Chosen (The Last Guardians Book 1)

by C. V. Gregorchuk

  There were some days Mia could be forgiven for thinking her only purpose for being there at all was to serve as Orden’s personal punching bag. She hated their sparring sessions. Even though she could feel herself getting better every day, Mia had yet to walk away from a fight without some sort of injury. The extent of the damage varied. The other day Orden had hit her so hard that she’d blacked out. And then he’d thrown a bucket of cold well water in her face.

  The massive wooden sword she fought with felt awkward and clumsy in her hand, like it knew it didn’t belong there. Orden was always telling her to think of the weapon as an extension of her arm, to use it like a part of her body. Mia tried, she did, but it just would not click into place for her. And Orden didn’t let up. Not ever.

  He pushed her, throwing insults and her own weakness in her face until he’d pummeled her into the ground enough times to satisfy whatever quota he was trying to meet that day. Sometimes Mia caught herself wondering what it might be like to throw the sword at his head. What kind of sound the wood might make when it hit his skull? But no matter how badly she wanted to throw the damn sword at his damned face and wipe the look of disdain from it, Mia didn’t. She would not let herself react in that way, especially not after she’d asked for this. So she kept her anger under control.

  Life on a horse farm was like an endless list of chores. The work alone was enough to keep a person in a state of perpetual exhaustion and added to the strenuous nature of her training, Mia felt- and suspected she looked- a bit like a zombie.

  One thing she had taken for granted before was how heavy water was. Not anymore. The lack of running water on the farm was the most inconvenient of the changes Mia had to deal with. If there was laundry to be done, she was sent to get the water. The dishes needed washing? Mia. Plain old drinking water? Off to the well with her. She even had to get her own bath water after the end of the first week when Breahn had firmly refused to do it for her. As Mia pulled bucket after bucket out of the well, she started to feel like they were all lying to her. She wasn’t there for some great purpose. She was there to get water, and she resented it.

  Why did she have to do any of it? The sewing and the cleaning. The laundry and the dishes. Mia understood the necessity of things like mucking out the stalls and gardening- to a point- but the rest of it? Mia supposed to be training. To be doing whatever had to be done so that she could go home. She did not need to be wasting her time with household chores.

  Chapter 38

  Sheets hung from the clothesline like the limp sails of a ship without so much as a whisper of wind to push it across the waters. Mia took in the sight, hands on her hips. The faint smell of lavender hung in the air, clinging to the clean sheets and articles of clothing. Hanna liked to add crushed buds of the purple flowers to the water they used for washing. Breahn finished pinning up one of Orden’s shirts. She drew her reddened hands down the front of the damp material and said, “Has the basket gone empty or is it that ye find me so pretty ye’ve stopped to take a gander?”

  Mia snorted in response. She bent down and pulled out an apron from the basket standing between them. “You know what they say,” Mia shook the garment out, “‘I love hard work, I could watch it all day.’”

  “Who says that?” Breahn asked, rubbing her hands on the front of dress. “I don’t know anyone who says that.” She met Mia’s eyes. “Oh,” Breahn smirked, “another one of your funny sayings is it?”

  “Mhmm,” Mia tossed the apron over the line and smoothed it out, making sure that it hung straight with no wrinkles in the fabric.

  “Here,” The other girl offered her a wooden clothespin. Both were quiet as they fixed the apron to the line in case a breeze might appear from nowhere to blow the clean linen away. This was the first clear morning they’d had in four days. Spring rains had fallen non-stop from morning to evening, water pattering on the roof all through the night. Breahn said it was a sign from Eldhor, telling them to prepare for the Grower’s season. Mia saw it as a promise of more work.

  The days were getting longer, warmer too. So warm in fact that Mia had needed to make alterations to her clothes, sometimes going without a shirt under the fitted leather vest or forgoing the vest altogether in favor of a thin tunic. She’d thanked Breahn for saving her bra.

  It was nice to be out in the sun, to feel its growing warmth on her face after spending the better part of a week indoors with the other women. Hanna had insisted that Mia take a break from her training. Had fought Orden hard for it.

