Daughter of Light (Follower of the Word Book 1) Page 3

  Rowen tried to pull her hand back, but she was no match for Cleon’s strength. Bright sunlight filled her vision as Cleon dragged her outside.

  “Here’s the proof.” Cleon held her hand up by the wrist.

  Rowen stared at the people gathered. The whole village was there. Even Calya, her baby held tightly in both arms.

  But Cayla’s eyes were not on Rowen’s face. No, Calya was staring at the hand Cleon held in the air. Rowen quickly closed it into a fist. But it was too late. Calya glanced back at Rowen with fear and shock.

  “She tried to kill me with this.” Cleon shook her wrist. “She led me into the forest, then said if I didn’t bond with her, she would kill me.”

  The crowd shifted uncomfortably. Rowen felt like she had been slapped across the face. “What? I never—” Cleon dug his fingers into the underside of her wrist. Rowen gasped in pain. It took everything inside of her not to cry out more.

  Cleon took advantage of her silence by sharing his account of their brief time together.

  Rowen tried to work through the haze of pain and shock to find a rebuff to his words. Everything was spinning out of control. “No, wait! That’s not—”

  “No more words, witch!” Cleon gave her a hard shake. Rowen felt her teeth rattle. The crowd began to murmur.

  “What do we do?” someone said.

  “We cannot let her live!” another cried.

  “Burn her,” a woman said nearby.

  Rowen stopped fighting. A rush filled her mind, drowning out the people shouting around her.

  Burn her.

  Her knees gave out at the thought. Cleon jerked her back up by the wrist. A painful cry escaped her lips.

  “We cannot kill Jedrek’s daughter.”

  The name of her father quieted the crowd. Rowen looked over to find Noland standing nearby.

  “He did much for this village and country,” Noland said.

  Cleon snorted. “Did Jedrek know what his daughter is? After all, she’s not his blood.”

  “He took her into his home, and therefore she is his daughter.”

  The crowd began to murmur again. Rowen felt lightheaded. What was going to happen to her?

  “Let a council of elders decide her fate,” someone called out.

  “Yes, yes, a council of elders.”

  More and more voices called for a council. Rowen felt her wrist begin to slip between Cleon’s fingers. He tightened his grip.

  “Yes, a council of elders should be called.” Noland moved to stand beside Cleon and Rowen. “It is the right way to decide what should be done with her.”

  Now that this had been resolved, the crowd began to disperse. As the people passed her, some looked away and others glanced at her with fear. A woman spit in Rowen’s direction, a rock flew over her head, a dog barked nearby.

  “Always knew she didn’t belong,” she overhead someone say.

  Suddenly those last few weeks of warmth from the village vanished in an instant. She didn’t belong. Rowen swallowed. She had never belonged.

  She caught sight of Calya, but her friend avoided her look, turning instead and heading back toward the village. Tears prickled her eyes. “Calya,” Rowen whispered. Calya continued down the hill, never once looking back.

  “So what do we do with her while we wait for the council?” Cleon said, shaking her hand. Rowen turned to Noland. Perhaps he would have compassion on her?

  Instead Noland looked at her with a cold glare. “You are to stay in your house until the council decides your fate. And if you are a witch…” he left his threat hanging in the air.

  Rowen felt all hope leave her chest. Her eyes grew hot with tears. Stubbornly, she closed them tight. She would not let these two see her cry.

  Suddenly Cleon released her hand. “In you go,” he said, opening the door. Rowen stumbled in, her hand tingling from Cleon’s tight grip.

  He slammed the door shut behind her.

  Rowen heard the two men’s voices slowly fade. With a gasp, she slid to the ground and cried.

  2

  Rowen walked down the middle of the village the next day, her hands tied behind her back. Two of the Stotts’ boys walked on either side of her with grim faces. The sun felt even hotter today, blazing down on her head. They walked past the first couple of houses, then the blacksmith’s. No hammer rang today. Rowen stared straight ahead, refusing to look at the dark interior.

