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

by Cat Bruno

Her ear was near to Bronwen’s lips, and the words had been spoken clearly, yet they made little sense. Making no reply, Sharron waited until the spasm stopped, slowly letting go of Bronwen once she no longer trembled.

  Standing on her own again, her cheeks red and her forehead wet, Bronwen sighed, “Thank you. That one was not nearly as bad, nor as long lasting. Mayhap I will not have to suffer them much longer.”

  With no further explanation, the two women hurried on. Soon, she knew, Sharron would have to tell Bronwen of her past. The time had come, as the girl had promised.

  51

  The two women arrived back at the clinic before the sun was at its highest, just before midday. Bronwen’s face had regained some color, a hint of rosiness dusting her cheeks. She looked fully recovered, although Sharron hurriedly looked away as Bronwen noticed her staring. Drawing her eyes off of Bronwen, Sharron reached for the doors, holding one open as Bronwen raced inside, leaving her to follow.

  Ignoring Master Ammon’s words, Sharron hurried, catching up to Bronwen when she was just outside the sailor’s room. Just as the Master Apprentice was about to push the hanging curtain aside, Sharron jumped in front of her.

  “It has been warded. From the look of the man who bound it, I do not think it would be wise to challenge the warding,” Sharron said, with her back to the draping cloth and her eyes on Bronwen.

  With a half-smile, Bronwen laughed, “Aldric has been here already. I should have known that Ammon would have sent for him instead of me. Step away, Sharron, and I will see how strong his skills are.”

  Realizing that Bronwen knew much more than she had explained, Sharron stepped to the side. Again, Bronwen raised her hand. The curtain seemed heavier, falling to the floor, unmoving as if it was stone and not cotton. Bronwen placed her hand on its center, gently applying pressure. Sharron watched as the curtain hung still, Bronwen’s hand pulsing and reddening under the spell. When one hand did not seem to work, Bronwen placed her second hand beside her first, letting her thumbs and forefingers touch, forming a wide triangle. Again, she pushed.

  With a cry, she fell backward, colliding with Sharron, and sending them both reeling. When Sharron recovered, she saw that the palms of Brownen’s hands were red, the skin cracking and bleeding slightly. Although the girl paid little heed to her hands, steadying herself and walking to the curtain once again.

  As she was about to try again to enter the room, Sharron called, “Bronwen, wait! I was able to enter before. Let me try. Your hands should be tended.”

  She thought that Bronwen might argue, but she only nodded, bringing her hands to her chest, cradling them against her body.

  Stepping around her, Sharon raised her hand, quickly, and reached for the curtain. Without hesitating, she pushed, and, this time, the curtain swayed, once again only cotton, shaking and parting under her touch. For a moment, the room was in view, and Bronwen ran in, Sharron following once again. As they entered, Master Ammon looked up, fury across his face.

  “How is she here, Aldric?” he fumed, eying the women from where he knelt.

  He had been scrubbing the floor, Sharron noticed, nearly all of the blood had been removed. The mage, Aldric, stood over the body, which had been covered in a sheet. She waited for him to answer, yet it was not he who did.

  “She came with me. And she stays.”

  “Bronwen, we do not need to entangle anyone else in this mess. Think not of yourself, but of the girl. Sharron has a strong future here, and she is a talented healer.” Turning toward Sharron, Master Ammon added, “Your help has been noted, and much appreciated. What has happened here was, as you know, not an ordinary death. And now we must find the cause, and, perhaps, who was responsible. And that, Sharron, will dirty us all. For that alone, I must ask that you leave. And to take Bronwen with you.”

  “Neither of us is leaving. Aldric, your warding could not keep her out. Although I could not enter, a request from Willem I would think. She was also able to get past the warding at my door. My door. What does that tell you?” Bronwen answered, her words clipped and harsh.

  She knew that she was being accused, yet still Sharron said nothing.

  Instead, Ammon yelled, “Bronwen, you assume too much! This is my clinic, and I will not let you make the rules here!”

  Sharron felt the redness burning at her cheeks, and, had her feet not felt like boulders, she might have tried to flee. Yet, before she could, Bronwen was speaking again, and as she did, grabbed Sharron’s hand.