  Mia hadn’t missed the veiled looks Hanna cast in her direction or the way she pursed her lips as she assessed Mia’s injuries and overall appearance. The fight had been coming for days.

  “What do ye suppose to achieve, fighting in the rain?” Hanna had asked her husband as she’d spooned a sizeable helping of porridge into his bowl. “Catch your death ye will.”

  “We cannot afford to lose any time.” Orden had glared across the table at Mia, daring her to side with Hanna over him.

  With the wooden spoon pointed directly at his nose, Hanna would not back down, “One day of rest won’t make a difference in the long road ahead. Let the girl rest.”

  “And you?” Orden had directed the question at Mia who had been about to take a bite of her own steaming porridge. “What do you want?”

  Mia would have liked to answer the question for herself, but Hanna had beaten her to it. “Orden have ye seen the state of her? She’s thin as a twig-”

  “Hey!” Mia had resented that. She was skinny sure enough, had been all her life, but a twig? That wasn’t exactly a fair description, not when she could feel the new wiry strength in her arms and legs, in her core. Just because it wasn’t visible yet didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

  Hanna hadn’t even acknowledged Mia, “and the only color she’s got is in the bruises ye’ve put on her.”

  “The least ye could do is let the welts clear before ye add more.” Breahn had added with her signature smirk from the head of the table.

  It might have been that he agreed with them, but Mia suspected it was more likely that Orden hadn’t had the patience or the energy to argue the point further. Either way, it had been decided; they would not be training until the rain stopped. No one could have predicted that it would last four days.

  “Once we’ve done this I’ll need your help with the bedding,” Breahn said, she was looking down at the second basket filled to overflowing with the fresh smelling linens they’d pulled down from the line earlier.

  Mia clenched her teeth and made a sound in the back of her throat. This was how it began, with a simple request for help: “Mia will you help me with the dusting? Mia, can you fetch water for the dishes?” From there it was a slippery slope, a single chore becoming a string of never-ending tasks, one thing after another, after another.

  As soon as the argument with Orden had been won, a quietly smug Hanna had waited for Mia to finish her breakfast before sending her back to bed for what she’d deemed some much-needed rest. Mia had been more than happy to do as she was told. As she’d gotten up from the table, she’d taken special care to avoid making eye contact with Orden lest he see how pleased she was and punish her for it the next day.

  “What?” Breahn straightened, placing hands on her hips. She was giving Mia that look again, the one with the raised brow and eyes that dared.

  Mia held those blue eyes without flinching; she could feel herself rising to the bait.

  She’d spent most of that first day in her room, alternating between sleep and reading the massive tomes Orden had given her. Only getting up when her stomach forced her down to the kitchen in search of food. It had been a day of luxury and rest, no chores, no one to bother her; a day she’d been eager to repeat.

  When Mia had woken the next morning to the sound of rain beating against the window she’d nearly cried with relief. It seemed someone had taken pity on her and answered her silent prayer.

  Mia had rolled onto her side and settled herself into the m
attress when a loud tap on the door had interrupted the quiet. She had squeezed her eyes shut and gathered the coverlet close around her, hoping that Orden would leave her be. Breahn hadn’t bothered to knock again. Breahn had come into the room, skirts swishing around her ankles and barked at Mia to get up.

  “It’s raining.” Mia had argued, her voice muffled by a pillow.

  “And ye thought ye’d be spending another day in bed while there’s work to be done?” Mia had chosen not to answer. “Well,” Breahn had said,“Let me tell ye a thing. Ye can either get out of that bed on yer own, or I’ll help ye. I can guarantee it will be far less embarrassing for ye if I don’t.”

  Looking at Breahn now, Mia already knew she was going to lose this battle. Just as she’d lost every one since the first. It didn’t to stop her. “I didn’t realize making beds was part of my special Guardian training,” Mia said, the skirts of her dress brushing the ground as she turned her back to the other girl and pretended to readjust the apron that didn’t need adjusting.

