Ostracized (The Ostracized Saga Book 1)

by Olivia Majors

  “Dirk!” Otis appears out of nowhere, stepping between us, his sword drawn. “Return to your ranks!”

  “It’s all because of her. All of this!” Dirk swings an angry arc around the square. He points an accusing finger at me. “Her! She brought this on us. She called them here. It’s been weeks since their last attack. Why would they come here if it weren’t for her?”

  Around him, the echo of agreement rises.

  “It’s just like the last one. You’re bringing death on us all, Otis, and you know it. We should do away with her!”

  “It shall be up to the king. You know the law as well as I,” Dirk says firmly.

  “The law is killing us. Sometimes tis necessary to take the law into your own hands.” Dirk casts a hateful glance at me. “If one of you doesn’t do it, I’ll slit her throat myself. Just wait!”

  The sound of steel being drawn distracts Dirk’s attention from me, to Shade, who steps up alongside me. His moon sword, the designs glowing dangerously on its form, casually rests at his side in a graceful, downward swipe. “No one is slitting anyone’s throat until the king has a say in this. Or have you forgotten about the Kelbans who you don’t want to be like? What happened when the Celectate saw fit to overrule the Community and ostracize his own people? Or do you want to become like him and those Kelbans?”

  Dirk smirks. “I think you’ve been visiting Kelba for far too long. I’m beginning to wonder where you loyalties really lie, my boy.”

  The crowd’s muffled agreement dies a tragic death. The silence could kill. Everyone (or everyone that I can see) stares at Shade – no, at his swords – and their faces tighten. Fear. Hate. Anger. Other emotions too deep to describe. But their motivation is clear.

  They dislike him.

  And he doesn’t look like he gives a damn. “My loyalty does not belong to those who do not deserve it,” he answers. “And as far as my visits to our sister nation are concerned, I have decided not to be afraid of that stagnant piece of shit they call a wall.”

  Dirk sputters uselessly for a crushing reply, but he comes up empty. He turns to Otis instead, voice softening respectfully. “I beg you, Keeper. I beg you to hang the bitch and be done with this matter. This curse. Before they come again. Before they destroy us all.”

  I stare at my arm. Beneath the bandage I can still feel the gooey touch of the shadowy hold. The hard evil that tried to press into my wound the way it had entered the poor dead man by the wall. The voice of the horrible creature – a voice I can translate and understand and speak to. I can converse with evil. I can speak with demons.

  What does that make me?

  My silence is noticed.

  Shade’s hand tightens on his sword as the crowd takes a step forward as one. I do not think he will use it on them. I see the lines in his forehead, the crease of a frown at the corner of his lips. He does not want to kill them. Does not want to defend me. He is not willing to kill an angry mob that might be right about me.

  “Stop.” The command is a quiet one. Like a child’s voice, smooth and delicate.

  River elbows her way through the crowd, Axle not far behind her. She pauses in front of Dirk and rewards him with a glare. On her fragile, kindly face it does not carry the effect I think she hoped it would. She ignores his answering sneer and looks at me. I see the silent “thank you” behind her large, red-rimmed eyes.

  “You will not harm her,” River says simply.

  Dirk chuckles.

  River turns on him. “She saved my life.”

  The silence breaks. The crowd starts murmuring again.

  “What do you mean?” Dirk and Otis ask at the same time.

  “She saved my life. She fought off the shadow.” She smiles softly. “With a bucket.”

  Dirk shakes his head in pure shock. Otis doesn’t say anything.

  “It’s true.” Mama Opal joins the circle, laying a convincing hand to Otis’s arm. “She flew out of that cellar like a guardian angel. I couldn’t catch her. The girl’s no threat!” The last part was for the crowd.

  “She saved your life?” Shade stares at River in disbelief.

  She nods.

  The crowd mumbles among once more. Slowly, people turn and walk back into the village. Others move towards the wall where the dead will be buried.

  Dirk looks around. He’s been left on his own. Even Keegan is not in sight. He stares at Shade with rage-filled eyes. At River with cool indifference. At Otis with shocked despair.

