Rose Borne

by Phoenix Briar

  Rose Borne

  PHOENIX BRIAR

  The Beauty Series

  ROSE BORNE

  Printed by Createspace

  Charleston, SC

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the author.

  Copyright © 2015 by Phoenix Briar

  Cover art © 2015 Phoenix Briar

  Castal Street font © Heather T.

  ISBN 978-0-9905631-1-2

  Other works by Phoenix

  The Night and Day Series

  A Heart of Ice

  A Heart of Stone

  The Beauty Series

  Rose Borne

  Short Stories

  "The Perfect Seashell"

  Acknowledgments

  As always, I may not use Christian language, and this book may not have a sermon in it, but the lessons within it are things Yahweh has taught me and carried me through. Everything I do, I do for Him and to share the kind of unbridled love He has shown to me.

  I also could not have done any of this without my husband. He is my guardian, the one who took the broken, angry girl with a beast’s heart and loved her anyways. TJ, you have a magic all your own.

  Last but not least, to my friend and fellow writer, E. A. Thomas. We created these characters together, raised them up and loved them. I hope I did them justice in this story, and I want you to know that I am a better writer and creator because of you. Thank you.

  For my daughter, Rhea.

  No matter where life takes you or the mistakes that you make, you will always be my little princess with a dragon’s heart.

  Rose Borne

  Fairytales don’t tell children that dragons exist.

  Children already know that dragons exist.

  Fairytales tell children that dragons can be killed.

  -G.K. Chesterton

  A Beast’s Tale

  Life passes in an instant—a flash of light that appears once and then is gone. There is no beginning and no end. For if there was an end, then time would never be nor have been there at all. It moves so swiftly, fluid and changing and yet never new. Never anything new or worthy of stopping to sit and wait and watch.

  Such is the passing of time for one so old as myself. I have wandered oceans and mountains, learned every language and tool of man. I have known love and pain, hatred and betrayal. And now there is nothing new. Nothing remains any longer for one such as myself.

  What can compare to the vast richness of times and places long gone which I have seen? What joy can compare to my young wife, so long gone as of now, or the sight of my fair daughter years before? What beauty can compare to the morning light when I would awake to my bride sleeping beside me and hear our daughter humming to herself in the other room or the sound of our son playing down the hall?

  There is nothing hidden from me. No secret nor tool of knowledge. All is lain bare before me and is seen. My power is great and old, my name full with renown for those who still dare to remember it. Through my might and mystery, worlds were built and felled, lives borne and destroyed.

  And now, there is nothing new for me. My mortal wife is gone and so too our son and daughter. For all of my magic, I cannot contend with death, and I cannot withdraw another from it. Although I am immortal and I am great, there is no magic the living can possess that can conquer the realms of the gods. And death most certainly is a god.

  And still I wander the grave and barren earth for some semblance of hope or entertainment, even fear. I begin to ponder that the destruction of the whole earth would be suitable to me so long as it could drag me from this slumber. My mind is torn with sickness that such a long age can bring, and there is no solace to be found.

  Even the rain does not disturb me. It pours in sheets and sheets, pounding against my back. The thunder cracks in the sky while a streak of lightning illuminates my world and then plunges it into darkness once more. Thunder rolls with the might of the heavens, setting these mortals to tremble in their boots. It is on nights like these that they remember how small and feeble they are. They have all scattered like bugs into their homes and their inns, cowering with their wives and their children, hiding from the might of the storm. All but one.

  I cannot tell whether they are man or woman, but they run down the streets, heavy boots kicking up mud. Like a sensible fellow, they wear a heavy cloak to shield them from the rain. Unlike a sensible fellow, the cape of it is pulled over their head, shielding their sight and covering their front. There is something cradled in their arms, and it is just enough of an oddity that it piques my curiosity.

  “Be still.” My voice challenges the thunder for dominance and leaves it quivering in a contented rumble while my voice booms. The creature stops in their tracks, nearly stumbling into the mud. They lift up an arm, pushing the cloak back just enough to see me, although there is little to be seen. My cloak is large and covers me completely, hiding even the slightest trace of appearance from sight. Under my hood is darkness, solid black and indiscernible to sight. All except for my eyes.

  It is a man, in fact, though not much more than a boy, and he stares at my massive form with fear and trepidation. I am easily twice his twice even when I am slouched from the rain, peering at him from beneath my hood. He doesn’t move—says not a word but stares at me with the most curious of sights: terror and curiosity that is entirely befitting the whole of the human race. It is now too that I notice what the man is shielding. A parcel, a small bag tucked close to his chest, while he allows himself to be blasted by the gale in order to protect it. How curious indeed. “What do you carry?”

  He clutches the bag a bit tighter and looks down at it carefully. “A-A package for the Duke and Duchess Hawthorne,” says he.

  Hawthorne. I am unfamiliar with the name. Of course, I’ve no idea how much time has passed for these short-lived creatures. It may very well have been centuries. “What does the package contain?” He quivers, although from rain or fear, I am uncertain. “Answer me!” I bellow, and he jumps. Ah, from me then.