  “I will not have you try to shelter me, Ammon. As I said, we are going nowhere.”

  It was then that Sharron knew what she had to do.

  Her voice trembling, yet song-like, she said, “A mi onoiur, a mi mohour’s onoiur, san la sliahs fairann, ghaellam.”

  Into the silence of the room, she continued, “On my honor, on my mother’s honor, with the mountains watching, I promise. In the North we call it the Woman’s Vow.” As she spoke, Sharron placed her right hand across her left and brought both to her chest, where she placed them over her heart.

  Without moving, she looked toward Bronwen, who stared at her with questioning eyes still, and asked, “Are these men to be trusted? There is something that I must tell you.”

  A look fell upon Bronwen’s face that was both glorious and sad. “The Woman’s Vow. I seem to recall hearing it spoken, yet I never before remembered the words.”

  Sharron could feel both men watching her.

  “Yes, it is our most sacred promise. One who breaks such a vow will never be trusted again, and their betrayal will follow them across the North. All will know and remember the name of the oath-breaker. I have given you my word, with the only words that will so bind me, that what I would tell you will be truthful and sacred. If I lie, my name will be cursed as an oath-breaker.”

  Sharron continued, “I do not understand all that has happened here, Bronwen, nor am I certain that I want to. Yet, I have long known that our paths would intercept. You are why I came to the Academy, and I have waited for over ten moon years for the girl’s words to ring true.”

  Bronwen gasped. “What girl do you speak of?”

  Again, Sharron asked, “Are these men to be trusted?”

  Wordlessly, Bronwen nodded.

  Then, as if she had changed her mind, Bronwen cried, “Sharron, do you know why I was suffering so when you found me?”

  It was as if a gray and stormy sky suddenly cleared, the sun breaking free and shining upon the room. Sharron finally understood.

  The men behind them were silent, surprise written on both of their faces.

  “You are with child.”

  Simple words, yet the room erupted, as Ammon rose, rushing across the room to where Bronwen stood. The girl was still staring at her, yet there was no doubt to be seen in her gray-green gaze.

  As Ammon grabbed Bronwen, she threw his hands from her. To Sharron, it seemed as if her body glowed, her hair tingling and crackling, like red streaks of lightning. When she whispered, her voice was thunderous and echoing off still-bloody walls.

  “I carry a child of the darkness in me, Sharron.”

  Silence followed, but the air in the room grew damp and heavy.

  Until then, she had thought the child to be the sailor’s, yet Bronwen’s words were odd ones. And then she remembered the way the sailor had died. The way his neck had been opened, as if by animal. Sharron had been at the Academy for half her life, yet she was Eirrannian, and, finally, fully understood.

  Sharron suddenly sobbed, tears dropping onto the floor as she made no attempt to stop them. The path opened. The pieces fit together, snugly, and Sharron wept as her memories overtook her, feeling foolish to have only just discovered what she had known for so long. She stepped toward Bronwen, grabbing her hands.

  With tears on her lips, she said, “You will have a daughter. She will have dark hair, but it will be laced with fire and flame. Her eyes will be what all remember, though. They will be as green as the emeralds our people so love.”

&nb
sp; Bronwen murmured, “How do you know so much, Sharron?”

  With no hesitation, Sharron exclaimed, words spilling as freely as her tears, “I have seen her. Not here, not at the Academy. And not in many moon years.”

  It was time.

  “When I was a child, I often liked to venture into the glades and forests that surrounded our small village. Sometimes my brothers would travel with me, but they never liked to go as far or as fast as I did. Once, when I was alone, I spotted a bird’s nest nestled in among some branches of a tall tree. And in the nest were tiny, blue eggs that glimmered, as if they had been dipped and covered with jewels, I wanted to get a closer look. So up I climbed, until I reached the eggs. They were just as beautiful as I thought they would be, and I wanted to take them back to show my brothers, to prove to them that there was nothing to fear in the dark corners of the forest. But, just as I had the nest in my hand, my foot slipped on the wet trunk of the tree, and I lost my balance. Before I could react, I was tumbling out of that tree, falling and clutching the nest in my hands.

