Ostracized (The Ostracized Saga Book 1)

by Olivia Majors

  I resist the urge to remind him of my name.

  He tosses my sword at me when I turn the corner. “Now we’ll see how fluently you’ve applied your new-found capabilities to memory.”

  Shade was unmerciful.

  River makes no comment when I wash the dirt and blood caked onto my hands before supper. She sits with her legs propped beneath her chin, watching me.

  I gently soothe the blisters on my hands with Mama Opal’s medicine. Strangely enough, they don’t bother me. I look at their ugly, puffed forms and can’t explain the pride that fills me. All my life, I had delicate, beautiful, soft hands. Hands that told everyone I was wealthy. Proud. Lazy. Now they are raw, red, and cracked. They show everyone I fight. Struggle. Work.

  I spread my hand palm flat before me. It’s a habit I’ve forced myself to entertain lately. And, as usual, there is no pulse. No tingling nerves. Just the air on my fingertips.

  “What are you doing?” River asks.

  “Nothing,” I reply hastily and bury my hands in the towel she laid near the basin.

  “No, I mean what are you doing? As in, where do you go every day? Why do you return so . . . so mysteriously?”

  Shade and I manage to keep our sessions a secret. He leaves early in the morning, hours before the sun will paint the sky. I leave at the first rays of sunrise. He returns an hour before dusk to take his place at the walls, always offering up an excuse as to why he has returned empty-handed from his hunts. I return directly at dusk, usually carrying firewood or some herbs I managed to pluck hurriedly. Eight days and we’ve managed to continue our charade without detection.

  “I find it difficult on the return route and get helplessly lost.”

  “I could come with you and . . .”

  “No!”

  My interruption causes lines to crease on River’s forehead when she squints at me. “Why not? It would save you a lot of time. The woods is a frightening place to be. Especially at dusk. What if you can’t find your way home after dusk has fallen? You’ve seen the shadows once – you don’t want to meet them again. Alone. Do you?”

  I blink. “What did you just say?”

  “I said you don’t want to be attacked by shadows, alone, in the middle of a darkened forest. That is their territory. They would . . .”

  “No, before that. Home. You said ‘home.’” My voice sounds raspy.

  River smiles. “Yes. I said home. This is your home, Kyla. Me. Mama Opal. Axle. Shade. We’re your home.” Her smile turns upside down. “Aren’t we?”

  “I . . . I have to . . . get some air.”

  “Kyla!” River calls after me.

  “Mercy . . .!” Mama Opal cries as I dodge past her and out the door. “Kyla, it’s dangerous outsi . . .”

  I turn the corner of her house – the house River had just said was mine – and lean against the rough stones. I curl into the shadows when River runs by my hiding place, calling my name, distraught.

  Home. Home. Home. This is your home. We’re your home.

  My throat aches, but I won’t cry. I won’t cry.

  A tear manages to drip from my flooded eyes. Hell!

  River returns a few minutes later. She peruses the corner of the house and sees me. I wipe the wet streak from beneath my eye and stiffen. She leaves a descent amount of space between us and rubs her arms nervously.

  “I didn’t mean to . . . to upset you,” she whispers. “I only thought . . . well, you’ve been here a while and we all . . . all of us care for you. I thought maybe you’d think about us as . . . as something, I guess. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “I know you didn’t.” But how can she understand? I have a home. It’s behind a five hundred foot Wall in the heart of Kelba. My home – father, mother, brother – they are my home.

  River gently takes my hand. “You saved my life. No matter what anyone says you belong here.” She taps her chest. “In here. No matter what. Haven’t you ever had friends?”

  Craig. Selena. Aspen. They were my friends once. Before I defied their expectations of me. Before I disappointed them. Before I became something that endangered them.

  I shake my head.

  River smiles. “I’m your first then? That’s good. I like that.”

  She leads me back inside and makes up an excuse for my quick exit. Mama Opal swallows the lie.

  I sneak a peek at River during our meal. She slips one of her round vegetables into Axle’s brew, which he hacks up a few moments later, resulting in chaotic laughter around the table. Even Shade smiles – that dimple at the corner of his mouth winking with amusement.

