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

by Cat Bruno

  “No,” she gasped, “It can not be this way. I am a healer, Aldric, with vows and oaths.”

  “And you did not harm him. I did.”

  Around her the night air was cool, more so than in Litusia, and Bronwen shivered. The soft glow of twilight touched Aldric, close enough now to her that she could clearly see his face. Watching him, Bronwen suddenly realized that she hardly knew him.

  “The man is dead,” she stated, with little emotion.

  “He is. And you are not.”

  “What of the girl? She promised safe travels!” Bronwen cried.

  Wiping at his brow, Aldric answered, “It is not possible that she knows all that will occur. Even what she thinks she might know changes each time she time-walks. Think on it, Bronwen. While she can not change what happens, her presence where it once was not must surely alter things.”

  When Bronwen did not answer, he added, “There are others who better understand such time-shifting, if you would want to seek them out.”

  With a huff, she said, “I want to arrive in the King’s City without further troubles.”

  “Then let us be on our way,” he answered, pulling the cart behind him.

  As she walked, Bronwen heard a soft humming and quickly realized that they were warded once again. How strange, she thought, that it is not the child that brings hatred upon me, but from where I come.

  *****

  By the third day, Bronwen and Aldric had developed a routine, walking for hours before taking turns sleeping. By the time they reached the Arvumian border, she had become better accustomed to travel. As agreed upon, Sharron, along with the two guards that Willem had hired, met up with them at a small inn near the town of Licernia. While small, Licernia was well-positioned along the Green Road, which would lead east into the King’s City. Aldric had explained that the closer to Rexterra that they came, her heritage would matter less, and it would become more difficult for him to ward so many people. Sharron had been able to travel without incident, telling them that she had come with ease to Licernia. The guards spoke little, and, soon, Bronwen guessed that they could only speak a little Common, having never left Arvumia. She wondered why Willem had hired them, but did not doubt that he had his reasons.

  Still, they avoided stopping much and soon traveled more at night, under the cover of darkness. In Licernia, Bronwen had taken off her healer’s robes, realizing how unneeded they now were. Before she had left, she imagined that many would meet her along the road and be in need of her aid, yet she had not realized, foolishly she now knew, that Aldric would keep them so warded. Several days past Licernia, they crossed the Levandia River, but were still several days from the southwestern Planusian border. With each day, Aldric weakened until Bronwen was forced to have him recall the warding, and he had only done so after she had threatened to leave him in the next town they came upon.

  As she lay on a small bedroll beside a softly burning fire on the eastside of the Levandia River, Bronwen flittered between sleep and consciousness, red-tinged images flashing through her mind of what Aldric had done. Soon, she gave up trying to sleep and sat up, rubbing at her aching legs. Bruises and blisters covered her legs and feet, but the cut on her cheek had healed nicely, now only a small scab. Thinking that the horses would make travel easier, she had soon realized that new muscles ached, forcing her to walk as if her knees were bowed. Yet, the horses were much swifter, and she had days past given up on believing that a normal Healer Journey would be possible.

  A cold breeze flickered the fire, sending shivers across her body, her Northern skin spoiled after so many moon years in the warm climate of Tretoria. Bronwen watched the flames as they shrunk and exploded, taller and fiercer, crackling wood sending sparks near enough to strike at her bare toes. Kurtis, the taller of the two guards, walked the perimeter of the small camp, alternating with Niko. Despite her daughter’s words that her trip would be an easy one, Bronwen knew not what dangers they now faced.

  Wrapping herself in a heavy wool blanket that Willem had packed, Bronwen smiled, thinking of him for the first time in a half-moon. Staring into the fire, she wondered what life would have been like if she had let him take her to Eirrannia. My vows would be intact, she mused.

  That was not the path she now walked, Bronwen realized, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Willem was lost to her, but in another time or place, one with different circumstances and no Conri, she would have followed him. But, circumstances were not different, as they both knew. Conri would not forget his daughter.