  “I remember screaming as I fell, but the world darkened around me. When I woke, my eyes were fog-filled and my head ached.”

  Pausing for a moment to dry her tears, Sharron calmly said, “Your daughter, the girl with the green eyes, was sitting next to me, cross-legged when I woke. My head was in her lap, and she was wiping at my face with the edge of her tunic. I could not move, nor could I feel my legs. Before I could say anything, she placed her hands on my chest. Her fingers were gentle and soft, and I still can feel them on me, the way she ran them across my head, then down my chest to my stomach. Where they traveled, the pain disappeared. Within moments, I was able to stand. It was as if I had never fallen. Bronwen, the tree was a very tall one, and I should not have survived that fall, nor been able to walk away as I did.”

  “Why do you believe it was her, Sharron?” Bronwen quietly asked.

  “There is more.”

  Sharron dropped Bronwen’s hands, and continued, “When I stood up, I realized that the nest had fallen with me and all of the eggs had shattered. I was devastated, for I had never meant to harm the eggs. She noticed my sadness, Bronwen, yet smiled. She reached for the eggs, gathered them from the ground, and put the eggs back together, piece by piece until they were whole again, with only her hands. Do you understand what I mean? Just as she had fixed what was broken inside of me, she did the same to those eggs. With only her hands! Then, she placed them gently back in the nest and handed it to me.”

  With a cry, she added, “I was but a child and thought a wood nymph had appeared and saved me.”

  “Before she left, I asked for her name, but she said, ‘Child, it is not my name that you need to remember, but my mother’s, for I believe that she will need your help. You have some skill or I would not have been able to find you. Use your mage-craft to study the healing arts, far from here, where all the great healers have so learned. Should a girl come to you for help, even if you are afraid to give it, please remember me and go with her. There are few who can see the light in the darkness. You are one, and she will need you.’”

  Bronwen smiled softly and said, “She is a healer like none other, it seems. Somehow she is able to visit us when we most need it. Thank you, Sharron. Your words are like a lighthouse, shining and encouraging, and I shall cling to them always. Especially now.”

  To the men, she said, “All I said was true. It has come to be, and more than that I will not say. It will not be easy, but the babe will not harm me, and the worst seems to be over. Now, though, let us turn our attention back to our current problem.”

  It was the mage who spoke at last. “It seems that Lord Conri has visited your clinic, Master.”

  *****

  For the next few hours, the three healers and the dark mage scrubbed the walls and rearranged the room until it looked as it once had. In some places, the walls and stone tiles were still stained with droplets and streaks of blood, which had darkened as the hours passed. The job of moving the man’s body had been left to Willem and Aldric, who had both the strength and stomach for it. When Bronwen watched Willem casually toss the body to one side as he washed the wall where the man had landed, she was troubled, even with her hatred of the man still fresh.

  It had been decided that his death would be handled as the other deaths at the clinic were, with an attempt to find the kin of the deceased. However, first his body would be buried and his death would be blamed on his injuries. While both Sharron and Bronwen were ill at ease with the lies that must be told, they had agreed, realizing there was little choice.

  Willem was no longer Ammon, barely resembling the healer that he had become over the last fifteen moon years. Now, he was the man who had existed before his exile, thought Bronwen, commanding and forceful, with little time for those who did not follow his orders or who sought to question his decisions. Bronwen feared that man, slightly, and did not want to disagree or challenge him, and instead focused on what was being asked of her, including restocking the room’s linens and disposing of the blood-soaked ones.

  When the sun began its slow descent, the room was mostly complete, appearing as normally as it could after what had happened there. Willem ordered them all to leave, claiming that he would handle what remained. Aldric stayed behind and the two women hurried to exit, Sharron once again dismissing the ward. As the curtain fell to the floor, once again closing off the room to the rest of the clinic, Bronwen shivered. The man who had troubled her thoughts for the last moon was dead. And the man who was the father of her babe was responsible for the death. She smiled with satisfaction as she walked out of the clinic.

