rainbow of gowns inside, the gifts from Willem.

  As she sat on the edge of her narrow cot staring at the dresses, she hesitated to choose one. Perhaps I should just wear my healer’s robe, she thought.

  Having no answer for why she was so desperate to find Conri, although she had tried to convince herself it was because of what had occurred on the beach. But even that was not entirely true, as she now knew where the man was and could have easily killed him herself.

  “I am being ridiculous,” she said aloud.

  Without further delay, she crossed the room to where an old wooden bench leaned against the wall and grabbed the fitted leggings that she had thrown there a few nights before. Slipping the pants on hurriedly, Bronwen reached for a thin cotton undershirt among the gowns in the trunk. After a few moments, she found a deep-blue dress, longer than the tunic that she had worn the last time that she had donned the pants, and laid it on the floor. With one of her thin knives, she neatly trimmed about an arm’s length of fabric from the bottom of the dress and threw it over her undershirt, pleased with the final look.