  Within a moon, she would be in the King’s City, even further from the solace of the north. The thought was a somber one, and Bronwen shivered, pulling her bare feet under the blanket as the fire dwindled. The flames were small ones, lapping at each other just above the ashes, so she tiptoed over to a pile of wood, quietly gathering a few small logs to place on the dying fire. One at a time, she gently placed the thickly-barked wood onto the center of the flame, letting the heat warm her face and burn away her troubled thoughts.

  Soon, the fire flashed high and bright, and she settled into her blanket, lying on her side but still gazing at the dancing flames. As she watched, her vision grew dark, as if sleep finally came.

  A shadow fell across the fire, and Bronwen hurriedly sat up, looking around for the guards and for Aldric.

  He was upon her before she could call out.

  With the red light of the flames casting a dusky hue over her, Bronwen looked up at him. Her eyes glowed gold, pure and shining, clear and vibrant, as if they could see to the ends of the world. As if they could see through him, through the darkness he wore as a cloak.

  Watching him, his eyes as dark as night and his skin as pale as the moon, Bronwen gasped. Visions, unbidden and unwanted surfaced, memories swirling, jumping between time and place until little made sense. In his gaze, she saw her past, her childhood, the girl she had once been. But, before she could sort through them and make sense of what it was that she saw, he spoke. Low and deep, words fell from his lips, falling around her while the flames leapt up to greet them, colliding at her still-bare feet.

  “Bronwen, I see you are well. You and the child both.”

  She said nothing, as if she was trapped by memory.

  “There is much I should say, much that I need to say, yet I can not stay long without exposing you.”

  Again, she said nothing, staring at him as if for the first time.

  “Bronwen, I have come to warn you to stay hidden. The dark mage must do what he can to keep you warded, until I can do so myself.”

  Finally, she asked quietly, “Who seeks me, Conri?”

  He shook his head, quietly and gracefully, beautifully, as most of what he did was so, and answered, “Bronwen, war has come, or soon will, to my people. To the Tribe, to our daughter.”

  He neared her, kneeling down until his dark eyes were close to her own.

  “You are a weapon that some will seek to use against me. If I had known that it would come to this, I would not have answered his call.”

  “Whose call?”

  “My father. He promised that the girl would be unharmed.”

  Conri seemed shaken and his voice dropped lower. The darkness that had concealed him flickered in response, and the light of the fire shined on him brightly, illuminating his pale face. For a moment she thought of Byron, of his wife, and her face paled. He saw her fear, she knew.

  “I am who I have always been, Bronwen. I am my father’s son.”

  For a moment, she thought that he would leave, but he added, “Why must you travel at all? Is this part of your training?”

  His last question, so ordinary and conversational, especially after his warnings caught Bronwen by surprise, and, for a moment, she was speechless.

  Quietly, and with little effort to disguise her lie, she answered, “Yes, it is my final step before I become a full master. It seemed wise to leave the Academy before any knew of the babe. I shall be gone for a full moon year, and, when I return, I w
ill, no doubt, have questions to face. By then, I hope to have answers as well.”

  He nodded, and Bronwen cared little if he believed her or not.

  Still, he stayed.

  As if pleading, he cried, “Since I first found you, I have tried to protect you, to keep you hidden, and the Academy seemed the best place for both. Yet, it has grown difficult to keep you and the babe hidden from my father. He knows of her, Bronwen, and knows what kind of weapon she will be.”

  Before she could move or answer, Conri grabbed her by the shoulders, until his lips were so near hers that she could taste him and feel his breath across her face.

  “What am I to do?” she gasped.

  “Stay warded. Trust no one. I will visit when I can, and perhaps I will know more when I next see you.”

  “Who should I fear? Mage or Tribe?” she asked with fading words.

  “Both.” The dark fog around him was shifting, and Conri rose. “He calls me back. I can no longer linger here without him knowing. Bronwen, I will do all that I can to see you safe, even if I must go to war to do so.”