  River meets my gaze when I manage to prod her foot beneath the table.

  I mouth: “I like it too.”

  She smiles.

  I smile back.

  Ninth day – parrying.

  Tenth day – lunging.

  Eleventh day – countering.

  Twelfth day – all of it.

  I finally hold up a hand between our thirty-second match, gagging on mouthfuls of air that never quite fill my screaming lungs. “Respite,” I gasp.

  Shade frowns, but lowers his sword and steps back. He toes the dirt in front of him while I claw at my chest for oxygen. No matter how many times I attack him – how many tricks I use – he’s too fast. Too observant.

  And to make matters worse, he doesn’t even break a sweat during our lessons. If I could bring one perfect, round bead of perspiration to his brow I would count myself a victor.

  “Do I need to remind you?” he asks.

  I try to remember all the poetic quotes he’s heaped upon my brain in the past three days, but they jumble together in strings of incoherent nonsense.

  “Do not play fair,” he chides when I remain silent. “Forget the rules. Forget honor. Forget all your righteous Kelban monologues about the ‘proper way to fight.’ This is not about your ability to duel or retain your reputation. This is about your life, Kyla. Your flesh and blood! Survival.”

  “I know that!”

  “You don’t know shit. You war too much with your inner thoughts.”

  I stumble to my feet.

  Shade bounces his sword from right hand to left tauntingly. He finally grips it firmly in his right and points it at me. “Decide: right or left. Forward or backward. Back or front. Fast or . . .”

  “I get it!”

  He sneers. “Imagine ridding the world of something vile. Evil. Wretched. Monstrous. Wouldn’t it make you feel good? Fight for that. Fight to rid the world of creatures like that.”

  He would have me fight for the pleasure of it. For the thrill of watching something bleed and die.

  Bile claws at my throat. “What ill-bred madman taught you to fight?” I ask.

  He halts his approach in my direction. A brief shadow quivers at the corner of his eyes and is gone. “I taught myself.”

  I don’t stop the laugh that erupts from my mouth. “That’s impossible. Everyone needs a trainer in these matters.”

  His grip hardens on the sword, whitening his knuckles. He lunges at me. I block the strike but he lashes out with his foot and hooks it behind my ankles. I fall flat and air leaves my lungs. This is where he usually steps back and waits for me to get up, taunting me all the while. But not now. Above me, in blurry motions of arms and wood, he cuts his sword downwards. I block the strike. Splinters of wood rain down over my face. He chops again. My wrists explode in pain.

  His next blow sends my weapon clattering against the trees, out of my reach.

  I stare up at him, waiting for him to retreat and allow me to stand. The rough surface of his sword strikes my cheek. Fiery pain explodes over the side of my face. I touch the hot exterior of my skin and prickly splinters stab my fingertips.

  “That was my training,” Shade says softly. “Are you going to let me do that to you again?”

  I retrieve my sword and face him. “No way in hell.”

  This time, I lunge at him.

  He tried for the rest of the day t
o put me back on the ground. To lower my guard. To destroy me.

  I didn’t let him.

  Day fourteen. Two weeks of endless training. Two weeks of muscled effort and Shade gives me a real sword. It’s an older blade – maybe thirty years – but its a sword and it’s sharp. I spend several hours adjusting to the difference in weight, size, and capability. The sword is lighter than the wooden blade by a good eight pounds. I hardly notice its presence in my hand. The hilt is wrapped in rawhide to prevent against perspiration on my hands. Slippery hands are a fighter’s doom!

  Shade waits two minutes after our first match before speaking. “Your movements are graceful!” He hacks my sword away violently. “Piss on grace.”

  I retrieve it and we start again. I watch his movements. He usually steps to the right when he’s ready to attack. I wait and watch. He steps to the right. I lunge and he quickly dodges to the left and flips my sword from my grasp, once again leaving me at his mercy.

  “You rely on your brain to counter your opponent.” He sneers. “Piss on knowledge.”

