A Trail of Embers Read online

  A Trail of

  Embers

  C. A. Kinnee

  ISBN-978-0-9958515-4-2

  ISBN- (e-book)- 978-0-9958515-5-9

  Text copyright © 2018 Carol Kinnee

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of the brief quotations as a book review.

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  GLOSSARY

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Dedication

  This book is for my family.

  Thanks for the inspiration, suggestions and time to let me write it all down.

  To Jean:

  Once again, thanks for the editing.

  A Trail of

  Embers

  Chapter 1

  Where is this?

  Cold, dark,

  I sense nothing.

  I am alone.

  Translated from the Chronicles of the Egg

  The clatter of wheels on the broken cobblestones shattered the ceaseless mutter of rain. The girl hidden in the shadows sank back against the alley wall. She curled into the weathered wood and stopped cursing the downpour. The rain was now an ally. It made the gloomy recess where she hid less likely to draw the men’s attention. With luck, they and their wagon would pass by without a backwards look. If her luck failed . . . She edged closer to the wall. Well, she was blessed with fast feet and a good sense of direction. She could outrun them in a foot race. But her luck held and the cart and its companions rolled on leaving only their conversation behind.

  “Epson par Valle, this wind be a cutting knife,” muttered the short thin man walking guard position beside the wagon. “I’ve heard tell that it be powerful enough to topple the shield wall in the Forbidden Zone.” He tightened his grip on the long knotty staff he held in his left hand and buried his chin deeper in the folds of his cloak.

  “Hsst, Riad par Eison. Only a fool speaks of such things. This winter be a cruel one, but no worse than the great storm twenty seasons ago,” Epson answered gloomily staring at the empty road in front of them. His fingers flickered in a sign against the Dark One.

  “Bah, you miss what’s in front of that big nose of yours. Don’t you see evil be afoot? When the gales bury us beneath the garbage of the streets will you say different? The riff raff freezes to death. They shiver and cough with the fever. It’s the work of the Dark One! Mark my words, they’ll infect us all and bring doom down upon our heads.” Riad shook his head in disapproval.

  “You speak like an old crone gossiping with the women. I remember . . .” Epson’s memories were lost in the rumble of the wheels.

  The street girl Meara straightened from her place by the wall. A blast of cold caressed her neck and generated a bone-rattling shake.

  “Merdon. He is right,” she muttered. “This cold never ends. We will all freeze like ice before the sun returns to warm us.”

  She rubbed her arms slowly. The man Riad’s words left a crawling feeling on her skin. Did he speak the truth? She hadn’t experienced the winter they spoke of, but she had lived on the streets five of her seventeen years, long enough to see that this one was different. By now the sun should have chased away the clouds, but the rains lingered, bringing the stink of decay to every crevice of the ancient walled town. She inhaled a slow icy breath tasting the rot carried by the wind. It caught in her throat, making her gag. Carefully, she breathed in again, more shallowly.

  Winter’s bite ate at the center of her bones. Meara stamped her feet and wiggled her toes to make the blood flow faster. She nodded slowly. The men were right. The endless cold so late in the season made the people of the street sicken and die. Every day soldiers of the watch made their way through the alleys, carting away those who’d succumbed to the fever.

  The cold made her fingers ache. She curled them into fists, tucking them deeper into her cloak. Nowhere in the ancient town was there a place safe from the wind. Even here, against the rough wall of the alley, it teased her, tearing off her hood and whipping the sopping weight of her cloak against her legs. She dragged the hood higher, absently tucking the tattered fabric under her chin as she squinted out at the market place. A trickle of rain broke through the dam of wool and rolled down her neck to a dry patch between her shoulder blades. Meara swiped her thin arm across her face and shoved a hand through the tangled mess of sodden curls that straggled free of her hood.

  “Perdu,” she muttered shuffling her feet. “Will this cursed rain never end?”

  As if in answer, a raven dropped from the sky, its ebony feathers catching the air in a swooshing whisper. The bird flew so close that a wing tip brushed Meara’s shoulder. She stumbled sideways and her sandaled feet sank deeper into the muck.

  “Murkwing!” she called. Sight of the bird eased some of the tension coiling her muscles like tightly wound springs. She lifted a foot and shook away the mud.

  Murkwing squawked and cocked his head. He fixed his bright black eyes on her face and lurched from his perch on an overturned barrel. He flew the short hop to her shoulder, landed and clicked his beak, stretching his neck. The ruffle of his feathers exposed a single white quill in the darkness of one wing.

  “So, bird,” Meara scolded gently. “It’s been a long time since you fluttered this way. I thought someone had made a pie of you. Best you be wary. People are hungry and the pickings slim. Even you would taste good as dinner.”

  The bird muttered and leaned forward nibbling at a lock of Meara’s hair. Its color rivaled his feathers for blackness.

