Rebel Spring
Page 2
“No, what?”
“The symbols are of the elements: fire, air, water, and earth.” He pointed to each in turn, a triangle, a spiral, two stacked wavy lines, and a circle within a circle. His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “I had no idea. Our village elder . . . she’s a witch. An Oldling.”
“Wait. You’re saying that old, simple-minded Talia’s a . . . witch?” She waited for him to start grinning and tell her he was just joking. But he was serious—deadly serious.
Gregor’s brows drew together. “I had my suspicions, but this is the proof. She’s kept her secret well over all the years. You know what can happen to witches.”
In the neighboring kingdom of Limeros they were burned. Hanged. Beheaded. Witches were considered evil, even here in Paelsia. Bad luck. A curse upon this land making it wither away and die. In Limeros, many believed that such witches were what had cursed that land to turn to ice.
Lysandra remembered Talia’s unusual reaction when she’d learned the chief had been murdered by King Gaius. She’d nodded once, grimly, brushed off her dusty skirts, and said four words:
“And so it begins.”
Everyone thought the old woman was mad so they paid no attention to her ramblings, but for some reason those words had resonated with Lysandra and sent a chill down her spine.
“So what begins?” She’d caught the old woman’s arm. “What do you mean?”
Talia had turned her pale, watery eyes on Lysandra. “The end, my dear girl. The end begins.”
It took a moment for Lysandra to speak again to Gregor, her heart pounding loud in her ears. “What do you mean by Oldling?”
“It’s one who worships the elements. It’s an old religion— older than anything except elementia itself. And by the looks of this,” he nodded toward the clearing, “Talia is working blood magic tonight.”
A shiver went down Lysandra’s spine. Blood magic.
She’d heard of such things before, but had never seen any proof until now. Gregor had always been more of a believer than she in that which was unseen and rarely spoken about—magic, witches, legends. Lysandra barely listened to the storytellers, interested more in tangible facts that whimsical tales. Now, she wished she’d paid more attention
“For what purpose?” she asked.
Just then, Talia’s eyes shot directly at the two of them, hawklike, picking them out in the dying light of dusk.
“It’s too late,” she said loud enough for them to hear her. “I can’t summon enough magic to protect us, only to see the shadows of what is to come. I’m powerless to stop them.”
“Talia!” Lysandra’s voice was uncertain as she called out to the woman. “What are you doing? Come away from there, it’s not right.”
“You must do something for me, Lysandra Barbas.”
Lysandra glanced at Gregor, puzzled, before looking back at Talia. “What do you want me to do?”
Talia held her blood covered hands out to either side of her, her eyes growing wider and wider as if she saw something horrifying all around her. Something truly evil. “Run!”
At that moment, a huge flaming arrow arched through the air and hit Talia directly in the center of her chest. She staggered backward and fell to the ground, her clothes catching fire quicker than Lysandra could comprehend.
Lysandra gripped Gregor’s arm. “She’s dead!”
He craned his head urgently to look back in the direction the arrow had come from, then yanked Lysandra to the side to avoid another arrow aimed directly at them that instead sliced into a tree trunk. “I was afraid of this.”
“Afraid of what?” Lysandra spotted a figure fifty paces away, armed with a crossbow. “He killed her! Gregor—he killed her! Who is he?”
The figure had spotted then and had begun to give chase. Gregor swore loudly and took hold of her wrist. “Come on, we need to hurry!”
She didn’t argue. Clutching each other’s hands, they ran back to the village as fast as they could.
It was on fire.
Chaos had swiftly descended upon the village. Horrified screams of fear and pain pierced the air—screams of the dying. Scores of men in red uniforms astride horses galloped through the streets, holding torches that they used ruthlessly to set each cottage ablaze. Townspeople ran from their burning homes, trying to escape a fiery death. The sharp swords in other guards’ hands fell upon many, slicing through flesh and bone.
“Gregor!” Lysandra cried as they came to a wrenching halt, hidden from the soldiers behind a stone cottage. “King Gaius—this is his doing! He’s killing everyone!”
“We told him no. He didn’t like that answer.” He turned and took her by her arms, staring fiercely into her eyes. “Lysandra. Little sister. You need to go. You need to run far away from here.”
The fire heated the air, turning dusk to nightmarish daylight all around her. “What are you talking about? I can’t go!”
“Lys—”
“I need to find our mother!” She shoved away from Gregor and raced through the village, dodging any obstacle in her path. She staggered to a halt outside of her cottage, now engulfed in flame.
Her mother’s body lay halfway across the threshold. Her father’s body was only ten paces away, lying in a pool of blood.
Before she could fully register the horror, Gregor caught up. He grabbed her and threw her over his shoulder, running beyond the village limits before dropping her clumsily to the ground. He tossed her bow and a handful of arrows at her.