  Breahn’s gaze was like a red-hot poker between her shoulders. Mia’s heart rate picked up, her hands going sweaty in anticipation of the coming fight.

  She’d never been a combative person. Mia hated confrontation, avoided it at all costs because it made her uncomfortable. She wasn’t good at it; that was why it had taken her so long to stand up to Jake. And then Mia had caved and apologized because it was easier. That was how it always went with her, with Jake, with her parents. That all changed when she was vacuumed out of Bella Abelson’s bathroom and dumped into this life.

  Mia had learned fast that there was no satisfaction to be had from fighting with Orden. All it accomplished was providing him with more ammunition, insults to throw in her face. Breahn, on the other hand, was another story. Mia never did win an argument with the other girl, but it wasn’t about winning, not really.

  There was something comforting, freeing even about butting heads with someone close to her own age, someone who understood on some level that she needed an outlet. Mia didn’t exactly complain to Breahn, but she admittedly was not as careful to hide her frustration either. It quickly became clear Breahn wasn’t able to pass up an opportunity to call her on it. The girls sparred more often than Mia and Orden, their words sharper than wooden swords.

  The close quarters of the past couple of days spent indoors had only bred more spats, altercations that had reached a whole other level once Hanna intervened. No wonder Orden had made his escape after a single day spent in their company. He’d left the three of them to their devices, joining them for meals and going as soon as he’d finished eating. Mia didn’t blame him, in fact, she’d been quite jealous. She would have given anything to get out of doing dishes after each meal or moving from room to room, dusting, sweeping and washing.

  “Complaining again?” Breahn asked, “I am impressed.”

  Mia stiffened, “I’m not complaining. I was making a statement.” She faced the other girl and mirrored her stance, hands on her hips. Mia lowered her chin, “I wasn’t brought here to do housework. I’ve been you’re little slave, I’ve done everything you asked, and now I’m done.”

  Breahn narrowed her eyes, “Selfish little snipe.” Her shoulders rose and fell as she inhaled through her nose and let the air out through her mouth. “How can ye compare housework to slavery when ye do not know what it means to be a slave?”

  “Neither do you!” Mia countered before she could register the small nudge of doubt telling her she might have spoken too soon.

  Breahn’s face went blank, her features set in stone. Only the simmering heat in her blue eyes indicated that she felt anything at all. “Ye’re right.” Breahn said, too quiet. “Unlike so many others, I was not born the child of a slave, nor did I sell myself into that life though I came very close once.”

  Icy guilt slithered down Mia’s spine, and she looked away, tightening her fists until her nails bit into her palms as punishment. Stupid. So stupid, she scolded herself. She needed to stop being so selfish, so careless with her words. Mia made herself meet Breahn’s gaze to make her apology, “I’m sorry,” she said, stiff and uncomfortable but meaning every word, “I didn’t think.”

  There was no sign of the easy humor Mia had grown used to seeing in Breahn’s face. Her perpetually upturned mouth was set in a firm, unforgiving line as she stared back at Mia. “I was never a slave.” Breahn continued as if Mia hadn’t spoken at all, her words sharp and chopped, “but I do know something of working myself to the bone each day to survive. I know how it feels to sweat and bleed for a few copper pieces barely enough to pay for decent bread.” This time Breahn looked away, the slender column of her neck bobbing as she swallowed. “I made my peace with it, my own struggles, but it nearly broke me to see my mother degrade herself in that inn to support us.”

  “Please stop.” Mia didn’t want to hear these things, didn’t want Breahn to continue reliving the pain of her past because she’d spoken without thinking. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I’m sorry. I was angry and frustrated. I didn’t know.”

  Breahn was slow to turn when she did the heat in her eyes was still there but more subdued. Long seconds dragged by as she stared at Mia like she could see past the surface of her skin to the soul beneath. It was an effort not to squirm beneath the intensity. By some small mercy, Breahn’s entire countenance relaxed, and she exhaled in a long stream of air, “Of course not, how could ye?” There was nothing accusatory in her tone, but Mia felt the sting of guilt nonetheless at the implication.