  “H-Herbs…for the barren duchess,” he says, his voice so quiet that a mortal would not have chanced to hear him speak.

  Hm. I sniff the air, trying to scent the package, but I cannot with all this rain and muck. “Let me see it,” I order, stepping towards the man and offering out my hand. My hand is gloved and large, capable of easily crushing his skull, and the tips of claws can nearly be seen against the ends of the gloves’ fingers.

  He hugs the bag a little tighter. “I-I cannot! I must get this package safely to—no!”

  In an instant, I have used my magic to take the parcel from him and hold it in my hand. I open it, ignoring the torrent of rain, and I take a deep breath. “Nightswift …harbinger…and calmeadow?” I toss the bag into the mud, and the man cries in agony, dropping to his knees and staring at the ruined things.

  “W-What have you done…” he whispers, staring at the now soaked package with utter dismay.

  It seems that the man cares deeply for the concerns of his duke and duchess. I sense no fear from him, not for his own life in any case, but a deep sorrow. That the rulers here have such loyal and concerned people is a curious thing indeed, for it is so very rare. But it is rather annoying and arduous to explain myself. How are these humans so very foolish? Ah well. “Those herbs will help the fertility of an ill wife, but a barren one it will not cure,
” I say, my gravelly voice rumbling through the darkness. He looks up at me hopelessly and finally picks himself up out of the muck.

  “It was worth trying…” he mutters glumly, picking up the ruined parcel with the soaked contents.

  I sigh. “Where are the duke and duchess?” I command. He looks up at me. “Do not waste my time, you fool. I can heal your lady’s barren womb. Now take me to the dwelling.”

  Chapter One: October

  “I’ve got a job for you.” Ketan tried not to flinch at the words. He was around the back of the house, wearing loose slacks stuffed into dirt-covered boots, a simple shirt soaked with sweat, and his black hair sticking to his grimy cheeks. He wore a cap on his head that nearly hid his face, but it did not spare Alexzander the irate glare in his eyes.

  Alexzander considered the handsome young boy holding a hand spade and took a step back with a healthy dose of caution; Ketan didn’t need much to make a weapon.

  Alexzander’s face was a look of petulance, almost boredom, hands stuffed into his pockets, blond hair cropped neatly around his face. He was lean and lithe with a long, narrow nose and thin mouth, his eyes never quite seeming to open all the way. He was the look of opulent boredom that seemed to befall so many newly wealthy young lads. Although how someone as young as he amassed as much wealth as was rumored—for no one truly knew—was quite a mystery usually attributed to black magic. And it certainly would not have surprised anyone.

  The boy on his knees, however, was a delicate fellow. His face was slender, nose slightly curved, the end tipping up. He was a thin boy, looking not quite grown into his own body. “I’m busy,” he said with a voice that would have been a beautiful thrum on a woman and made him sound like he was just on the cusp of manhood.

  Alexzander considered the potatoes Ketan was working on. “I can see that. But I have a job for you.”

  Ketan swore and thrust the spade into the ground, standing up. His face was smudged with dirt, his knees caked in it. In the town, Ketan usually kept a jovial if not slightly sardonic persona, but little love was there between he and Alexzander, and the urchin brat never lost an opportunity to remind Alexzander of this. “Damnit, Lex!” he roared, “I don’t have time for this! Winter is almost here, and there’s barely enough food for one, let alone two!” Ketan was the smaller of the two, but when he took a step forward, Alexzander was wise enough to take one back.

  “We all need to get fed, sweetheart,” Alexzander cooed, making the young man scowl even harder, eyes boring into Alexzander with scarce concealed hatred. “Don’t forget who fed you through all those long winters.” And there it was, the flicker of defeat in the boy’s eyes.

  A sigh. “What do you want?”

  “Simple,” said he. “A single artifact off a wealthy, traveling merchant. No bags of coins. No prized horses. Just a single artifact.”

  Ketan put an impatient hand on his hip. “What is it?”

  Alexzander shrugged. “A rose brooch. The Hawthorne Rose. The man’s wife should be wearing it on her breast. It’s worth a small fortune, even by his standards.”

  Ketan considered Alexzander for a very long time, mouth in a thin scowl, eyes narrowed into slits, every muscle taut and angry. “What merchant?”

  Alexzander sighed. “Oh please. Are you frightened, Ketan? Is there finally a challenge even too great for you?”

  “That won’t work on me, Lex,” Ketan snapped, but Alexzander caught the edge in the boy’s voice. “Who’s the damn merchant?”

  “The Darkwaters.”

  Ketan gave a start, mouth slightly agape. Surely Alexzander had lost his mind. The Darkwaters were well known around those parts. Although no one was quite sure from which country they came, from the time they had arrived many years ago, their family thrived. They were very nearly the wealthiest family in the country. The men were known for being quick and ruthless in both battle and trade, and they had quickly earned their place. The women, comparatively, were as equally skilled as their mates. They were fit and strong creatures who could craft the most beautiful of items with ethereal competence.

