The Silvestrian
Chapter One
Lyana gripped the rough wooden fence and vaulted herself over it. The full moon shone brightly above her—a spotlight, dead set on giving her away. Even the moon is a loyalist tonight.
She’d spent the past two days spying on the old man who owned this land and the cottage sitting on it. As far as she could tell, he lived alone. No wife tended to the garden. No children played on the grounds. Every few hours, the old man would come out, cut a few leaves off of the prohiberty bush against the house, and return inside. Lyana needed the leaves from that medicinal herb, along with the food in the old man’s cupboards and any other treasures the cabin might possess. This man’s belongings were Lyana’s only hope of keeping Kess alive, and Lyana had to keep Kess alive. Lyana’s own life depended on it.
She had been raised to practice diplomacy before resorting to violence. So, that was her plan. Diplomacy, first. Violence, second. She prayed to Sylva that the old man would be sympathetic to her cause. Perhaps, he would let her in. Offer her what she needed. She’d taken enough souls already.
She shivered as a harsh wind wound its way through the garden. It was a gift that she could still feel the frigid air, given the severity of Kess’s infection, but that didn’t stop Lyana from shivering. One of the first things she wanted to do after escaping the king’s fighting pits was change out of her prisoner’s garb. The thin, tattered cotton shirt and trousers did little to protect her from the elements. The leather sandals had barely kept her feet safe from the rocks, roots, and thorns along her journey. These clothes were meant to make her as vulnerable as possible, which is exactly how she felt.
The dagger hanging from Lyana’s hemp belt tapped gently against her leg. A bullfrog trumpeted in the distance. She threw herself behind a nearby rose bush. Thorns ripped at her skin leaving tiny red lines across her arms, legs, and face. The metallic taste of adrenaline rested at the back of her throat like bile. She was vulnerable and desperate. And paranoid.
Silence.
Green leaves with serrated edges fluttered under her nose as she forced her breaths to increase in depth. The earth around her was damp, musty. Once positive she was in the clear, she stood, but stayed low.
The savory aroma of rosemary and the peppery sharpness of thyme teased her senses as she stepped away from the blooming roses. Lyana’s stomach growled. She’d never been so hungry in her nearly twenty years of life. She considered liberating a bergamot orange from its arboreal noose, but thought better of it. Stay focused.
She took a step. A twig snapped underneath her. The trees must be conspiring with the moon. She crouched even lower, waiting to see if an arrow would whizz past her head.
Her hand hovered over her dagger’s hilt. She expected to see a battalion of the king’s men descend on her like ants from their crushed hill. But only the incessant croaking of that same chatty frog punctuated the night air.
Once she convinced herself she wasn’t about to be shot at, she stood. Her back ached. The bumps and bruises she’d acquired in the escape were healing nicely, but they still thrummed painfully in concert with her heartbeat. Her body yearned for a good night’s sleep and a decent meal.
She took another two steps toward the house and put a foot on the first stone stair. She raised her fist, prepared to knock.
The door to the house banged open against a stone wall. An old man with a protruding belly and chin stood in the open doorway. He held a lantern in one hand and a pitchfork in the other.
His age wore heavily on him. His skin pulled toward the earth as if eager to be buried within it. His back hunched and his legs wobbled.
The old man’s watery, bloodshot eyes grew as large as plates as he took her in. Few had the privilege to meet a real Silvestrian warrior. Not that she was a warrior anymore. Desperation had stolen that title from her.. A trained protector, turned executioner, forced to kill her own people for the amusement of a corrupt king and his loyalists. Paid in moldy bread and filthy water.
“I have no quarrel with you,” the old man said.
Lyana took a step back. The muscles in her face relaxed. He wasn’t afraid of her. Maybe I can reason with him after all.
His eyes softened as she paused. “You’re the one they’re looking for, aren’t you? You’re that Silvestrian that escaped.”
“Yes.”