  They passed a few more houses before she realized they were heading toward Noland’s house. Of course. It made sense. His house was the only one big enough to contain everyone who wished to be a part of the hearing. The thought of seeing so many people made her stomach knot up.

  People had gathered outside the two-story house, mainly women and children. Rowen saw a couple of women pull their little ones closer, as if she were some kind of enemy. Calya stood farther away, outside the crowd and in the shadow of the house, her baby wrapped around her middle.

  “Calya!” Rowen lurched toward her friend. Calya looked up at the sound of her name. Fear mingled with hope. The Stotts’ boys grabbed her arms, but Rowen stood her ground. Calya would come.

  Calya looked around, then took a step forward. “Please tell me this isn’t true.” She drew closer to Rowen. “You didn’t do anything to Cleon. He’s making it all up, right?”

  Rowen opened her mouth, then hesitated. She couldn’t lie. Especially not to Calya.

  A guarded look came over Calya’s face. She began to back away and shielded her baby.

  “Wait, Calya. Please!”

  “No, Rowen. I thought I had only seen something on your hand. Some blister or stain. But it’s true, isn’t it? You’re a witch.”

  Rowen wanted to answer, to deny everything. Instead, she found her voice gone and her mind paralyzed. Maybe they were right. Maybe she was a witch. It wasn’t as if she could just ask her real parents. Or even her adoptive parents. Who knew what she was?

  Calya didn’t wait for her answer. She turned and hurried into a nearby house. The door slammed shut behind her. Rowen stared at the door, feeling as though a hole had been punched through her middle.

  A hand grabbed her arm. “Get moving!” The older Stotts boy shoved her forward.

  Rowen caught herself and numbly began trudging on ahead. Never belonged. She felt the words close in around her. She had never belonged.

  They arrived at Noland’s house. “Watch your step,” the younger Stotts boy said. Rowen brought her mind back long enough to carefully step up and enter.

  Smothering heat filled the narrow entryway inside the house. Beyond the door stood men and women, their backs pressed up against the white-washed walls and even up the staircase. Dirt and sweat and dung mingled with the scent of mint and roses. They talked in quiet voices that echoed inside the house like a dull buzz.

  Rowen followed the Stotts boy down the hall. Sweat poured down her face and neck. Her thin dress stuck uncomfortably to her body. People backed away from her as far as they could. Rowen kept her face down. But she knew they were watching her like carrion birds waiting for an animal to die.

  The hallway opened up into one large room. More people stood along the inside wall here. At the far end of the room was a large stone fireplace.

  Four men stood before it. The first man was Sylas, owner of the local mill. His light brown hair and thin mustache were combed back perfectly. Next to him was John, head of the Stotts family. Wild tawny hair and beard crowded around his face. Cleon’s father towered over the other two men. Kardin was a man built more like a black bear. He stood with arms folded across his chest, his face showing the barest trace of dark stubble. His eyes, an odd amber color, followed her every movement. Noland stood at the far end in faded white robes and his hair pulled back.

  Two windows graced the outer wall. Bright sunlight filtered through the dusky glass. The Stotts boys led Rowen to the wall between the windows. They untied her hands, then scurried away as if scalded.

  Rowen brought her hands around and clasped
them together. She stared at the wooden floor, afraid she would collapse at any moment.

  “We are gathered here today,” Sylas said, “to determine the validity of the charges against Rowen Mar, daughter of the late Jedrek and Ann Mar. And the charge is…witchcraft.”

  At the word witchcraft, the entire room went silent. Rowen squeezed her fingers until they hurt.

  “Tell us about Mor,” Sylas said.

  Rowen looked at Sylas, surprised by the question. Why did they want to know about Mor? He’d died over a year ago—

  Oh.

  She swallowed and looked back down. “I-I knew Mor a little.”

  “Did you touch him?”

  Her head shot up. “No. Never. We hardly ever spoke to each other.” Like everyone else in the village, Mor would have nothing to do with her. She remembered feeling bad when she’d heard of his death. He had been soon to bond with Sylas’s other daughter, Grace. Instead he’d been found dead in Anwin without a mark on him.