  The Darkwaters were not feared for any magic, for they had none, but for their code. They were a very large family led by the Lord and Lady Darkwaters. Although the Lady Regina was seen from time to time, her husband rarely was and yet he was far more infamous. Those few who were foolish enough to accost or steal from the family had all met with very swift and very brutal ends. They’d still not found all the parts of that one fellow, Claud McGruie, from last year when he kissed the lord’s daughter without her consent.

  “And I am the only one you are putting to the task?” Ketan asked dubiously. “Surely you must know that the Darkwaters in and of themselves are formidable foes. But any guards they have will be of equal skill and strengths. I cannot best them in battle alone.”

  “Of course not,” Alexzander replied casually and reached out, patting the boy’s cheek. “No one can best their people in strength. They are built like the old mountains. Impassible and unforgivable. But you are a quick wit, my darling. You will best them in your own way.”

  Ketan slapped the man’s hand away. “When and where?”

  “Three days until they reach the town. Find a way.” Alexzander turned and headed out of the garden gate, giving a little wave behind him. “Good bye, lovely.”

  Ketan muttered a few choice words, breathing harshly through his nose, before he turned back to his work, knees slamming into the ground before he knelt over his potatoes with renewed vigor.

  “Are you really going to steal from the Darkwaters?” came the small voice of a young boy, no older than six, who stepped out the back door of their small cottage.

  Ketan looked up with unrest and frowned at him. “I thought I told you not to show yourself when Alexzander is here.”

  “I didn’t,” the boy replied shortly. “I listened from the window. He didn’t see me.” Ketan gave him a level look and then puffed out a breath, slashing at the ground again. A moment of silence passed uneasily between them, and finally the boy asked, “Why is the rose brooch so special? Is it made of diamonds?”

  Ketan gave a snort of a laugh. “Hardly,” replied he. He stabbed at the ground for another moment before sitting back with a heavy sigh. His eyes seemed lost for a moment, staring blankly at the wall ahead of him. He looked down at his lap and sighed, yanking off his gloves one at a time and thinking on his words. “It was originally crafted for Isabella Hawthorne, a wealthy heiress from the city. As the story goes, the beloved wife was barren, and rather than take another wife, her husband consulted with every sorcerer in the country to find one who could heal her womb. For years there were none…but at long last, one arrived, bearing a rose forged from the bones of a dragon and painted with dye made from their scales…and three months later, Isabella conceived…”

  “What does ‘conceived’ mean?” asked the child.

  The older boy looked up at him and smiled, and his face softened gently. “It means that a baby began growing in her womb.”

  “Oh…”

  Ketan laughed and stood up, grabbing his spade and gloves and starting to brush himself off. “Well, Isabella gave birth to two healthy daughters but died giving birth to the third…but the foolish lord had forgotten all about the sorcerer…to whom he had promised the hand of one of his daughters in marriage…and by the time the eldest daughter was of marrying age, she had hundreds of fine, wealthy suitors courting her—for she was, after all, very lovely. The sorcerer came to remind Lord Hawthorne of his promise but the lord had forgotten the power of the sorcerer and refused him, and the sorcerer, in a rage, reclaimed his dragon rose, and cursed the family. Wrought with guilt, the lord withdrew into his manner, neglecting his daughters, his company, and his very sanity…and within a few years, their money and wealth had all but vanished…”

  Ketan went silent then, walking to his little shed and putting away his things, shooing out the spiders as he went. He didn’t mind the little garden spiders so much, b
ut for their own sakes, they needed to keep out of his gloves. By the time he closed the shed up, the young boy was behind him, looking curious. “So…are the Darkwaters the magician family?”

  Ketan gave a dry laugh. “Hardly. They hate magic as much as us, or at least this Western magic we use…I don’t know how they came by the dragon rose.”

  “Well, what about the Hawthorne family?” he asked hurriedly, following the older boy into their shabby dwelling.

  Ketan shrugged without looking behind him. “When they lost all of their money, the man and his daughters retreated to the country. The man lived long enough to see his two eldest daughters married, but there isn’t much told about the younger. I imagine she’s married and living as a peasant.” He shut the door behind the child and then went to the basin of water, futilely trying to scrub the black dirt off of his hands and out from under his short, bitten nails.

  The boy went quiet then, and Ketan considered it an odd thing since he was usually so talkative. The older boy began moving around the house, boiling water and beginning to cook a very thin stew for dinner, trying to salvage what was left of their stale bread. It would be better if they could dip it into the stew. After several minutes, however, Ketan looked over at the child who was sitting at the table, looking morosely down at the warped wood. “Whatever is the matter, Jacob?” asked the older boy.

  At his name, the child looked up with such a somber, aged expression in his eyes that Ketan’s heart clenched. “Why didn’t the lord just keep his word to the sorcerer?”

  Ketan gave a little smile and sighed, turning to stir the weak stew. “Well, first of all, he never should have bartered someone else’s life in the first place. He was clearly a very foolish man. And second, child…” Ketan sighed, trying to find words. When he could not, he shook his head and looked over at Jacob. “Listen here, Jacob…sorcerer or not, a man’s word is everything. A vow is a vow. Do not ever break it.”