The man’s bushy eyebrows connected just above his nose like a stretched-out caterpillar. He seemed to pay little mind to the fact that only a few feet separated them.
The old man shifted his weight. “It’s terrible what the king’s done to your people.”
“Yes.”
“Any other time I would’ve opened my door to you. I would’ve offered you a cup of tea and some stew. It’s just...” The thought died in the warm night air.
And there it was—the tell-tale quiver of fear. The unmistakable clacking of dry mouth as if his unspoken words sponged up any courage his tongue may have possessed.
“The king’ll torture me and mine if I don’t tell him about you,” he said.
Maybe he does have children. Grown and living closer to the castle. Loyal to the king. Lyana felt a pinch in her fingertips and pulled her hands behind her back. Diplomacy, first. </p>
The old man leaned on his pitchfork like it was a cane, not a potential weapon. In feeble hands even the sharpest sword was little better than a tool for tilling.
“So, be on your way,” the old man said. “I’ll give you a head start. I’ll wait until sun up before I tell the king’s men.” He held the lantern a little higher. The soft light cast sharp shadows against his sagging face. “Or…” He paused, as if considering his options as limited as they were. “Are you really the monster they say you are?”
Lyana took another step back, letting the moonlight shine down on her. Her amber eyes reflected in the man’s wide, black pupils.
“The king doesn’t have to know.” She brought her hands forward and opened her palms to show that she was unarmed. The gesture was a lie, of course. After bonding with Kess, Lyana was never truly unarmed. “My fe chooseling is wounded. We need your help.” She softened her tone, hoping her pleas for mercy would overcome the old man’s terror. “If my fe, Kess, dies, I won’t be far behind her. You can save two lives tonight.” Please, don’t make me kill you. “Please.”
Holding the man against his will wasn’t an option. She had to trust the king would never know of her whereabouts. It was the only way to stay out of his pits. Keeping this man captive would ensure no trust between them. She had to hope he would do the right thing. Diplomacy, first.
The old man’s shoulders relaxed. He stood just a little taller as he licked his thin lips. “I can’t do that.” He stepped toward her, eyes soft, brows raised, lips pressed together in a hard line. The tines of the pitchfork tilted forward, threatening. Lethal.
Violence, second.
Lyana wished she hadn’t seen the attack coming. She wished she hadn’t been forced to prepare for this outcome, but fear and prejudice always outweighed mercy and kindness. She knew that better than perhaps anyone else in Cael.
It only took one quick step. One simple flick of her wrist. Muscle memory guided the dagger between the old man’s ribs before Lyana realized what had happened. Murder in the name of self preservation came too easily to her.
The man gasped. Dark liquid pooled on her arm as she lowered the dying man to the ground. The coppery tang of his blood mixed with the dirt’s earthy musk, creating a repulsive potpourri.
A spatter of crimson bloomed from the man’s mouth as he coughed. Blood bubbled around his teeth, threatening to spill from his lips. “...Monster.”
A gurgle came from deep within his chest before one last puff of warm air escaped him. The moon reflected in his wide pupils. She was no stranger to the eyes of dead men, but enduring their gaze never got easier.
The old man was right. Lyana would always be forced to spend the rest of her life committing deeds she never wanted to commit. She would never get to be the person she was raised to be—diplomatic, compassionate. Lyana would be forced to waste her days running, hiding, and killing.
She’d escaped the castle after months in his dungeons, but the king had won anyway.
“I am what he made me.” Lyana clenched her teeth as she wiped her blade across her pant leg.
She’d escaped the castle after months in his dungeons, but the king had won anyway.
She slipped her dagger between her trousers and her belt vowing to one day rid herself of the damned thing. She would throw it in the ocean and watch it sink with the heft of the souls it had taken.
Lyana dragged the old man’s body behind the same rose bush she’d used as a shield not five minutes ago. She would take care of him later. Right now, she needed to retrieve her fe.
Kess would live. They both would.
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