This is a novel that took me five years to write and edit. It then sat on my computer, untouched, for another five years. Only a handful of friends and relatives have read it. Now, I’ve decided that it deserves the light of day, because it’s not doing anyone any good just hiding on my hard drive.
I am going to post one chapter to this blog every week until I’ve posted the whole novel. Please tell me your thoughts! The only way for me to get better at writing is to write–and to receive and incorporate feedback.
Here is a link to the full-sized map.
In the thick morning mist, she stood as still as possible with a wooden bow clasped in her left hand. Her right hand was gloved, and she drew the string back with her first three fingers. Letting all thought drain out of her mind except for the target, she released the string. The arrow hit the tree where she had aimed with a thunk.
A comforting hand clasped her shoulder. “I think you’re ready for a heavier bow.” Whiskey had worked as the Oak Tree’s bartender since she was little. His hair may have been graying, but his grip was still as firm as ever. “You’ll be quite a woman, knowing to use weapons. That, with your ears and hair, will make you stand out like a rose in a field of daisies.”
“I’d be a nettle. My ears are ugly.” She fingered their pointed tips, sticking out from beneath her long hair. “And I’ve never seen anyone with this hair color. It’s unnatural. Like I’ve said, real red hair is actually somewhat orange, not wine-colored.”
“Nonsense! It’s as natural as that pretty face of yours.” She gave him a sidelong glance and he smiled. “Here, try my bow.” He held it out to her.
“Yours? But it’s so much heavier! I can’t draw the string all the way.”
“You’re much stronger than you used to be. Take it.”
They exchanged bows, and she tested the weight of the heavier one. “I don’t know…” She took an arrow from the quiver on her back, nocked it, and tried pulling the string, but she couldn’t get her hand to her cheek.
“See? I can’t.” She let the string relax.
“Before you give up, I want you to try something. Concentrate on the feeling of courage. Of strength. Close your eyes if you need to.”
“What?”
“Just try it. Believe you can do it. Believe you can pull the string back.”
Deciding there was no reason not to try it, she imagined herself pulling the string back in one smooth motion. She could do it.
This time, when she pulled the string, a strange red glow surrounded her hands, and she had to keep herself from letting go in surprise. She was filled with a sense of strength, and was able to draw the string all the way to her cheek. Yet again, she hit the dead center of her target.
“What was that?” The red light around her hands faded away, and she turned to look at Whiskey. “Was that magic?”
He smiled and opened his mouth to say something, but stopped and looked into the trees behind her. His smile vanished.
Rain turned around. An enormous raven sat in the tree above her, staring. She tried telling herself birds didn’t stare at people, it was just her imagination, but a strange feeling of dread settled over her. The bird didn’t move. Whiskey whispered, “Stay still.”
She did as he said and he nocked an arrow with the bow he carried, pointing it at the raven. It shrieked at him and he barely missed the bird as it flew into the forest. Whiskey swore.
“We better head back to the inn,” he said, taking his bow from her and returning hers. “I’ll be right behind you. Go ahead and take your horse, I’ll walk.”
“But what just happened? Why did you shoot at the raven?”
“Don’t speak of it to anyone. Go on, child, I’ll meet you there.” He walked forward, pulled the arrows out of the trunk of the tree, and handed them to her, all the while keeping his eyes on the raven. She knew when to stop asking him questions, so she put the arrows back in her quiver and turned away.
Pan gave a quiet whinny when she approached, fog interlacing the trees around them. She took her thick cloak off the saddle and secured it around her neck, then slung her bow over her shoulder. After she mounted Pan, they started down the path to the inn at a swift trot.
She pulled the hood of her cloak up to shield her face from the cold. Could she actually have used magic? There were plenty of stories about magic-wielders, but she didn’t think any were true. Until now. A spark of excitement had ignited inside her.