  Once more, I retrieve my sword, irritation spiraling in my gut, and we begin again. Two minutes. Four minutes. I lunge at him too hard, and he avoids my attack easily. He takes advantage of my slow recovery and strikes at my back, stopping the blade against the ridges of my spine.

  “You depend upon the virtue of your attacker,” he chides. Placing a hand on my shoulder, he thrusts me away from him. “Piss on virtue.”

  Anger curls inside of me in harsh protest to his words. “There is more to a fight than pure brutality. There is honor.”

  “Sure.” He tilts the point of his sword in my direction. “Honor is why poor fools, like you, die.” He retrieves the water pouch near the tree and takes long, relaxed gulps before handing it to me.

  “My brother has honor. He’s alive,” I counter.

  Shade sneers. His shoulders rise in a casual shrug. “Your brother’s alive because he’s a selfish bastard. Piss on him.”

  Rage urges a growl of protest in my throat. I lunge at him with all my strength. He raises his blade, expecting the blow, and our swords grind into a firm lock. I smell and taste the metal intensity in the air. I struggle to pull my blade free. I want to strike at him again. I want to force him to the ground. I want to make him take back his words. But I can’t. The hilts of our weapons are entangled.

  I look at him – and wish I hadn’t. There is anger in his gaze, but it’s not at me. It’s the kind of anger Father had when he’d rant about Celectate Wood. The kind Landor would get when he complained about the Community. It’s the kind of anger that grows from a sense of injustice and ill-treatment.

  “Your brother’s a bastard. Do you want to know why, Kyla?”

  No, I don’t. I want you to shut up. I want you to piss off. I want you to take back your words.

  Shade continues, pretending he has no idea about the wretched turmoil inside my head. “Because if a real man lost his family – lost someone he loved – he’d do anything. No! He’d do everything to make sure the ones responsible wished they were in hell. He’d send them to hell. And he’d enjoy doing it. If your brother remains a steadfast, honorable man after what happened to you, then he did not love you. And he was not worthy of your affections either.”

  With our blades – and our bodies – locked so close, there is no way to avoid his eyes as they search my face. His forehead is creased in lines, and the corners of his mouth tremble slightly. Control. He’s trying to control himself.

  “Is that what happened to you?” I ask.

  Our blades snap apart when he steps back. He lets his fall to the ground. “Lesson’s over for the day.”

  He turns and walks towards the steep, descending steps to the common forest below.

  “Shade,” I call after him but he doesn’t stop. I hurry to the top of the steps, in time to see him striding away through the branches towards Agron. “Shade! You’re wrong about him!”

  He doesn’t respond but I can imagine his retort. How the hell would I know?

  I am in the Wilds. Landor is in Kelba. There is no possible way for me to know whether he’s continued on with his life. Whether he’s become Celectate Wood’s personal lapdog. Shade could be right.

  My visions are not true. Merely wishes of what I hope everyone is doing without me. My hope that they have not forgotten about me. My hope that they did – and still – love me. There is no possible way for the visions to be true. But if they are . . .

  Hairs raise on my arms as a chill settles over me.

  Shade is not among the ruins when I enter them the next day. Not wanting to waste the long journey through the misty morning, I stretch and do some warm-up exercises in the circle he created for our duels. Two hours pass, but the forest still appears shrouded in darkness. It is a drizzly morning and my clothes are damp.

  Four hours. I finally realize he’s not coming. A vague sense of relief settles over me. There will be no one to laugh at my mistakes. No one to taunt and insult me on my lack of skills.

  I lay aside my sword and retrieve my dagger from its sheath beneath my skirt. It has been a long time since I’ve practiced and the object feels miniscule and tiny compared to the weight of a sword. My heart starts to pound as it once did when I held the weapon in my hand. It was small. It was easily overlooked. It was deadly. The dagger and I were the same, I had liked to think.

  I switch the blade to my left hand. The feeling changes. My stomach knots.

  I line my body up, twenty feet from a tree one foot across. A perfect target. I adjust the dagger in my hand, perfect for throwing. It feels all wrong. I prepare my wrist for the toss.

  Wrong!

