Daughter of Light: Volume 1 (Follower of the Word, 1) - Softcover

Busse, Morgan L.

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1935929496 ISBN 13: 9781935929499

Publisher: Enclave Publishing, 2012

Synopsis

What is that mark? As the Shadonae rise in the west and war threatens the north, a young woman discovers she is not human . . . Rowen Mar finds a strange mark on her hand, and she is banished from her village as a witch. She covers the mark with a leather glove and seeks sanctuary in the White City. She lives in fear that if she touches another person, the power inside her will trigger again, a terrifying power that allows her to see the darkness inside the human heart . . . But the mark is a summons, and those called cannot hide forever.For the salvation of her people lies within her hand. Morgan L. Busse writes stories about the hope that in darkness there is light. She currently resides in the Midwest with her husband and four children. Daughter of Light is her first novel. Visit Morgan at www.morganlbusse.com

About this title

About the Author

Morgan L. Busse is the wife of a pastor, mother of four children, and the author of the Follower of the Word series. Her debut novel, Daughter of Light, was both a Christy Award and a Carol Award finalist.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Daughter of Light

Follower of the Word, Book 1

By Morgan L. Busse

Third Day Books, LLC

Copyright © 2012 Morgan L. Busse
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-935929-49-9

CHAPTER 1

Nothing changed during war. Weeds grew, the wind came and went, the sun still rose and set each day.

And yet at the same time, everything changed. Loved ones left to fight, rocking chairs remained empty, and only one dish and cup would be set out at dinner.

Rowen let out a sigh and sat back on her knees. Brown earth clung to her dress and fingers. She could feel the hot summer sun beat down on her head. Nearby stood the one-room cabin she had lived in as long as she could remember. Grey stones from the river formed the chimney. Thick dark logs were stacked and packed with mud. Dull yellow straw topped the small home. Vegetables grew beside the cabin in long rows. A fence made from broken branches and twine surrounded the garden, a garden that was sorely in need of her attention.

Nearby, the shadows from Anwin Forest crept closer to her garden. Rowen glanced at the forest. Tall, thick trees crowded out all light, leaving the forest floor in darkness. Dark green moss clung to the trunks. Broad ferns and prickly berry bushes spread between the trees like a blanket of green. Not one bird sang. Only the wind whispered through the trees.

Rowen shuddered and looked away. The war felt like those shadows: creeping toward her life, threatening to take away all she held dear. She focused on a large ugly weed and grabbed it.

Her father was safe, she knew it. She had received a letter from him only last week. She pulled on the weed, but it would not budge. She put both hands around the stem and tugged harder.

The war would end, and he would come home, and everything would go back to the way it used to be. Sweat trickled down the side of her face. She yanked with all her might. The weed burst from the ground with a spray of dirt.

She dumped the weed on top of the pile next to her and moved on to the next one.

"Attacking the weeds, I see."

Rowen's head shot up. A short, grey-haired man dressed in stained white robes stood by the fence that surrounded her garden. He held a basket beneath one arm. Leafy greens and bright round berries brimmed over the sides. His hair was tied back from his brown wrinkled face.

"Noland," she said. "I wasn't expecting a visit from you."

"Do you need one?"

Rowen shook her head. "No. I'm feeling fine now. Thanks to you."

Noland studied her, then reached into his basket. "I was just in Anwin collecting herbs for my stores. Found some mint growing back that way." He nodded toward the forest. He pulled out a handful of the small green leaves. "Here, try this with hot water."

Rowen stood and walked toward the fence. She hesitantly reached for the mint. Noland had never offered her anything before.

He looked at her with concern. "You're sure you're all right?"

She took the mint and stepped back. "Yes." She touched her face with her free hand. "Just tired."

"No lingering pain? No fever?"

"No."

"Good." Noland straightened. "You gave me quite a scare. Never seen a sickness like it."

"Never felt anything like it."

A look of relief crept across his face.