  He flings up his hands in furious surrender. “You’ll all see,” he snaps, turning his back. “She’ll be the destruction of us all!”

  Otis gently shakes Mama Opal’s hand from his arm. “The King will know about this.” He looks at me. “Everything about her.”

  Axle doesn’t step towards me, but his eyes are searching my face frantically. Somewhere inside the catacombs of his knowledge he messed something up. I see him struggling to correct it.

  Shade merely steps past me without a second look and follows River back towards Mama Opal’s.

  I turn towards the well. The shadow dropped its blade. I remember it clattering to the ground. If I show him the unique weapon he will surely believe me.

  But the dagger is gone.

  Chapter XVII

  I am in darkness. The darkness surrounds me. The darkness is me. I open my eyes.

  The darkness is a mountain. A mountain of black and night and fog and evil. Shadows dance among it, around campfires of ruthless light. I walk among them, but they do not see me. I watch them twist and turn and form themselves. Watch them enter the many caves dotting the mountain. Follow them. Weave in and out of the darkened tunnels carved deep into the belly of earth. Into a large, open room in the center of the mountain.

  A lone, dark figure stands there, cloaked in shadow and night.

  “My lord.” A shadow rasps to my right. I don’t breathe. “Agron stands.”

  The silhouette moves, a cape rippling along the glossy, black floor. “And?”

  “My lord?” The shadow is confused.

  “Don’t play fool with me. There is something else. Something else you are hiding from me. Something important. What is it?” The voice is evil itself – dark and twisted.

  The shadow bows its hooded head and hesitates. His master grunts impatiently. “A Kelban is among them – a girl. She wounded Mel-ki. He claims she spoke to him. That she understood him. I know, my lord, that such a feat is impossible unless . . .”

  The evil turns. I cannot see his face. Only his form. Powerful. Giant. Demonic in the dim light.

  “Should we tell him?” the shadow asks. It sounds nervous. “He . . .”

  “No!” The evil force snaps. “I will handle this situation. He is busy with other matters.”

  “But he would want to know of this.”

  The gigantic shadow moves closer, towering in the entire room, spreading black talons in wide, thorny branches through the spacious court. “I will handle this situation!” he repeats.

  The shadow bows. At least it’s smart enough to know when to crawl. “What of Mel-ki, my lord?”

  The larger, darker shadow growls. “What do you think?”

  A blinding dark flash snaps in the space between us. A pathway of some sort between it and me. Evil and twisted and . . . wrong. The wound burns. The scars on my neck ache. Our connection is more than one of flesh and wounds. Deep down inside me, that darkness pulls and stabs and claws.

  “Understood.” The shadow bows again and retreats from the room.

  The taloned branches retreat inside the giant’s cloak in a matter of seconds. A feat of power and unspeakable horror. It turns and the glint of metal beneath that heavy hood blinks at me. “Where are you, llevanra?”

  I bolt upright.

  A dream. Just a dream. A horrible, frightening dream.

  I put my hands over my eyes, damp palms cool on my eyelids. I am wet all over. My nightshirt (an old tunic belonging to Mama Opal’s deceased husband Cedric) is plastered to my bod
y.

  River murmurs softly beside me in sleep and rolls onto her side, facing me. Her lips are puckered oddly, and her fingers are spread apart carelessly. She is at peace.

  I don’t think I’ve had a peaceful sleep since I was fourteen.

  I kick my legs over the side of the bed. Mama Opal left some hot tea downstairs. It calmed my nerves after the shadow attack two nights ago. It can calm them again now.

  The stairs feel awkward beneath my feet. Like they’re built on air, instead of stone and nails.

  The fireplace still burns brightly.

  Mama Opal has drawn a curtain over her corner of the room. I hear her snoring.

  I tip the edge of the iron canister over the mug River found for me. A stream of the thick, black tea pours out. It reminds me of the black substance on the shadow’s dagger. Of the blood that coated Shade’s hand when he pulled away from my arm. Of the evil in my nightmare. I step away from the table, no longer feeling thirsty.