  In a voice she hardly knew to be her own, she called out, “I have no need of your protection, Conri. The babe will keep me safe.”

  His eyes blazed, dusky and purple, with surprise. “What do you mean?” he roared.

  Bronwen laughed, hollow and mocking, the sound rolling through the quiet camp, although none heard.

  “The babe speaks to you, Bronwen? Even now, when it has been but a few moons?”

  “No, not the babe. The girl, nearly full grown.”

  Bronwen purposefully kept most of what she could have said to herself, enjoying the surprise that colored Conri’s pale face and clouded his dark eyes.

  “She visits you again? Do you know what such time-walking could cost her? What could happen to her body and to her mind? I have watched others stuck between two worlds, existing in both but existing in neither. Her power might be great, but even she could fall victim to such a fate. You must stop her from doing so again,” he begged.

  Bronwen could only nod, suddenly guilt-ridden and worried. When she looked back up, Conri was again at her side. As if stone, she could not move as he slid one hand down, toward the lower curve of her back, and pulled her toward him. When he kissed her, she shuddered, stiffening but arching toward him nonetheless, as if she had no control over her body. For that moment, she forgot everything.

  Then, just as quickly as he had grabbed her, Conri released her, letting her go until she nearly collapsed.

  With her eyes still on him, she struggled to remember.

  Rising, he vowed, “Bronwen, when this is done, when the battles have been fought, and control regained from these pretenders, I will come back for you. For you and the child. I will walk away no longer. And he will not dare to stop me.”

  The fire jumped, the darkness lifted, and Conri fled. With each step that he took away from camp, the night sky lightened. The stars flickered once again, the moon curved and bright.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Bronwen saw Kurtis walking near the far edge of the tree line that marked the outer edge of their site. She was certain that he had not been there moments before, yet he seemed no different, as if nothing at all had changed. As she watched the flames pounce and leap, Bronwen’s head dropped to her chest until she wept quietly. With tears softly falling from her gray-green eyes, she looked up.

  The fire warmed the air around her, but there was an edge to it, as if it was not entirely real. As if, like Luna above, all was not as it seemed. A veil had been lifted, and Bronwen knew that if she had a looking glass beside her she would see glowing, golden eyes reflected back at her. The eyes of Luna, the eyes that could see through the darkness, with no light needed as guide. Eyes that were newly opened.

  Memories filled her.

  Bronwen was a child again, tall and thin, long arms and bony legs, hair wild and long down her back. She was riding atop a brown pony, thick-legged and short-eared. Ahead of her were two large horses, both gray, one dappled and the other free of markings. Astride the dappled horse was who Bronwen now knew to be her father. He wore a simply cut tunic made of bleached cotton, long sleeved and flowing over his hips. Her mother, who rode ahead, had her hair pulled into a knot at the back of her neck, but, as her horse galloped, hair escaped and flew about her face and trailed down her light-blue tunic. She too wore men’s leggings under her tunic, as did Bronwen, even as a child.

  All three rode across a blooming field, dotted with blue flowers shaped liked miniature bells and delicate white flowers that soon became trampled beneath the pounding hooves of the horses. Her pony couldn’t keep up with the two grays, but she was smiling and laughing all the same.

  Above, the Northern sky was a blue deeper than the blues of Tretoria, and soft, low, white clouds filled the sky. Bronwen could hear the laughter as it bounced from hill to hill, a sweet, childish sound, pure and chiming. Her mother turned and smiled, teeth gleaming and white, facing Bronwen, waiting.

  Bronwen’s heart thumped, and she tried to shake off the memory, no longer wanting to be part of it.

  She fought to forget, fought to push away the vision, and let her head fall further until her forehead was pressed on her raised knees and the fire’s heat burned at her skin. Bronwen rocked herself back and forth, willing her heart to slow, willing her eyes to open, to escape from the past. Yet she could not, and, as the flame flickered, so did her memories. Bright and hot they poured through her, burning her with a pain intense and scarring, hotter than the fire blazing at her feet.