  Slowly Meara raised one hand and smoothed the down at Murkwing’s neck. She considered her words. People were hungry, some hungry enough to break the taboos. The chance to put food in their bellies outweighed the risk of eating an ill-omened bird. After all, who would recognize the raven’s taint if it was buried in a thick stew?

  The thought of omens conjured a fresh wave of goose bumps. She didn’t believe the prophecy of evil that followed the blackbird, but the strange events of winter were harder to ignore. The people of the walled town saw the Dark One’s work everywhere—the cheeky bird stood out.

  “Your taste for glitter has made you famous,” she continued. “The merchants offer good coin for the death of a raven. Best for you if you find your treasure away from the market.”

  She spoke as if the bird understood he
r. The thought of harm befalling him made her stomach twist into a sour ball. She’d found Murkwing as a barely feathered hatchling tumbled from his nest. She’d carried him in a sack tied to her belt until he’d found his wings.

  “Enough,” she whispered.

  Too much attention to omens and she’d tumble into a pit of doom so deep, she’d never climb out. It was better to take action and control the fates than give in to despair. Things had been bad before. Sooner or later, the luck would turn around. Right now, she needed to focus on staying one step ahead of the darkness. After all, good luck didn’t matter if you let bad nip you from behind.

  Squaring her shoulders, she turned her attention back to the market. The rain had chased away the usual crowd, leaving only a few hardy souls poking through the withered apples and shriveled vegetables. By now, the farmers’ fields should have held a bountiful harvest; instead, they grew mud.

  Absently Meara licked her lips and nibbled at a patch of peeling skin. The last trade caravan to visit the town had been weeks ago—everyone, including the well-fed merchants, was feeling the pinch of hunger. Her eyes fell on the massive backside of a woman digging through a flat of turnips. Everyone that is, except Mistress par Raymon. That hag carried a full basket. A loud grumble erupted from Meara’s stomach. When was the last time her own belly had been full?

  Murkwing twitched restlessly. His sharp claws bit through the thin fabric of Meara’s cloak. She hunched an irritated shoulder trying to shake him off.

  “Hush, bird. If you had a brain, you would find a way to move some of the fat woman’s basket into our stomachs.” She sniffed. “If the fates were fair, we’d hold the basket, and she would be rooting in the mud for scraps.”

  Meara’s full mouth straightened into a harsh line.

  “Look at her,” she muttered to Murkwing. “She keeps that belly by hiring the people of the streets to run her errands. Then she cheats us of our pay. Although,” she paused, “I should have known better. It appears I’m as big a fool as the rest of them.” She shook her head in disgust. “I guess it’s as Mama Shay Lann always says, ‘Hunger drives stupidity.’”

  Murkwing squawked in apparent agreement. He left her shoulder in a flurry of black feathers.

  “Traitor,” she called softly, watching him glide across the market. He landed on a faded awning above a vegetable stall.

  “Be gone you!” A merchant sheltering in a dry corner of the stall slouched forward. He spread his arms in threat and faked a warning step.

  “Be gone!” he shouted again.

  Murkwing screeched and stood his ground. His black eyes gleamed like polished bits of ebony. The merchant’s cries acted like a magnet, stopping hagglers mid-bargain. Every eye turned towards the standoff.

  Red-faced, the merchant barreled towards Murkwing. No shopkeeper could afford to let a bird of ill omen sit so near his stand. The raven with its eyes of evil might carry tales back to the Dark One. Worse, if word escaped that he tolerated such a blight so near his stall, his customers would dry up like a wish in winter.

  Meara slid from the mouth of the alley. The sight of the unguarded vegetable stand coaxed another growling groan from her stomach.

  The raven called again, the cry harsh and raw in the stillness.

  Slowly Meara crept towards a rickety table holding a bounty of shriveled produce. A handful of mud flew in Murkwing’s direction. Meara heard the rustle of feathers as the bird hopped, sidestepping out of reach. She eased forward another step. She was an arm’s length from a jumbled pile of shriveled apples and withered cabbage.

  “Be gone, Dark One’s spawn! Away with you!” the merchant shouted, shaking his fist. His face purpled in outrage.

  Meara touched the roughened skin of an apple and closed her hand around it.

  “Thief!”

  Every eye turned in her direction.

  Mistress par Raymon screeched and pointed. Her chubby fingers slashed the air in indignation as her face blossomed to ruby red. Chins jiggling, she leapt towards Meara, and caught her wrist in a hard grasp.

  “Call the watch!”

  “Stay thief!”

  The shouting swelled until the market hummed with the calls. Murkwing popped free of the awning and plummeted earthward. His wings churned the air in a hissing hum.

  The onlookers scattered.

  Meara threw her weight forward, twisting her wrist against the fingers holding it. The fat woman’s claws raked her skin. Off balance, Mistress par Raymon fell against the merchant’s stand. The rickety table shuddered, its lopsided legs rocking as the piled produce shifted. Wrinkled vegetables rolled and toppled to the muddy ground. The merchant howled.

  “Catch her. Catch her! Don’t let her get away!” he shouted.