  The scars on my neck constrict. I haven’t felt their presence in a while. Slowly, they begin their familiar pulsing. Pulsing that used to make me sick to my stomach. My veins burn from my neck, down my arm, to my fingertips. The cool metal hilt of my dagger against the burning flesh of my palm jolts my skin. I let go of the blade.

  It doesn’t fall to the ground. Bile rises in my throat and nausea replaces the pounding in my skull. The blade hovers just beneath my hand, a mere inch of air between my palm and its hilt. I am not touching it.

  My hand is a magnet – the dagger the recipient.

  Impossible, my brain screams.

  The invisible, magnetic force in my hands fades.

  The blade falls to the ground.

  Shade is absent from dinner that evening. He is not waiting for me at the ruins the next morning either. I spend the day familiarizing myself with the many weapons in his makeshift shed, and practicing, left-handed, with my dagger. There was one lesson he didn’t have to teach me: limitations could be my doom.

  The dagger behaves like a normal dagger. No flying unless I am the initiator No hovering in midair beneath my hand. I excuse the previous day’s action as another of my many mystified visions. Lack of sleep. Inattentiveness. A mirage.

  I even took the time to listen for signs of a siratha in the forest, but quickly dispelled such an idea. If a siratha were in the forest I wouldn’t be the only one fearing their sanity. No one in the village had complained of irregular happenings. Except for my presence, of course. In all honesty, I think the villagers are relieved I spend my days outside their wall.

  When I return to the gates before they close for dusk, Otis is waiting for me, arms crossed firmly. I try to ignore the gaze he fixes on me. He wants an explanation. I fear I may have to give him one.

  “What do you do in the forest, girl, for so many hours?” he asks, surveying the mud splattering every inch of me. Training got especially messy today.

  “I go stuck in a ditch,” I lie. “The basket was lost.” Indeed, that part was half-true. I had forgotten to retrieve the basket full of mint leaves for Mama Opal. They were still settled next to the shed door.

  “Hmm,” Otis murmurs. “Seems to me . . .”

  “Kyla! We’ve been waiting for you. Mama Opal has supper on the table,” River exclaims from behi
nd him. Her braid rocks from side-to-side as she approaches me and wipes some of the mud from my arm. “Although you may need a bath first.”

  I let her lead me forward.

  “Kyla,” Otis calls after me. I glance at him over my shoulder. “The King’s reply will be here soon. I sent the information off today.”

  I nod to show I’ve understood. He turns his back, and I let out the breath I was holding.

  “How long do I have?” I ask as we – Mama Opal, River, and I – sit at the dinner table.

  “Two weeks. Maybe a little longer. The king has a lot of other matters besides you to deal with, honey,” Mama Opal assures me. “For instance, the frequent attacks in other villages. The growing ranks of the shadows. Trust me, a Kelban is the least of his worries. And Otis is an intelligent man. He won’t make you out to be a demon that you aren’t. Trust me. He’s a good man, when he’s sober.”

  “And when he’s not sober?” River asks, her eyes twinkling mischievously

  Mama Opal shifts uncomfortably. “Then he’s rather manageable. Like a baby. Or the enemy with their hands tied.” She stands abruptly and mutters an excuse about needing to stoke the fire.

  River struggles to hold in her laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask.

  “Nothing much. It’s just, last year, when I was coming home late from the gate, I found Otis and Mama Opal in here and they were . . .”

  “Having an emotional conversation,” Mama Opal interjects.

  “Otis had his arms around her and she was patting his back. He smelled awful, but she didn’t seem to mind. And he leaned in like this . . .” She leans across the table towards me, her lips puckering up, her eyes fluttering closed. “And . . . whoosh . . . I say their names, and they snap apart!” She points at the wall. “Otis hit his head on the wall. Mama Opal set her skirts on fire because she stepped too close to the flames. It was hilarious!”

  Mama Opal’s cheeks flush pink.

  I smile inwardly. Otis and Mama Opal. How interesting.

  Upstairs, River lends me her comb to brush the dirt that the bathwater didn’t reach out of my hair.

  “Where are Axle and Shade?” I ask.