Her spirits lifted at the sight. Was she finally being accepted into the fold?

"You let me know if anything changes, all right?" he said.

"I will."

His smile broadened. "Well, I should be going. The missus is waiting." Noland raised a hand and shook a finger at her. "And don't work too much on that garden. Make sure you rest." He turned and headed toward the village below.

Rowen watched him until he disappeared down the hill. She leaned across the fence and closed her eyes. The sun felt warm across her face. But not as warm as the glow of acceptance. All she needed was her father to come home untouched by the war and everything would be perfect.

She opened her eyes She looked behind her at the small garden and nodded. She would finish the weeding tomorrow.

Rowen entered the cabin. A long wooden table filled most of the room. Across the table stood the fireplace. A large black kettle hung inside the opening, just above a mound of glowing coals. Dried herbs and garlic braids were draped over the mantle. Sticks were stacked neatly to the left.

Two windows were built into the wooden walls, one to the right and one to the left. The right one faced Anwin Forest. Below the window sat a rocking chair and one small bed covered in a faded patch quilt.

A chest stood in front of the bed. Inside it were a couple personal items: a lock of her mother's brown hair, the smallsword her father had brought back for her during one of his trips to the White City, and a leather glove. Her father believed that a woman should be able to defend herself as well as any man, and so he had taught her how to use the blade. The glove had been a gift along with the sword.

Rowen went around the table and pulled the kettle out from the fireplace. The water had boiled dry. She looked in the nearby bucket. Empty as well. She gave a small sigh and dropped the mint on the table. She would have to go down to the village and retrieve more water.

The left window faced Cinad, the small village that lay just down the hill from her cabin. A low table with a cracked pitcher and bowl sat beneath the window. A single cupboard stood in the corner. Three chipped plates and cups lined its dusty shelves with a tin box on the very top.

Rowen undid the knot behind her and pulled the dirty apron off. She dumped it in the corner, then grabbed the bucket and headed out toward the village.

Cinad was one of many small villages scattered across the Ryland Plains. It wasn't much to look at, just a collection of wood homes thatched with straw. But it was the only home Rowen had ever known.

The smell of smoke clung to the warm summer air. Far away, the faint clang of the blacksmith's hammer echoed across the valley. Children with long sticks ran behind tall thin metal loops they guided down the single dirt road that ran through the village. Beyond the shabby homes and stores lay hills of golden wheat.

Near the end of the village stood the well. It was made of stone and topped with a shingled cone roof. Rowen could see a crowd of women collecting around the well. Her stomach gave a small flip, and she tightened her hold on the bucket. The last thing she wanted was to arrive in the middle of Cinad's gossip time.

Rowen was about to turn back, but she caught sight of her friend Calya. Calya stood to the side, talking with a couple of the younger village women. Her hair, long and brown, was pulled back in a knot at the nape of her neck. She held a bucket with one hand and a baby on her hip. A little girl with long brown braids stood next to her.

Rowen took a deep breath and let it out with a whoosh. She could brave a visit to the well if Calya was there.

She made her way down the hill and passed the first set of houses. A couple of children between the cabins looked up and watched her. She lifted her chin higher and hurried along. The sound of the blacksmith's hammer grew louder the closer she got to the open workspace.

Inside the dark interior of the blacksmith's hut she saw Cleon bent over the anvil. His father worked the billows. Cleon glanced up. His black curly hair looked wild with the red light from the forge behind it. He stared straight at her.

Rowen fumbled, his look unnerving her. She caught herself and moved on toward the well.

The women ignored her as she approached. Good. Rowen heaved an inward sigh. She could handle that. Let them talk amongst themselves, and she would retrieve water and leave. Then Calya caught sight of her.

"Rowen! Over here!"

Rowen stopped and turned. "Calya," she said. The other women grew quiet. Rowen shoved down the feeling of unease. Calya hurried toward her with her baby. Brighid, her little girl, followed.