  There was her mother, beautiful and serene, laughing and pointing, swaying softly atop her horse. Her father, turning in his saddle, a shy smile across his face slowed, allowing Bronwen to catch up. As she watched, her pony, Firinne, a name that she suddenly remembered, stopped, her thickly hooved feet pawing at the grass. Bronwen nudged her, pulling at the reins, but the pony would not move. Again, her small hands flicked the reins from right to left, yet Firinne stomped in response, unwilling to follow. Her father called out, his voice high, his words a song. When he laughed, the hills laughed with him, echoing until the sound reached her.

  Jumping from the pony’s back, Bronwen stood, reins in hand, dragging at Firinne, who still would not move. When she looked across the flowery field, high grassed and fragrant with new blooms, her parents stood near a stream, the same one they often used. She knew not what was on the other side, as she was not allowed to cross it, and never had.

  Her mother, tall and long-armed, was kneeling, her hands cupping the cool water and raising it to her lips. Nearby, her father stood, looking across the stream.

  Bronwen still stood, her booted feet covered in the yellow dust of cowslips. From afar, she watched.

  Beside the orange glow of the fire, Bronwen sickened, fear spreading through her body, itchy and prickling. She knew, then, as she did now, here, in this different time and place, and there, with the sun dazzling and bright, and here, with the fire sparking and blazing the same yellow, what would happen next.

  Knowing, remembering, what would come next, Bronwen sobbed, her hands holding her face and her shoulders shaking. She wept for the child who stood silently watching and for the woman who only now remembered. Both alone. She wept, too, for her own child, who would bear witness to it all, history written in blood and bone.

  With tears dampening the blanket that she clasped about her, she let the images flash and pulse. Memory returned as if it were a mountain river, fast and fierce, unstoppable. As if she had never forgotten, the memory was as clear as water, too; as clear as the water her mother sipped. Bronwen let it come to her then, fighting no more, needing this final truth like breath.

  Her mother and father, hand in hand, both standing now, laughter echoing around them, in love, as always. Her father tucked a white bellflower behind her mother’s ear, and they looked back to where she stood, waving.

  Neither noticed the man approach. But the child had, yet still she did not move.


  He seemed so much taller than she remembered, his hair long, falling well beyond his shoulders, black and glistening, absorbing the light from the rising sun, yet reflecting none of it back, swallowing it instead. He dressed much the same, pants fitted and well made, a tunic so black it appeared blue, and tall, supple boots that clung to his legs in embrace.

  Yet, it was his face that the child watched.

  Now, moon years later, Bronwen could see pain there, and anger stirred. He deserves no mercy, she thought.

  But memory returned and again she was child.

  He stood, as if sculpted, pale and shining, beautiful. Dangerous.

  Beside the fire, her breath caught in her throat at the sight.

  With the smell of smoke mingling with the scent of heather, Bronwen waited, knowing the memory would not soon fade. Not yet. Not ever. Not again.

  On silent feet, he approached. When he was but an arm’s length from her parents, they both turned, finally noticing the man. No longer smiling, her father stepped back, while her mother, pale-faced and wide-eyed, looked across the field, searching.

  She could not see me, Bronwen realized, now, moon years later, too late, she knew. He had come in the mist, in shadow despite the high sun.

  Turning her head from left to right and looking about madly, her mother searched, tears flowing and screamed a name.

  The child called back, clinging to her pony, crying loudly when none answered.

  “Mother!”

  Again, “Mother!”

  Yet, the child’s words were lost in the mist, falling unheard to the high-grassed ground.

  More than ever, Bronwen wanted to open her eyes, to flee from memory. To forget, as she had for half her life.

  But still she watched.

  In her father’s hand, a small fire blazed, a warning, a weapon. Behind him stood her mother. Her face was blank and her arms hung at her sides, as if she was stone. Her father spoke, yet she could not hear what was said.

  Until laughter came, howling and harsh, shaking delicate blossoms and towering trees, rippling the stream, cracking the mountains.