  Not once, in all the weeks she’d spent with them, had Mia bothered to find out more about the people who clothed, fed and housed her. Hadn’t cared to. She’d been so wrapped up in her own anger, the rigors of her training, the general unfairness of her circumstances that Mia had taken what they offered of themselves without thought of reciprocating, often rebuffing those questions that dug too deep.

  Mia found it hard to breathe. It was like a boulder had fallen into place right on top of her rib cage. “Uh-” Words wouldn’t come; she didn’t know what to say or where to look, her eyes slid to the dirt between her feet. What to say? What could she say? In the end, she said nothing at all. Mia turned her back on Breahn and the laundry and started walking, not sure where she was going. Not the house, the last thing she wanted right now was to go into that house.

  Mia was sitting atop the slanted roof of the chicken coop with her head thrown back against the sturdy barn wall, her eyes trained on the clear sky beyond the overhang when the creaking of wicker caught her attention. Breahn stood before her with the basket of clean linen balanced on a hip. She regarded Mia calmly, her head tilted at a gentle angle. Without a word or question, Breahn placed the basket on the ground, rubbed her hands together and stepped up to the edge of the coop. Understanding, Mia shuffled over a few feet, and Breahn hopped up next to her.

  Out of the corner of her eye Mia watched as the other girl settled herself, patting her skirts and squirming back and forth a few times until she found a comfortable spot. Breahn made no attempt at conversation. She leaned back against the barn, a soft smile curling her lips, and watched the chickens pecking at the dirt. Her chest rose and fell once, twice, then Mia turned her own gaze out over the yard, tension leaking out of her in an unhurried trickle.

  “I’m sorry, okay?” Mia said sometime later, apologizing for what felt like the hundredth time. She kept her eyes forward, “I just-”she trailed off, rubbing the pad of her thumb over the wooden slats she sat on, testing the roughness of the grain.

  “Ye’re frustrated.” Breahn supplied gently.

  Mia made a sound between a sigh and a laugh. “Ya.” She agreed, “you could say that.”

  “Sometimes talking about the things that burden us can help to lessen the load.”

  Mia’s chest tightened. “I know.” She inhaled deeply and turned to look at Breahn. “I just- I-I’m not-”

  “Ready.”

  Mia nodded, grateful to the other girl for understan
ding. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to confide in Breahn, what she offered actually sounded good. But Mia held back, knowing that if she started, there was no way of telling where she would stop. If she’d stop. Breahn looked at her with such understanding, such sympathy. Mia wished she was brave enough to open that can of worms.

  She couldn’t safely talk about her parents or Jake. Or Manhattan or Tanya. Not unless she wanted to make a scene and though Breahn would likely listen through it, Mia wasn’t sure she would survive the embarrassment of another scene like the one she’d thrown so many weeks ago. Maybe she didn’t have to talk about them or her life back home, perhaps she could keep it simple and current. Mia had more than enough fuel to keep her going for a while, and Breahn was giving her the chance to speak openly.

  Mia started out slow and furtive, so much so that Breahn laughed and told her not to worry. Orden was with the mares in the pasture, checking on those nearing their time. He wouldn’t be back any time soon. So she talked. Mia talked and complained and vented, her words coming out in a jumbled mess with no clear line linking one thing to the next. Like some sort of attention deficit hummingbird.

  “I have so many questions,” Mia huffed finally, out of breath after recounting her frustration with the books Orden had her reading. “And I can’t ask him ‘cause- it would be one more thing I’m not good at. He’s- ugh.” Mia looked away, drumming her ankles against the coop. “He’s already so disappointed in me.” It took her by surprise: how much that bothered her. “He won’t teach me magic cause he doesn’t think I can handle it.” And he was right. “I don’t know.” Mia shrugged her shoulders and faced Breahn, “I just feel like- like I do all this stuff. I get up every morning and run I- I do every chore you guys give me. I look after Seinfeld, I train. I read the stuff he asks me- even if I don’t get half of it. It’s not enough. Nothing I do is good enough for him.” And he’s so mean about it.