Calya looked her up and down. "You look much better." Calya smiled. "I don't like finding people unconscious! When I found you, I thought ... Well, it terrified me. And Noland wouldn't say anything at first. But I saw the fear in his eyes too." Then she seemed to grow timid. "H-how are you feeling now? Do you remember anything yet? I mean, you were sick for weeks."

Rowen stared down at the empty bucket she held in both hands. She didn't know what to say. She could remember nothing of those last few weeks. "Oh, I'm tired." Rowen looked back up at Calya. "As if everything had been taken out of me."

"Should you be out so soon, then?"

Rowen gave a small laugh and held up her bucket. "And how else would I get water?"

"Someone would have gotten it for you. Everyone pitched in while you were sick. Noland's wife, Sarah, made broth for you, you know. Old Sonja brought over an extra quilt. And I even wrote your father."

Rowen almost dropped her bucket. "You wrote my father?"

"Yes. Although I haven't heard back yet." She shifted the baby on her hip. "The entire village was worried about you, Rowen."

Rowen realized the other women had quietly gathered around and were listening to the conversation. A lump stuck inside her throat. They had cared about her? Hesitantly she looked around. Lenora, the miller's daughter, gave her a small smile. Grace and Tessa merely looked at her, but it was better than the cold stares she usually received from them.

Rowen looked back at Calya. "Thank you. Thank you all."

Calya smiled. "Come now, let's fill your bucket and get you home so you can rest."

Rowen blinked. Calya placed a hand on her shoulder and steered her toward the well. Rowen stumbled forward, her mind still spinning.

"See," Cayla said, "I told you they would come around."

Old feelings of bitterness swirled inside her. Rowen didn't bother to point out how long it had taken for the village to finally accept her — that she had lived here all her life and was now past marrying age, or that they'd come to care for her only when she'd been so ill she'd nearly died. But Calya's kindness and the other women's warm reaction to her quickly dispelled the bitter feeling.

Rowen hooked her bucket to the rope and dropped it down into the well. A splash echoed up the hole. Moments later she hauled the bucket up, placing one hand in front of the other and pulling until the dripping bucket came in view. She secured the rope and unhooked the bucket.

"Would you like me to help you up to the house?" Calya asked.

"No." Rowen turned with bucket in hand. "I think I can handle this." She could feel her strength returning. But it wasn't fully back yet. She would need to lie down once she reached home, after she put the kettle on and washed up.

"Then I'll stop by tomorrow with some dough so you can have a starter for bread."

Rowen hadn't even thought about her food stores. "Thank you." By now, her own starter had probably gone rancid.

Calya said goodbye. Brighid peeked her head out and shyly waved. Even Lenora said farewell in a quiet voice. Grace and Tessa merely nodded.

Rowen gripped the bucket firmly between both hands and began her walk back through the village. Had things really changed? She passed the children again. Instead of hurrying past, she looked at them and gave them a small smile. They stared back. At least they didn't run away like they usually did. One returned to rolling his thin metal hoop and pushing it with his stick. The other children followed, and the group disappeared behind the house.

Rowen walked past the blacksmith. The shop was quiet. She looked over, and she found Cleon watching her. An uneasiness passed over her at the intense look on his face. She gripped the bucket and moved steadily forward.

At the edge of the village, Rowen hurried up the hill to her own cabin. Water slopped and sloshed over the sides of the bucket. But she didn't care. Her mind was elsewhere.

She entered the house and walked around the table toward the kettle. She poured half of the water into the black pot then pushed the pot over the coals. She headed toward the table below the window and filled the pitcher from the bucket. Finally, she put the bucket down and poured water from the pitcher into the bowl.

Rowen dipped her hands into the water. It was tepid, and it turned a muddy brown as the dirt from her garden slowly rinsed from her hands. She reached for the block of soap and worked up a thick lather. She looked out the window as she scrubbed.