  The four men conversed quietly among each other. Rowen stared down on her hands. She could guess what they were saying. She’d had the opportunity, since she lived right next to Anwin. And someone could say she had cause. Someone could say she had been jealous of Grace. There was no reason for them to believe otherwise.

  Would she be tried for every villager who had ever died?

  “Tell us what happened the other day with Cleon.”

  Rowen stared down at her clasped hands. “Cleon asked me to go for a walk. I did. He took me into Anwin. And then…” Heat spread across her face. “He tried to kiss me.”

  A murmur spread across the crowd.

  “And?” Sylas said.

  “I didn’t want him to. I told him to let go. He took hold of me, so I grabbed him with… With my hand.”

  The murmur died down.

  “Show us your hand.”

  This was the part she had feared. For one moment, Rowen imagined running from here instead of answering. She’d rush through the house and past the people and run as far away from here as she could. She pictured herself racing through the trees of Anwin and leaving all of this behind.

  “Your hand,” a deep masculine voice said.

  Rowen looked up and found Kardin staring at her. Her mouth went dry. Cleon looked so much like his father. She slowly unclasped her hands. The room became silent. She lifted her right one up. Every eye followed her movement. There was no running away, no escape from this mark on her hand. She opened her fist.

  Several people gasped and stepped back.

  “I don’t know what it is,” Rowen said in defense, her voice cracking. “It showed up weeks ago, right after my illness—”

  “You never said anything about a mark when you were sick,” Noland said from his place nearby. “And I never saw one.”

  “I don’t believe her,” John Stotts said.

  Rowen felt the blood drain from her face. She slowly lowered her hand.

  “There are stories of people who can kill just with a touch of their hand,” John said. “And if you remember, not a mark was found on Mor either.”

  “But Rowen did not kill Cleon,” Sylas pointed out.

  Hope rose inside Rowen. Perhaps she had an ally…

  “No, she used her mark to threaten me.”

  The flame of hope vanished. Rowen turned and watched. The people made way for Cleon. He walked into the middle of the room and looked over at her. “She threatened to kill me if I did not bond with her.” Cleon then turned toward the elders. “When I said no, she touched me with that cursed hand of hers.”

  Rage shot through Rowen. “What?” she sputtered, unable to keep silent. “I did no such thing—”

  “Silence!” John yelled.

  “Will I not be allowed to defend m—”

  “Silence!”

  Rowen snapped her mouth shut. Cleon looked at her like a cat with a mouse.

  “I did ask her for a walk the other day.” Cleon turned to face the crowd. “I had thought about asking her to bond with me. With Jedrek Mar gone, I wanted to take care of her. I took her into Anwin to talk. We stopped in that little field meadow just beyond her cabin. But before I could say anything, she grabbed me and demanded that I bond with her.”

  Rowen felt like she was going to retch. She demanded him? Never!

  “I was so shocked I didn’t know what to do. Then she tried to get into my mind—”

  “How?” Sylas said.

  Cleon turned toward the elders. “What?”

  “How did she try to get into your mind?”

  “With that hand of hers.” Cleon gestured toward Rowen. “She grabbed me. Next thing I know, I was seeing things.”

  No, Rowen wanted to shout. You were seeing yourself.

  “It felt like she was choking me. I couldn’t breathe. I finally shook her off and ran. I came right back to the village and told all of you.”

  The elders turned and began debating again in low tones. Cleon stood in the middle of the room with his arms crossed. He had his back to Rowen and watched the crowd. Men and women turned and talked softly to each other.

  Rowen knew she had lost the battle. There would be no more questions. No one believed her. She’d never belonged, whereas Cleon was one of their own. And even if they did believe Rowen’s story, nothing could explain the mark on her hand. Everyone could see it was more than a natural blemish. And something did happen to Cleon. Some power had risen inside of her and swept across his mind.

  Perhaps she was a witch.

  Rowen glanced at the elders and wondered what her sentence would be. She had heard stories of people being burned for witchcraft. Never had she imagined her own village would do that. Never had she imagined it might happen to her.