“The symbols are of the elements: fire, air, water, and earth.” He pointed to each in turn, a triangle, a spiral, two stacked wavy lines, and a circle within a circle. His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “I had no idea. Our village elder . . . she’s a witch. An Oldling.”
“Wait. You’re saying that old, simple-minded Talia’s a . . . witch?” She waited for him to start grinning and tell her he was just joking. But he was serious—deadly serious.
Gregor’s brows drew together. “I had my suspicions, but this is the proof. She’s kept her secret well over all the years. You know what can happen to witches.”
In the neighboring kingdom of Limeros they were burned. Hanged. Beheaded. Witches were considered evil, even here in Paelsia. Bad luck. A curse upon this land making it wither away and die. In Limeros, many believed that such witches were what had cursed that land to turn to ice.
Lysandra remembered Talia’s unusual reaction when she’d learned the chief had been murdered by King Gaius. She’d nodded once, grimly, brushed off her dusty skirts, and said four words:
“And so it begins.”
Everyone thought the old woman was mad so they paid no attention to her ramblings, but for some reason those words had resonated with Lysandra and sent a chill down her spine.
“So what begins?” She’d caught the old woman’s arm. “What do you mean?”
Talia had turned her pale, watery eyes on Lysandra. “The end, my dear girl. The end begins.”
It took a moment for Lysandra to speak again to Gregor, her heart pounding loud in her ears. “What do you mean by Oldling?”
“It’s one who worships the elements. It’s an old religion— older than anything except elementia itself. And by the looks of this,” he nodded toward the clearing, “Talia is working blood magic tonight.”
A shiver went down Lysandra’s spine. Blood magic.
She’d heard of such things before, but had never seen any proof until now. Gregor had always been more of a believer than she in that which was unseen and rarely spoken about—magic, witches, legends. Lysandra barely listened to the storytellers, interested more in tangible facts that whimsical tales. Now, she wished she’d paid more attention
“For what purpose?” she asked.
Just then, Talia’s eyes shot directly at the two of them, hawklike, picking them out in the dying light of dusk.
“It’s too late,” she said loud enough for them to hear her. “I can’t summon enough magic to protect us, only to see the shadows of what is to come. I’m powerless to stop them.”
“Talia!” Lysandra’s voice was uncertain as she called out to the woman. “What are you doing? Come away from there, it’s not right.”
“You must do something for me, Lysandra Barbas.”
Lysandra glanced at Gregor, puzzled, before looking back at Talia. “What do you want me to do?”
Talia held her blood covered hands out to either side of her, her eyes growing wider and wider as if she saw something horrifying all around her. Something truly evil. “Run!”
At that moment, a huge flaming arrow arched through the air and hit Talia directly in the center of her chest. She staggered backward and fell to the ground, her clothes catching fire quicker than Lysandra could comprehend.
Lysandra gripped Gregor’s arm. “She’s dead!”
He craned his head urgently to look back in the direction the arrow had come from, then yanked Lysandra to the side to avoid another arrow aimed directly at them that instead sliced into a tree trunk. “I was afraid of this.”
“Afraid of what?” Lysandra spotted a figure fifty paces away, armed with a crossbow. “He killed her! Gregor—he killed her! Who is he?”
The figure had spotted then and had begun to give chase. Gregor swore loudly and took hold of her wrist. “Come on, we need to hurry!”
She didn’t argue. Clutching each other’s hands, they ran back to the village as fast as they could.
It was on fire.
Chaos had swiftly descended upon the village. Horrified screams of fear and pain pierced the air—screams of the dying. Scores of men in red uniforms astride horses galloped through the streets, holding torches that they used ruthlessly to set each cottage ablaze. Townspeople ran from their burning homes, trying to escape a fiery death. The sharp swords in other guards’ hands fell upon many, slicing through flesh and bone.
“Gregor!” Lysandra cried as they came to a wrenching halt, hidden from the soldiers behind a stone cottage. “King Gaius—this is his doing! He’s killing everyone!”
“We told him no. He didn’t like that answer.” He turned and took her by her arms, staring fiercely into her eyes. “Lysandra. Little sister. You need to go. You need to run far away from here.”
The fire heated the air, turning dusk to nightmarish daylight all around her. “What are you talking about? I can’t go!”
“Lys—”
“I need to find our mother!” She shoved away from Gregor and raced through the village, dodging any obstacle in her path. She staggered to a halt outside of her cottage, now engulfed in flame.
Her mother’s body lay halfway across the threshold. Her father’s body was only ten paces away, lying in a pool of blood.
Before she could fully register the horror, Gregor caught up. He grabbed her and threw her over his shoulder, running beyond the village limits before dropping her clumsily to the ground. He tossed her bow and a handful of arrows at her.
