The Chosen (49 page)

“I don’t know if they were my true aunt and uncle. They never treated me like one of their own children and I didn’t resemble them. When it was meal time I had to wait until their family had eaten and survive on what was left.

“It was bad enough having an uncle who was a destructive drunk who enjoyed annihilating every item in the house. As you can imagine money was tight in the home.” Her cousins, two boys and a girl, had voracious appetites and had hungrily devoured every meal her aunt had prepared as if they had gone days without food. Her uncle was just as insatiable and by the time they had finished there was very little for both Kathryn and her aunt to survive on. Usually her aunt gave her the last few scraps of food from her plate, but there had been many nights where there had been nothing in Kathryn’s belly.

“They insisted I sleep in the barn with the animals, during the snowy months I was allowed inside, but never by the fire and heaven forbid that I should be given more than one blanket.” After a short pause she went on.  “It wasn’t so bad, I was able to sleep next to the animals and use their body heat to keep me warm during the colder nights.”

She could still smell the musky scents of the old horse and cow that had been her roommates. Those nights were part of the reason Kathryn often found solace in the stables, reading with her back against Lerina’s warm body. On the nights she had slept in the barn, she was often warmer than those nights she had spent in the house. And, by sleeping in the barn with the animals, she could escape from her uncle’s inebriated antics.

She’d lost count of the number of days when her aunt had ordered her to sweep up the broken crockery and haul the shattered limbs of chairs and tables out to the woodpile. Her hands and feet began to sting reflexively as she remembered the number of times she’d cut herself while trying make sure she got every piece of pottery. Glancing down, she noticed that her hands were fidgeting, her fingers rubbing against each other and the palms of her hands. They were also covered in sweat. Grimacing, she wiped them on the edges of her skirt. Destiny watched her hands closely.

“My aunt had me doing most of the cleaning. I learned how to shine the pots and pans and scrub the floors and fireplace spotless. The one chore that I proved utterly useless with was mending.” The tips of her fingers recoiled into her palms, remembering the sharp pain of the needle burying its tip into the sensitive skin. “I lived with them until I was five.” Until a few years ago, Kathryn had never stopped to consider the enormity of the tasks that had been heaped upon her head at such a young age. She’d been completing tasks at two and three years old that children of seven or eight would struggle with. Now, she knew, it was because of her gifts, her increased strength and intelligence, that she had survived. But a small part of her wondered if her “family” had ever suspected her abilities. If anyone in the village had, and everyone had known how her uncle had treated her, they’d kept silent.

Now came the worse part of the nightmare. The Blackwoods. “During the spring months of that year, a sickness unlike any ever seen before ravaged the village. People were dying everywhere. In their homes, in the streets … I remember a couple who dropped while waiting in line to buy bread at the bakers.”

The images of the dead littering the streets forced their way into her mind. Their eyes empty, open and unseeing. Expressions of excruciating pain frozen on their faces. Bodies contorted into unnatural positions. Some had even foamed at the mouth like wild animals. She swallowed hard. “I woke one morning to find my adoptive family all sweating heavily, their skin covered in what resembled blue spider webs. I did what I could for them. I cooked broth and helped them sip it. But they weakened quickly. By that evening they couldn’t walk anymore. They could only crawl. I stayed with them all night, wiping the sweat from the faces and trying to get them to sip cold water.”

Her cousins’ pain wracked faces floated up in her mind, their mouths forming words, begging her to help them. Begging her to stop the pain. She remembered the feeling of utter helplessness that had accompanied her attempts to help her uncle and his family. There had been no cure for the sickness, nothing that she could have done to help them. One by one they had died, her cousins first, her uncle last. Dragging her hand over her face, Kathryn forced the images out of her mind.

“They died quickly, but it wasn’t a painless death.” She didn’t want to relieve their last radians, the way their bodies had jerked violently, wracked with pain. Their necks had swelled, closing off their voices. Throughout that night they had cried out to her silently, their eyes turning blue as the disease took hold of their bodies.