  52

  Sharron and Bronwen parted ways just steps outside the clinic, and only after Bronwen repeatedly vowed that she was fine. For the first few steps that she took, Bronwen half-believed her own words. Yet, as she walked on, she could feel the pain coming. Despite it being hours since her last attack, Bronwen knew that the spasms were not over. Exhausted and hungry, she bitterly wondered if the pain would ever end.

  Taking another few steps, she neared a large, white-barked tree and squeezed her eyes closed as the pain intensified, leaning her forehead onto the tree as her stomach clenched and waves of fire shot through her lower half.

  Through gritted teeth, she cried, “A cran mohra, cosan, cosan mei.”

  Just as before when she had heard Sharron’s words, the language of her childhood, which had been forgotten, erased from her memory and hidden from any mind-lock, surfaced, and she understood the words she had spoken. Recognizing them as if they had never left her, Bronwen’s memory seemed to be returning, bits of it, images of her childhood and words long lost. Since her last meeting with Conri, her mind had begun to clear. Still leaning into the tree, Bronwen wondered if he had undone one final mind-lock the night on the beach, opening her memories fuller than they had been since her arrival in Tretoria.

  Which had allowed him to discover Byron, she knew.

  The area below her stomach cramped again, forcing her to grab the shredding bark of the tall, lanky tree. Her breathing was rapid and unsteady, fast and loud, then slow and soft, and Bronwen found herself struggling for control. Distracted by the pain and focused on trying not to let it overcome her, Bronwen did not hear the approaching figure, even though he made little attempt to quiet his step. She only realized that she was no longer alone when a hand gripped her shoulder, and even then she had little strength remaining to struggle.

  Without turning around, she grimaced as the man he addressed her, knowing the voice well.

  “Bronwen? What in the hells are you doing to that tree? You look dreadfully pale, even more so than usual. Have you looked at yourself?”

  There were many people whom Bronwen would not have wanted to see her in her current state, but Pietro was near the top of the list. She hoped that by ignoring him that he would leave, but he waited.

  After several moments, she hissed, “You take great pleasure in coming upon me when I am at my
worst, Pietro. Do you follow me and hope for a chance to strike? Just let me be.”

  With a half-laugh that Bronwen recognized as mocking, he answered, “Master Apprentice, perhaps it is not I who has the problem. You are blood-covered, your hair hasn’t seen a brush in days, and your fingers are shaking. You forget, my lady, that I was raised in Rexterra. With that comes a need to help any woman who so needs it.” Bronwen still did not move, yet she could hear the laughter in his voice. “If only you would let me help you, then we could go back to my rooms, and I could take care of you properly.”

  His words were as sweet as a honey cake, light and half-sung. Next to him, she knew that she must look quite mad, her body flushed with pain and her clothing stained and dirtied. Bronwen bit her inner lip to keep herself from responding, although she could feel her face flushing and her heart fluttering from his jesting. But, something else stirred in her as well. It was as if her eyes had blood behind them, and the world suddenly took on a hazy, maroon hue.

  As she finally turned, Pietro’s bleached robes reddened under her stare. His face, smooth and handsome, usually glowed a sun-lit copper, yet now it too was tinted red. His eyes, gold-rimmed and blue, were now dark, as dark as old blood. His fair hair, lightened by moon years spent in Litusia, burnt bright as fire now. When she looked at him again, his eyes narrowed on her, examining and questioning, and the smile dropped from his face. Noticing the fire that burned behind her eyes, he took a step away from her, as in retreat.

  Swallowing hard, and readying to depart, Bronwen said, “It was a difficult morning at the clinic, as you would know if you spent any time there. Just go, Pietro. I’m sure you have some woman waiting for you anyway.”

  For a moment, he paused. Then, without warning, he tilted his head back and laughed, letting the sound roll through the air. He came closer to her, until his laughter rang beside her ears, the noise of it mixing with the pounding of her heart. She dropped her head, looking toward the ground, again hoping that he would tire of his teasing, like all children do at some point, and back away from her. But, she was wrong, and, in the next moment, she felt his hand on her spine, rubbing her back beneath the tunic that she still wore.