As the inn came into view, she burrowed deeper into her hood. The Oak Tree was the last place she wanted to go. Learning to cook and sew, cleaning and taking care of customers day after day. An endless pit of tedium. She wanted more. Whiskey had gifted her with a bow on her twentieth birthday and since then, she lived for these archery lessons. But women weren’t supposed to waste time with weapons.
She shivered and pulled her cloak tighter as she glimpsed the smoke up ahead against the mist. Her body ached for a long sit in front of the fire, but she knew that she’d be put to work as soon as she went in. As she neared the stables and left the trees behind, she steered her horse around the back to avoid being seen from the inn’s windows. She slipped off the saddle and tiptoed around the stables to the entrance.
The building was small, capable of holding at most six horses. Hay littered the floor and gray, foggy light shone through the small windows near the roof. Finding no one around, she went back to Pan and hurried him into the proper stall. She made sure he was left as she found him and took the bow and quiver in her hands.
She turned around to leave the stables and jumped at the sight of Damien, the stableman, his skinny body slouched in the corner on a pile of hay. Shoulder-length sleek black hair surrounded his gaunt face. His eyes narrowed. “They’re looking for you,” he said. “You can’t get away. They’ll get you, mark my words, they will.” His tone of voice sent shivers up her spine, just as the raven had. He was known as a strange man, but never this strange. He stood up and grasped a nearby stall door with his bony fingers. “Go on. Run to your mother and father. They won’t save you.” A strange fear gripped her throat, but she wouldn’t let him see it. She gave him a quick look of annoyance, pulled her hood back, whipped her long hair in his direction, and walked toward the inn’s back door without a second glance.
The door creaked as she entered and closed it behind her. Her stomach growled at the smell of her mother’s fresh baked bread. She hurried up the stairs and Mimsy, the other woman who worked at the inn, came out of a room looking flustered. Rain hid her bow and quiver behind her back. Mimsy’s bright orange hair was done up in a bun, and little strands had fallen out across her face. She had the real red hair.
“There you are, for goodness sake. I can’t cover for you all morning. Where have you been? ” Mimsy eyed the bow sticking up behind Rain’s back. Rain lowered the bow. “You know you shouldn’t be practicing that.” She emphasized the word “that,” as if just saying “archery” would be committing blasphemy. “It’s just not like you. Ever since your birthday you’ve been acting strange. What’ll you do when they find out?”
“Please. You’re just as bad as Damien,” Rain replied. Mimsy had been employed at the inn as far back as Rain could remember, and they were close enough to be sisters. They were both responsible, hard workers, but Mimsy just couldn’t understand going against the rules for something as “useless” as archery.
“I’m sorry. I’m just worried about you.” Leaning in closer, she whispered, “Hurry and come down to the kitchen. Your mother hasn’t been waiting long. Maybe she won’t suspect anything.” Mimsy winked and hurried down the stairs.
***
Rain went to her room down the hall and hid her archery supplies in a concealed space beneath her bed. She threw clothes on that were more suitable for kitchen work and then slowed her pace on the way down the stairs. The tables of the main room were all empty except for one, where two men sat with drinks in their hands. She had seen them before; they had recently become regulars. When they were too drunk to go home, they’d stay the night.
The skinnier man had a carrot-colored mop of hair and curly, uneven stubble along his chin and cheeks. His companion had a hefty paunch and a repulsive stench about him. As she walked by, the skinny man made a motion to grab her skirt. She sidestepped his gesture and glanced at the two men and their empty ale mugs. They were customers, so she held her tongue before she got herself in trouble.
“Lovely mornin’ in the Afton Hills isn’t it, darlin’?” he slurred.
“If you like the rain.”
She started walking toward the kitchen to help her mother, but before she could leave, the men repeated what she had said with raucous laughter.
“If I like Rain? I like Rain just fine, sweetcakes,” the bigger man said. “That is your name, right? Rain?”
She glared at him.
“By the way,” he continued, “how did you get your hair that color? Looks like you got your head in a jar of raspberries.” He exploded into laughter again, elbowing his friend. “Good one wasn’t it?”
The skinny man just smiled and made a quick movement under the table.