“One of my uncle’s customers found them the next morning.” The woman had been a customer her uncle had always argued with. Kathryn would never forget the delighted gleam that flashed in the woman’s eyes when she had entered the house and spotted the bodies lying haphazard throughout the rooms. And then the woman had spotted her. “She—“ Kathryn choked on the words. Clearing her throat she tried again. “She started screaming for the sheriff. At first I didn’t understand but when the watchmen arrived she spoke to them outside for a few moments. They came into the house and took me with them to the manor house.” The nightmare that had plagued her sleep that first day at the capitol came back in full force.

“Here’s your murderer!” The thin lady screeched, pointing at Kathryn who shrank back against the cold stone wall. “She killed them in their sleep she did! Judge her now, and give those poor souls the justice they deserve!”

“What justice do you think fits the crime this child committed?” The speaker turned his attention on Kathryn, his unforgiving eyes pinning her to the wall.

“Hang her! Hang her like the murderer she is!”

She wished she could become invisible, she wished that she could escape from the gray hall and the eyes that condemned her. Her fingers dug into the cracks in the stone wall behind her—desperately searching for any chance to flee.

Lord Blackwood looked to Lady Blackwood, a small reed-like woman who sat beside him, she nodded.

“Very well,” Lord Blackwood stood, “Take the girl to the dungeons pending her execution.”

Execution. The word echoed in her mind like a bell’s chime echoing in an empty tower.

“Hey, Kathryn. You’re safe now, relax.”

David’s calm voice brought her out of the memory. For the first time since she had started speaking she looked at him.

“You’re safe here,” he reiterated. He reached out and covered one of her hands with his.

Belatedly she became aware of the dull throbbing in her palms. Unclenching her hands she stared at the red crescents that dotted the pads of her palms. The tips of her fingers were stained bright red with blood and she flashed back again.

The stones shredded her hands as she ran the rag over the flagstones, scrubbing them clean of the dirt and dust that had settled on them since the last time she had washed them. Wincing in anticipation of the stinging, she dropped her rag, stained black with the grime and red with her blood, into the pitcher. She watched as the fabric slowly unfolded in the water, removing the signs of her fist from the folds.

With a jerk she came back to the present. Shakily she rubbed her hands on her skirt again, smearing the blood across her palms. She glared at the blood. How could such small indentations bleed so much?

Slowly she became aware as to how dry her throat had become. She swallowed several times, debating whether or not to continue. The flashbacks, the memories, she was beginning to feel nauseous.

Stopping now seemed like such a waste of energy.

She braced herself and took a deep breath. “When the watchmen took me before the Blackwoods, my uncle’s customer claimed that I had murdered my uncle and his family. No one seemed to care that there was a sickness spreading through the village and that my family had displayed all of the symptoms when their bodies had been found.”

Her throat closed as she remembered the later accusations. “No one who contracted the disease survived and those who attended the sick inevitably fell victim to it as well. In the whole village I was the only person to live in close contact with the illness and survive. There were those in the village who began to believe that I had survived because I was the one who had controlled the disease—that I had created it to destroy my abusive uncle and his family and hadn’t cared about the deaths of scores of villagers who it succumbed to it before my family.”

Her hands were becoming restless again and no matter how hard she tried to still their movements they managed to twist and rub against each other in her lap. But her hands weren’t the only part of her that was restless. Destiny moved to Kathryn’s shoulder as she stood and moved to the window.

“The woman who found my uncle and his family didn’t just stop with calling me a murderer,” she whispered. “She accused me of being a witch. With the sickness ravaging the village, and me being the sole person to survive close contact with it, it didn’t take long for the population to convince themselves I was a practitioner of black magic.” Then came the flashback of the mob that had demanded her death. “They…they set my uncle’s house on fire around me,” she could smell the acrid smoke burning in her nostrils from the pitch they’d used as fuel, “but I knew of a loose section of straw and I managed to kick my way through before the fire could claim me.” Inhaling deeply she tried to clear her mind of the scent of fire and death from that day. “A few of the crowd saw me escape and captured me before I could reach the forest.” The forest that was just beyond the pane of glass in front of her. If only she’d been able to reach it! How much different would her life have been if she’d managed to escape that day? “They dragged me before the Blackwoods, demanding that I be punished for my crimes.”