  Meara ducked and rolled in a flurry of patched cloak. She skipped out of reach of the grasping hands. Almost free, she stumbled on a wrinkled cabbage. Her ankle twisted under her as her knee struck the ground. She staggered up. Swaying on unsteady legs, she faced the mob.

  “Stay thief!” A guardsman brandishing a thick wooden club stepped forward spreading his arms to trap her.

  Meara catapulted under his swinging club. Her heart pounded in time with her steps.

  The merchant shouldered his way through the crowd.

  “Stop! Call the watch!” he cried.

  “Find your own aid, Fimion par Entel. The price of your onions is thievery,” heckled a bony woman hastily gathering ragged onions into a spotty apron. She snatched up a withered turnip and back-pedaled into the crowd.

  “The watch should be hunting murderers, not chasing street rats,” a voice called.

  The merchant fought his way through the taunting group, hoots and jeers marking his progress. Already, the rain had dampened the thrill of the chase and doused any interest in the thief.

  Meara flung herself around a corner and sank against the rough boards of a stable. The uneven planks bit into her shoulders. Her legs were limp and rubbery with relief, and her breath whistled past her teeth in harsh gasps. Gradually, as the pounding of her heart slowed, she sat up. Clutching the apple to her chest, she leaned forward listening for sounds of pursuit. Murkwing slid from the gloom and landed beside her.

  “You think you deserve this?” she asked, eyeing him skeptically.

  The bird blinked in reply. Meara bit off a generous chunk and held it out. Murkwing pecked gingerly at it.

  “Yes. I know you’d prefer something dead and disgusting, but this will have to do,” Meara muttered. “You could have picked a better diversion. That hag almost caught me.”

  She took a bite of tasteless apple and chewed. If the hag had paid her for her errand, she wouldn’t have to sink to stealing withered fruit fit only for hogs.

  “I saw her pass this way,” a deep voice called.

  The apple turned to dust on her tongue.

  “Meara No Name came this way. She can’t have gone far,” another answered.

  “Zarnache par Chandon, an example must be made of her. Too long have the street rats run wild in this town. You must make an example,” the merchant cut in.

  “I . . . concur.” The words emerged as a wheezing grunt. Mistress par Raymon had picked herself out of the mud and joined the chase.

  “Meara No Name belongs not in our town. You have only to look at her to see the truth in my words. She has no ties to name, house or bloodline. She is nothing. She is allied with the dark,” the deep voice shouted.

  Fear squeezed Meara’s chest, pressing the breath from her lungs. She knew that voice. If Badaleo par Furone, the self-proclaimed prophet of the Great One was leading the hunt, she was cursed. She pictured his watery blue eyes shining in unholy zeal as he inflamed the crowd with his hunt for blasphemers. His skinny arms would be wind-milling as a cloud of spittle spewed forth with every word. She sagged against the wall and listened to the voices.

  Badoleo was the worst of the Godseekers. His mission was to weed out any not blessed of the great houses of Vendonne. Meara’s lack of
ties to house or bloodline made her the perfect target for his purging.

  “The girl is only a thief. Find her,” the merchant demanded.

  Meara’s heart sank deeper. If the merchant had left his stall, her punishment might be more than a few lashes.

  “The girl is allied with the dark! You have only to look at her to see Badoleo par Furone speaks truth. She is not one of ours. None of us would bring a black-haired gray-eyed changeling into our town. Banish her!” The fat woman had regained her breath, and her shouts drowned out any who dared to disagree.

  Meara’s heart galloped into her throat. She slid further into the shadows. Once again, she could trust her mouth to land her in trouble. Instead of walking away when the hag failed to pay her, she’d called her a liar and a cheat in front of witnesses. Mistress par Raymon never forgot an insult. She would take a front row seat at Meara’s whipping.

  “If left free, she will bring disaster to our town. The omens show . . .” the deep voice of Badoleo took over.

  A gruff growl cut him short.

  “Badoleo par Furone, I do not condone the work of thieves. My men keep the riffraff under control. As for you, Mistress par Raymon, stop encouraging the street rats by hiring them and then cheating them of their pay!” A new voice joined the babble. Zarnache par Chandon, the big slow-moving captain of the watch had arrived.

  Meara’s fingers shook as she stretched her hands along the rough surface of the wall seeking a break in the wood. Zarnache! The Dark One did curse her! The bite of apple churned in her stomach. She inched forward. Her one chance at escape now lay in one of the twisted alleys that plagued the town. For over three hundred years, the citizens of Vendonne had added to existing structures creating a convoluted maze of tumbling buildings. If she could slip from this alley to the next, she might be able to evade her pursuers.

  A jingling bridle and the blowing snort of an impatient horse marked the arrival of more members of the watch. Leather creaked as a heavy body descended from a saddle.

  “The alley you say?”

  The sound of Zarnache’s voice so close to where she hid stopped her heart. It bumped to life as she stumbled backwards, scrabbling crab-like along the wall.