“Ow! What’d ya do that for?” The bigger man lifted his booted foot off the ground to massage it.
“Don’t touch me,” the thin man said. Before Rain could escape, he pushed both of their mugs across the table at her. “More ale, sweetie.” She forced a tight-lipped smile, took the mugs, and ignored any more comments from the two as she headed toward the bar.
The bar was empty except for Whiskey. He wiped down the wooden surface with a rag, and smiled when he looked up and saw Rain. There was no sign of his previous worry about the raven.
“Good morning, Whiskey.” She placed the two mugs on the counter and did her best to make it look like they hadn’t seen each other yet this morning. “More ale for the two men over there,” she said loud enough for them to hear her. She then whispered, “I don’t suppose you could fix something stronger, to knock them out?”
He laughed, full-bellied and deep. “No, I can’t. But I can take them the drinks myself. Perhaps they’ll drink enough to pass out.” He winked and then started to fill the mugs behind the bar. “Why don’t you go ahead to the kitchen? Your mother’s waiting.”
“Right.”
She walked around the bar and through the kitchen entryway. Her mother stood kneading a loaf of bread with her floured arms. Bags of sugar and flour sat open on the counter, and measuring spoons and other baking ingredients lay scattered about the room.
“Rain dear, there you are. Come and take these loaves, won’t you?” The familiar smell of the kitchen was intense with baking, and right away it loosened the knot in her stomach. “Quite nice of you to be helping Whiskey out so early in the morning with… what was it? Checking Pan’s horseshoes?”
Rain smiled and nodded. She hid her guilt by taking the wooden baking paddle and placing the loaves in the oven.
“You know, love,” her mother continued as she prepared the next batch of bread, “the fair is coming up next week. Does your dress need mending?” She smiled and paused in her kneading. “All those lovely young suitors.”
Rain, in the middle of pulling out a perfect loaf from the oven, almost let it slide onto the floor. She made sure her mother hadn’t seen it and breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
“It’s fine, mother.”
Rain’s stomach was in knots again. She hated public outings, hated how she stood out so much. None of the other young women were quite as tall, and none had her deep red hair. Some people even noticed her ears were a little too pointed. All the men were petty slobs like the customers she’d just encountered, only interested in her because she looked different. Because of that, all the women were either jealous of her or found her strange. The attention was difficult to handle, and tried her best to avoid it. She wasn’t even interested in any of the men. The only thing this fair would bring was more humiliation.
She took a loaf of bread and sliced it, letting out some of her anger with the kitchen knife. As she did so, her father came inside from his morning business, which usually involved smoking his pipe. He was a gentle giant, rarely using his size to intimidate others.
He trooped into the kitchen and took a whiff of the freshly cut loaf of bread in front of Rain. “What’s going on here, ladies? Those loaves won’t get themselves out of the oven.” Rain smiled, knowing the minute she turned away, he’d snatch a piece from behind her back. He winked at her, but the smile drained from his face at a look from his wife.
“Fergus,” she said, “The kitchen is for the women.” She raised her dough-covered wooden spoon at his face and looked as if she were going to smack him with it.
“Alright, Celena.” He backed away from her makeshift weapon. “I’ll leave you to it then.” He kissed Rain on the top of her head. “Good morning, daughter.” He sighed and left the kitchen.
“Well. Your father’s right, the bread won’t bake itself. We’ll slice them later. Take those loaves out of the oven and help me start the next batch. With weather like this, we’ll probably get a good number of customers, and soon.” The bread was famous, and quite a few regulars came in every day for a slice of Celena’s hot baked goods. She had a way with food.
Rain took the bread out of the oven, hoping it hadn’t burnt during their conversation, and was relieved to find it just slightly crispier than usual on the bottom. She wanted to follow her parents’ plans for her, but she knew she wouldn’t be happy with the life they envisioned. Ever since she’d started archery, all she wanted to do was feel the bow in her fingers, hear the whistling of the arrow through the air, and the feel the satisfaction of making her target.