She spotted Calya and some other women walking together, carrying their own buckets. In the past, Rowen would have wondered what they were talking about. She would watch them and burn with the desire to be a part of their group. At other times she would feel loneliness and hurt, or be sure they were talking about her. But today was the first time she had been accepted. Perhaps not embraced, exactly, but it was close enough for a start. She was one of them now.

Warmth spread from her heart across her entire body. Rowen smiled. She glanced down to see if her hands were clean —

She stopped and frowned. A patch of white skin caught her eye. Slowly she brought her right hand up to the window. What is this? Pale white skin covered her entire palm, spreading out like a large snowflake toward her fingertips. The rest of the skin on her hand was fair and looked normal. Only her palm seemed affected. Puzzled, Rowen dipped her hand back into the water, scrubbed for a moment, then brought her palm back up. The white mark was still there.

Turning her palm from left to right, she studied the strange mark on her hand. Her frown deepened. This was her hand. She knew it well. No paleness or any other discoloration had ever been there before. But wait: Her recent illness had been so strange. Could this be a lingering effect from that?

Rowen looked at her other hand, both sides. No white mark on her left hand. She searched her arms. No white patches. She stepped away from the window and raised her dress. She bent over and twisted from side to side, searching every part of her skin for anything unusual. Her legs looked fine as far as she could see.

Rowen dropped her dress and touched her cheek, wishing she could see her face. She checked her reflection in her wash basin, but it was too soapy to show much. There couldn't be anything there — if something had looked strange, Calya would have mentioned it. Or one of the other women. Or the children. They'd had no problem in the past pointing out what was strange about her.

She raised her hand again. The pale pattern remained on her palm. What in all the Lands could this be? Perhaps she should tell Noland —

A sharp knock sounded at her door.

"Coming." Rowen reached for the white linen that hung on a nearby peg. She dried her hands and dumped the rag on the long table before answering the door.

On the threshold stood a courier dressed in dark blue. The colors of the White City. "Rowen Mar?" the young man said, his voice somber.

Fear swept across her body, leaving her weak and breathless. "Yes?" Her voice cracked through her words. Rowen reached out and gripped the door. It was silly to be afraid. There could be any number of reasons the White City would send a courier to her home. Perhaps it was just a letter from her father. After all, Calya had written to him about her illness. But never had a White City courier brought a simple letter. No, only one reason made sense.

The courier raised his hand and held out a cream colored parchment. "I'm sorry." A look of pity covered his face as he handed her the letter.

Rowen stared at the parchment. No, no. It couldn't be. Her hand moved toward the letter as if detached from the rest of her body. Her fingers clutched the cold parchment. The young man said something else, but Rowen could not hear him over the rush inside her head.

Somewhere in her mind she saw the courier disappear down the path. Rowen backed into the house and sat down on the long bench next to the table. She turned the folded parchment around and found the seal of the White City pressed firmly in blue wax. Her finger shook near the opening. Did she really want to know?

With a quick thrust, she broke the wax and unfolded the piece of parchment.

To Rowen Mar,

We regret to inform you ...

Rowen let the letter fall to the floor. Her father was dead.

* * *

Commander Jedrek Mar's body was brought to the village the next day. Many dignitaries and military men accompanied the coffin. Rowen neither remembered nor cared. To others, he had been a top commander in the Northern Army, a man highly respected and admired. To Rowen, he had been her only family and friend.

Everyone gathered south of the village. Mounds of rocks and flowers stood in straight rows below a lone gnarled tree that had somehow found root away from Anwin Forest. The village burial place. The air felt warm and stifling under the bright summer sun. Bodies pressed close together in a ragged line that led to a new hole in the ground right near the base of the tree.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Daughter of Light by Morgan L. Busse. Copyright © 2012 Morgan L. Busse. Excerpted by permission of Third Day Books, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: Enclave Publishing
• Publication date: 2012
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1935929496
• ISBN 13: 9781935929499
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 363