Now that she was older, she could recognize the calculating expression in her memory of the Lord and Lady of the Manor as they’d dispassionately listened to the mob’s demands. “The Blackwoods bowed to the wishes of the villagers and sentenced me to execution. They sent me to their dungeons. Their dungeon master introduced me to the world of… unbearable pain.” One of her hands reached up to her shoulders, her fingers slipping beneath the edge of the bodice to trace the scars beneath. She could still feel the sensation of her blood pooling on her back and sliding down her sides onto the floor. Her body shivered as it remembered the crushing blows from Kad’s cudgel. Her fingers traced the cold stone of the window sill. The dark veins in the gray stone pulled her focus down like a magician mesmerizing his audience.

Gripping the sill, she braced herself and continued.  “They locked me in a cell for a month. Several times a day, the dungeon master or his underlings would remove me from the cell for interrogation. I learned a lot about life from these sessions. If I let my tears fall, they would laugh and beat me harder. They were experts on generating excruciating pain just beneath the level which would have robbed me of consciousness. After the first session I swore to myself that I would never let them see my tears.” There was still a location in her heart where that vow sat like a hard stone. Impenetrable and unfeeling. “Eventually they got tired of beating a prisoner who didn’t beg for mercy and left me alone in my cell.”

Oh how she wished the nightmare simply ended there.  Her head was beginning to feel like Kad had just used his cudgel on it.
Stop, just stop
, her mind told her.
You’ve relived it enough.

But she had come this far, she might as well finish. “I shared a cell with an older man called Quint.” She paused, remembering the recent nightmare that recalled Quint’s cruelty. “We were given broth and bread in the morning and one day Quint told me to take his bread, claiming that I needed it more than he did, telling…no commanding me to trust him. But the minute his bread was in my hands he shouted for the dungeon master and accused me of stealing his bread. The dungeon master punished me severely and gave Quint my food for two days. He did it twice before I stopped trusting.”

Kathryn paused trying to shut out the voices and the screams that still haunted her. “The Blackwoods were not kind to their prisoners,” she continued. “I can still hear every whip’s crack and the cries of those who bore the stripes. Other prisoners were being beaten with clubs and maces, the sound of wood or metal crushing bone is something you never forget.

“After a month I was brought before Lord and Lady Blackwood. I was forced to kneel before them with my face touching the floor. For several radians they questioned me severely, but I refused to answer them.” Her spine began to spasm as it remembered the radians it had spent, bent in that position as the unseen figures had fired question after question at her. She’d wanted to set the record straight. She’d wanted to tell the truth. But as she had listened to the questions and the tone used to deliver them she had realized that no matter what she had said, no one would have believed her. So, as usual, she had held her tongue. Just like she had while living with her uncle’s family, just like she had while in the dungeons. Her voice hadn’t mattered then, so she’d hidden it away.

“When the Blackwoods first told me that they had decided to rescind their earlier judgment and spare my life, I was relieved. Then they revealed their new judgment. I was to become Lady Blackwood’s personal servant. At first, it sounded like a dream come true,” she admitted. “My aunt had told stories of her days as a lady-in-waiting to the former Lady Blackwood. I would listen quietly as I cleaned while she described elegant balls, rich clothing, and extravagant food to her children. I quickly learned that the life my aunt had lived in the manor would not be the one I would live.” Kathryn rolled one shoulder reflexively, remembering one of the beatings she had received. “My first beating at Lady Blackwood’s hand came when I hesitated to hand over the one possession I owned. A pendant shaped like a soaring eagle that hung from a golden chain. My hesitation bought me ten lashes with the whip.” It had taken her three years to recall that memory. When Lady Blackwood had given back the jewelry on the day she’d been rescued by Princess Jasmine, Kathryn had not recognized the pendant. Only after she’d been at school for a year had she remembered.