  Funerals for the deceased had been held the morning after the attack. Mama Opal had kept me locked in the house while the mourning and weeping processions passed by the door every hour, asking for donations to the widows and orphans left behind by the destruction. She had slipped a packet of her best herbs under the door, but hadn’t dared open it.

  The day after was no better. Several drunk “friends” of one of the deceased gave the door a good bludgeoning before Axle showed up and dispersed them.

  Today, River tells me, was much smoother. People were angry, yes. But others had rediscovered reason and were adjusting to the loss.

  Deep down, I don’t believe her. How could an innocent, sweet, trusting girl like her know anything of the sordid thoughts that hateful people could mask?

  I sit down by the fire. The ashes are warm beneath my hand. I sink fingernails deep into the soot, hoping it removes the distasteful remnants of the shadow’s hold on me.

  The floorboards creak, and, instinctively, I swivel on the dark silhouette standing by the table.

  Shade looks down at me, eyes groggy with sleep. He clutches a kitchen knife in his hand. “Kel – Kyla.” Apparently he’s not sleepy enough to forget my threat to remove his tongue. “What are you . . . why are you up?”

  Because I’m frightened. Because I think there’s something wrong with me. Because I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

  “I was thirsty,” I mutter. I jump to my feet and drain the mug of cold, thick tea. It sticks to the sides of my throat on its way down. I have the greatest urge to force it back up. Instead, I head for the stairs again.

  “Kyla,” he calls after me.

  I turn around. “Yes?”

  His vest is half-open and the firelight dances off the muscles peeking through. The edge of that fierce scar pokes above the cinched edges of his vest. He follows my gaze there and jerks the edges of his vest together. “Nothing,” he mutters.

  I walk upstairs and lie back down beside River.

  The second level of Mama Opal’s home is sanctioned in half by a large, thick curtain, so heavy that I can’t pull it aside. Maybe if I had the use of both my arms but my right arm is considerably weakened from the wound. Sometimes I can’t move it at all and sicken with fright at the idea of losing the mobility.

  I ask Mama Opal about the room four days after the funerals when I’ve exhausted my attempts to remain attentive to her constant medicine making. She says it’s rather “frightful” and that the curtain separates the sleeping area from what was once her deceased husband’s study. She calls him a “strange, little man” and tells me I might be sick at the sight.

  She only seals my interest.

  River pulls aside the curtain for me. Her face turns purple before she’s even tugged it five feet. I step through, and she walks back downstairs. Apparently, she doesn’t relish the study any more than Mama Opal does.

  I set the lamp Mama Opal provided on the nearby table. The abandoned study is full of strange things. Creatures in glass jars. Eyeballs. Preserved animal fetuses. Toxins that haven’t been opened in years. Ancient, cracked kitchenware from before Kelba’s hundred year history. I even find a bit of writing within the mess that looks very similar to ancient Kelban. The writing is worn and faded. I can only make out two words: “devote” and “hope.” At the bottom of the parchment, written in the clear, definable, present Kelban language, is a simple signature.

  Cedric.

  I presume he’s Mama Opal’s husband and explore the strange artifacts he left behind. None of them turn my stomach. Not even the preserved fetuses and eyeballs. Instead, I regard them with renewed interest. They do not resemble anything I’d ever seen in Kelba – but I’d been in the city ninety-five percent of my life. Perhaps they roamed the mountains or poorer plains of my homeland.

  The fragments of ancient house-ware are, perhaps, the most interesting. They are delicately carved with ancient symbols (probably to ward off the gods) and in fine condition, despite their shattered state. The tales of ancient Kelba, when there had been no division, no wall, had never been a subject of interest for me. But now, holding pieces of broken pottery in my hands, I curse myself for being small-minded. If I had researched – even for a month or two – I might know which century the pottery was from. Which Kelban group it might have belonged to. Which city.

  “Busy?” River asks. She stands outside the curtain and quickly looks away from two white eyeballs staring at her through the clear liquid of their glass home. “You’ve been up here for three hours already, Kyla.”