***
The common room filled in no time at all. Soon Rain was whisked out of the kitchen to help serve the guests hot barley soup, fresh bread, and ale. As her mother had predicted, more customers than usual had come this morning. In passing, she saw through the window that the fog had cleared but instead of sunshine, dark clouds had rolled in. The rain would come soon, and there was no better place to be on a day like this than the Oak Tree’s common room, warming by the large hearth. When most of the customers were served, she asked Mimsy to take over for a short time, and then took a piece of bread and a small bowl of soup for herself. She sat at the end of the bar and eavesdropped on the conversation between two men a few seats away.
“I learned of it just yesterday,” a short, balding man said. His pudgy frame and fine clothes named him a merchant.
“But that’s impossible.” The thinner man was Dramon, who came most every day to talk with Whiskey and exchange news. “How could that happen?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I heard all the buildings were abandoned. Many of the houses were torn apart. The place was a right mess.”
Dramon frowned at his mug and then looked back at the merchant. “Was everyone… killed?” he whispered. Rain nearly choked on her bite of soup-soaked bread.
“No bodies, though I did hear a few places had been bloodied up.” Rain put down her spoon, losing her appetite. Whiskey had also been eavesdropping, and she shared a surprised glance with him. The fear was back in his eyes, and it made her more nervous than ever.
Rain jumped at a loud roll of thunder. She took a deep breath and told herself to calm down. Storms in autumn were common enough, certainly nothing to be scared of. Whiskey stared at the merchant in silence.
Dramon looked as afraid as she felt. “That town is close to the Fangs! What if something came from across the mountains?”
The merchant regained his composure and shook his head. “Impossible. Nothing’s north of the mountains except trees and wild animals. But you never know. Strange things are happening these days.”
Whiskey leaned toward the men and whispered. “That is dangerous talk. I wouldn’t be spreading rumors like that unless you saw it with your own eyes.”
The merchant raised his voice in protest, nearly shouting. “It’s true! The man I heard it from is the most trustworthy man I know.” The tables near the bar quieted. At a stern look from the barman, the merchant let it go, and the room regained its buzz of activity.
Rain ate the rest of her soup at the bar in strained silence. Everyone knew the Fangs of Grunae were the tallest, fiercest mountains in Graemar. Most people just referred to them as “the Fangs.” Nobody knew what was on the other side of them; the gates through the Pass of Hearn had stayed closed for decades. There were many stories, but they were just that. Stories.
Another clap of thunder roared over the inn, and a strong hand gripped her shoulder. She jumped and almost dropped her empty bowl when she realized it was her father.
“Sorry to scare you. It’s nasty out there, isn’t it? Your mother wanted you to come back and help with dishes and to make beef stew. We’re almost out of soup.” Fergus put the rest of a large piece of bread in his mouth and grunted with pleasure.
“I know, father, I was just heading that way.” She started off to the kitchen, now hearing the pouring rain on the window. As she walked, she took another glance at Whiskey behind the bar, and saw him frowning at her with a distant look, as if recalling an old memory.
***
The storm continued to rage as the day wore on, and many of the customers coming in were soaked. The afternoon’s crowd had dwindled to some townsfolk staying out of the weather, a few travelers, and the occasional merchant. Dramon had decided to stay at the bar, but his mug sat empty next to him. Rain sat at the opposite end of the bar, staring out a window to her right. It wasn’t even twilight yet, but it was as dark as the middle of the night.
She had managed to keep the weather and the morning’s events out of her head with the crowded common room, but now that business was slowing down, worry creased her forehead.
“What’s wrong, Rain?” Whiskey asked. Lightning flashed in the window, and Rain’s stomach made a nervous flip.
“Why is it so dark?” She had other questions, about the raven and the merchant’s story, but she sensed Whiskey wouldn’t talk about them in such a public place.