  They would put her to death. There was no other choice. Witchcraft was not tolerated in the Ryland Plains, and therefore she would need to be cleansed.

  A dull ache filled her middle. For a couple weeks she had finally belonged here. Cinad had become her home at last. The Stotts had brought her smoked meat. The Kaspers had given her fruit from their orchard. Many other families had brought grain for the winter. Noland and his wife had stopped by a couple times to chat and drink hot mint water. And Calya… Rowen shut her eyes and forced the ache back down. But this would be her home no more, no matter what the elders decided.

  Sylas motioned for those gathered to be quiet. A blanket of silence fell across the room. Rowen gripped her arms tightly across her stomach. Hopes and dreams flashed across her mind: bonding with these people, children of her own laughing outside a small wooden home with a garden in back, and growing old with the man she had chosen to share her life with. Instead, she stared at the elders and found herself waiting for the words that would end her life.

  “We, the elders of Cinad, in light of recent events, have chosen to pronounce Rowen Mar guilty of witchery.”

  Rowen felt her knees buckle at Sylas’s words.

  She was guilty. She couldn’t deny it. She hadn’t made a potion or uttered an incantation, but there was no escaping the fact that a power lived inside of her. One that had been triggered by the touch of this strange mark on her hand.

  The room began to spin. Rowen mentally grabbed what strength she had left and forced herself upright. It took a moment for her body to obey, but her stubbornness won. She would not pass out.

  “However,” Sylas said, “she is the daughter of one of our most prestigious citizens, a man who gave his heart and his life for both Cinad and the country of the Ryland Plains. With that in view, we have decided against the sentence of execution.”

  Her mind tried to comprehend what Sylas was saying. They weren’t going to kill her? Voices rose and fell around her.

  “We have decided that her sentence will be exile. Permanent and irrevocable banishment from Cinad.”

  The crowd let out a murmur that sounded almost like some of them were disappointed they were not going to get to burn her.

  Rowen’s thoughts raced. Exile? But where wo
uld she go?

  Sylas looked at her and continued. “You have two days to pack whatever you can carry and leave this village, never to return. Your home and land will be confiscated and auctioned off, along with whatever else you leave behind. Should you ever return to Cinad, you will be arrested and put to death. Do you understand?”

  Rowen nodded, too dazed to speak.

  “Good. This hearing is now adjourned.”

  At once, the house filled with the clamor of voices. She could hear the people discussing her fate. Rowen just stood there stunned. Kardin glared at her. The other three elders ignored her, including Noland.

  The two Stotts boys moved past the crowd and walked up to her. “Time to go,” the older one said. The younger boy held out a thin piece of rope. Rowen brought her hands back around and felt the rope bite into her wrists as the boy tied her hands together. The older boy grabbed her by the arm and led her past the crowd and back outside.

  Everyone stared at her as she was marched through the village. Rowen caught Calya glancing out a window, only to retreat back into the shadows once she realized Rowen was looking back.

  Rowen looked away, her eyes swelling with tears. That one gesture from Calya was the last nail placed into the coffin of her life. But she would not show weakness. She took a deep breath and willed away her tears as she passed by the familiar homes and families gathered.

  It wasn’t until she was pushed inside her home and the door firmly shut behind her that Rowen collapsed onto the dirt floor, heaving with emotions. She knew she should be grateful that her sentence had been exile and not death, but that didn’t stop the torrent of fear from rushing through her.

  She had spent her entire life in Cinad. She had no skills, save gardening. She could hardly sew, and she knew only enough about cooking to get by. The chest by her bed caught her attention. Rowen looked at the chest. She also knew how to use the smallsword inside. But who needed a gardener who could defend herself?

  And where would she go? She had visited Mostyn once, a couple days’ ride north. But that was it.

  Rowen dragged herself across the room toward her bed. Two days. She had two days to gather what she could and leave. She pulled herself up onto the bed and collapsed. Her body refused to do anything else. The packing would have to wait.