  Had it really been that long? I stand and dust off my hands on the waist of my tunic. I wish I had my notebook. There are so many things I want to write down. Eventually I might get desperate enough to climb back into Kelba just to retrieve the book.

  River helps me tug the curtain back into place. She shakes her head at me ruefully. “I can’t believe you aren’t even pale. That study gives me the shivers.” Her shoulders shake as she says it. “Doesn’t it scare you?”

  “A lot of things scare me,” I answer as we descend the stairs. “But not a pair of dead eyeballs.”

  “That’s not fair,” she gripes. “They’re an extremely creepy pair of dead eyeballs.”

  “Just imagine them as someone whom you love,” I advice. “Then they won’t seem so scary.”

  She makes a face like she’s going to be sick. “Kyla . . . that’s morbid and awful and . . .”

  “It works, doesn’t it?” I ask with a sly grin.

  She elbows me in the shoulder, but doesn’t hide her smile fast enough. She hooks me by the arm and halts our downward journey. “You’re going to help me with something today, and . . .”

  “If you are going to make me try and sew a stitch again, forget it. I’m not interested in bloody fingertips for the third time in a row.”

  River laughs. “I thought your handiwork was quite good. I’ve never seen that strange thing you were sewing. It was pure art.”

  The small handkerchief I had been busying myself with over the last few days lies discarded by the bed upstairs. The image is embroidered completely from black thread, but of many intricate shapes and patterns. However, it possesses no form, so River should be confused.

  “It’s a shadow blade,” I say.

  River grows quiet. Despite me saving her life and fighting off the shadow, she does not believe me. I don’t blame her. Anyone cut with the blade has died, and I can’t find the dagger that cut me to prove its legitimacy. I had River search for it in the square the day after the attack. She hadn’t found it.

  “We’re gathering nuts and herbs today,” River says. She sees my confused expression and smiles kindly. “Don’t worry. You’re getting the nuts. I’m collecting the herbs. If you accidentally brought back poison, Dirk won’t let you go this time.”

  I shudder at the idea.

  Downstairs, Mama Opal hands River a leather pouch. “Make sure to eat it,” she reminds. “I packed an extra side of bread and tea.” She casts a reproving look at the waist of m
y dress. A faraway look comes into her eyes, and she brushes a curly strand of hair out of my face with gentle fingers. “Eat it all.”

  I swear, she’s like my mother in that moment.

  River looks uncomfortable and edges the door open with her knee. She tosses a wicker basket from the ceiling in my direction, and I catch it. Mama Opal recovers her usual, firm appearance and waves us off, reminding River to get the “red” ones this time and not the “orange.”

  Outside, the sun is already high in the sky. Heat sticks to my neck. Warms my face. Glazes my scar. Self-consciously, I pull the strap of my tunic over the ghastly emblem. Even I’m sick of looking at it. I don’t want any more unnecessary attention.

  I have shoes now. River gave them to me as a present, in reward for saving her life, though she wouldn’t admit it. They are like sandals, but represent a boot’s form since they twist and tie all the way up my shin. They feel secure and are just my size. At least River and I are similar in that aspect.

  The villagers hardly pay us any mind as we walk towards the square. The only people I can see are men building more homes. Everyone is outside the wall, collecting, farming, and playing. That is where I will meet the most attention.

  When River and I step beyond the gate, the guards reminding us of “curfew,” I discover I’m correct. Anyone standing beyond the gate immediately looks up when I step out.

  Thousands of eyes upon me are nothing new, I tell myself. I was always stared at wherever I was. And, being honest, I didn’t like it then either. Nausea curdles in my stomach as several woman with pitchforks tighten their grips around the tool. They want to kill me, I know it.

  When the greenery of the trees swallows me up, I finally breathe and look around. The tree trunks are an assortment of colors. Dark brown. Black. Ash gray. The leaves likewise. Green. Emerald. Yellow. White. Even a couple of red. River points at my basket, and turns towards an area that is full of thick trees, so close together their trunks are practically hugging one another.