“It’s just a particularly nasty storm, that’s all,” he said as he looked out the window, but his expression told her he didn’t believe it himself. “I have just the thing,” he smiled, and walked into the kitchen. He immediately backed out, followed by Celena, waving her soup spoon this time. “I was just going to get Rain a fresh sweet bun to cheer her up—”
“They’re not finished,” her mother said, emphasizing syllables with her spoon. “Rain, maybe you’d like to help me? It could get your mind off things.”
Rain nodded, thinking it wasn’t going to work, but knowing better than to refuse to help. She followed Celena into the kitchen and grabbed a large portion of dough, forcefully spreading it out over the flour-covered counter. As lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, she pushed harder at the dough and tried to forget her fear.
***
A lightning bolt flashed in the sky and a loud boom of thunder rattled the doors and windows. The few people that were left in the afternoon lull grew even quieter. A sound like wood splintering into tiny fragments came from the entrance to the inn, followed by startled shouts and gasps from the customers. Celena started to leave the kitchen to see what had happened, but Fergus came running in from the back door and held out a hand to stop her.
“You stay there, I’ll handle this,” he said, a worried frown on his face.
Rain dropped her dough and rushed to stand behind her mother, drawing a sharp breath when she saw the source of the crash. The sturdy oak front door had been blasted to pieces, leaving the frame splintered and cracked. Another rumble of thunder sounded above the inn, and out of the dark storm came a blinding white light, horizontal to the ground. It shot straight at Fergus as he ran past the tables of frightened people to the open door, long knife in hand. The light struck him before he could dodge it, and he fell to the floor with a cry of anguish.
“No!” Celena screamed, and ran to him. He twitched and writhed, and Celena grabbed his arms, trying to calm him down. Within a few seconds he lay still on the floor. “Fergus, are you alright? Fergus!” Kneeling, she cradled his head in her hands and sobbed.
Rain had never seen her mother sound so frightened. She was too shocked to do anything other than stare at her parents. It was like a dream, unreal, unfolding in front of her.
A soft cackle came from beyond the empty doorframe, and the customers grew quiet. Rain looked into the darkness, where the lightning had come from. A dark figure appeared, her slender frame robed and hooded in black. Under the cowl, she smiled, her two dark eyes inspiring fear in whoever looked upon them.
“It is time to learn from your pitiful mistakes,” the woman said. She walked forward into the inn, exposing the red symbol of a raven sewn onto her robe’s right breast.
Rain glanced around the room and saw that people—including Mimsy, who had been passing through—were sitting or standing, completely still. She tried to say something, but the woman’s eyes fixed on her and she was immobilized by a fear deeper than she had ever felt.
The woman approached Celena, who was still clutching Fergus. Celena held him tighter as the woman knelt and placed a slender hand under her jaw, holding firm. Celena tried to pull her head away, but only succeeded at craning her neck back. Tears ran down her face.
“Why?” Celena croaked. Rain wondered at the courage it must have taken to speak through the fear she surely felt.
“He was simply in my way. I’m sorry if he meant something to you.” The woman’s smile moved no further than her lips. “Now, I think you have something I want. Give it to me. Tell me where it is.”
“Never,” Celena replied, shaking with grief, pain, and the strain of avoiding the woman’s touch. “Never.”
“I’m not so sure you understand. Whether you live or die does not matter to me. I can get the information I want either way. This can be easy, or it can be—” she squeezed her hand under Celena’s jaw and neck, “—hard.” Celena simply stared at her, a defiant look in her eyes. “Very well then.” The woman let go of Celena’s chin and held out her other palm, facing Celena. The air around them seemed to spark and fizzle. A loud boom sounded and bright light shot out from her palm, striking Celena full in the chest.
Before Rain could try to open her mouth, a gasp came from the dark-robed woman and she fell to her knees, staring at her chest, where a long knife protruded from her body. Behind the woman, Whiskey stood panting, eyes filled with rage.
A drop of blood slid down the corner of the woman’s mouth. “You haven’t won,” she whispered. “Myrna will have her revenge…” Her eyes glazed over and she slumped forward onto the ground.
Very nice!