Praise for Cat Bruno
The Pathway of the Chosen
The Girl from the North:
“A truly exceptional entertainment, The Girl From The North is author Cat Bruno's impressive debut novel and clearly documents her storytelling abilities for deftly created characters and unexpected plot twists. Very highly recommended.”
–– Midwest Book Review
“Cat Bruno has laid the foundations for a truly epic fantasy series with a vivid landscape and believable characters that you’ll want to follow.”
–– Fantasy author EM Cooper
“The Girl from the North is a fantasy that you will get lost in. You will want to know what happens to Bronwen as she trains to be a healer, as she figures out who she is. You will be invested in her story. But not just her story, you will also fall for Conri. The High Lord of the Wolf Tribe, he is the key that can unlock Bronwen’s memory.”
–– Every Free Chance Book Review
Pathway of the Chosen
Daughter of the Wolf, Book One
The Girl from the North, Book Two
THE GIRL FROM THE NORTH
CAT BRUNO
PAINTED QUILL
First trade printing December 2015
THE GIRL FROM THE NORTH
ISBN-13: 9780692217986
Copyright 2015 by Cat Bruno
Book art by Simon Valev
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, no parts of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted without the written consent of the author.
Painted Quill Publishing
www.thingsfantastical.com
Contact Painted Quill: paintedquillpublishing@thingsfantastical.com
Author’s Note:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Printed in the USA
To my daughters, Clio and Stella, who have long offered light, I dedicate this book.
Many thanks as well to my loyal readers Amanda and Steve, to my mom who gave me a deadline, to my sisters who gave me support, to people past and present who gave me inspiration, to my dad, and to Isaiah.
But I can’t forget the last two:
For Bronwen, and all of those like her, who find themselves on a path never imagined.
And for Conri, the shadow in all of us.
“Without the kiss of light, those who live in shadow would not know from where they came. Just as those who glow can only do so in the darkness that night creates. Many have forgotten these truths, except those of us in the North.”
--excerpt from Eirrannia, Above and Apart
TABLE OF CONTENTS
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
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
1
A brisk wind blew, unusual, dark, out of the north, not off the sea. Dusk colored the sky orange, cooled the air, and stilled the water. Silence roamed over the beach, only occasionally broken by soft waves striking the shore. The gulls had disappeared for the day, and darkness hovered close. Yet, the light lingered, dropping a shadowy fog across the deserted beach, competing with the setting sun that peeked out across the water and casting streaks of red and orange atop the sea. Cross-legged in the sand sat a young woman, with wind-touched hair that rivaled the setting sun and a stillness that matched the sea.
Bronwen, as she was called here, had no fear of the darkness that was fast approaching and sat quietly, accompanied by her thoughts. She had just been named Master Apprentice, a remarkable accomplishment for one with her history and her young age. She had long worked for such recognition, relieved to no longer be seen as the Northern orphan.
Bronwen began to stir, suddenly no longer able to rest. She jumped up and brushed off her cream-colored healer’s robe, which she wore shorter than her classmates to accommodate the loose-fitting pants that she wore underneath the coarse robe.
With a small cry of dismay, Bronwen noticed the fading light, quickly grabbed her sandals, and hurried down the beach. She had much to share with Sheva, the woman who had fostered and raised her after her mysterious arrival in Tretoria. Smiling at the memory, Bronwen quickened her pace, hoping to find Sheva at the Academy, even though the evening meal had already ended.
*****
Bronwen remembered nothing of her life before arriving near Litusia. About ten moon years before, she had been found walking along the main road that led into Tretoria. Scouts, first and second year soldiers from the Cordisian National Brigade, had noticed her bright hair and light skin, shining under the high Tretorian sun. When they first approached, her appearance startled them, a bloodied face and soiled dress.
Ossa, Bronwen would learn his name later, had tried to communicate with her, first in Tretorian, then Common--the language shared by most Cordisians--and he even attempted a few phrases from the Northern language, Eirrannian. She had not been scared, nor did she appear much bothered by her injuries. Calm and clear-eyed, Bronwen had stood, leading the men to believe her to be half-witted or dazed from her pain.
After his attempts to get the child to speak had failed, Ossa had picked her up and carried her back to the others, who were now only a few steps behind him. Talia, the only female scout of the four, had examined the girl’s face, and concluded that it was nothing serious, yet they all agreed to bring the still silent girl to the healer at the Academy. Ossa had placed the girl upon his horse, climbed up behind her, and then rode toward Litusia, unsettled, yet uncertain as to why.
*****
The story had quickly spread of how the four scouts had found a strange Northern child, alone and bleeding. After the healers tended to her injuries, which looked worse than they were, she was questioned about her arrival, her injuries, her family, her name, and her age. Although many attempted to communicate with the girl, none succeeded, leaving the healers to believe that she was too tra
umatized to do so. Many wondered if she would ever be able to speak again.
The idea of fostering a Northern child had been surprising, even though she had done the same for a few children whose parents had needed extended treatment at the Healer’s Clinic. At the time, she had known nothing about the Eirrannia, yet the girl had looked at her with trusting eyes and a shy smile, and Sheva abandoned all doubts, accepting the offer at once.
Often, when Sheva told the story, she would pause, gazing at Bronwen, eyes heavy with emotion and memory. The girl had slowly started talking again, mostly in Common, although her words were accented with the lilt of the North. After a moon, it was as if she had never been silent, and after half a moon year, Bronwen asked to attend the Healer’s Academy, having spent nearly all of her days with Sheva on the Academy’s grounds. Quickly, she had flourished at the Academy, showing both a natural ability and a fierce desire to learn all that she could.
But Bronwen wondered about her life before she had been found and about where she had come from, and who she had been, as her true name was even a mystery. Yet, her memory never returned, not even ten moon years later.
*****
As she walked, the wind increased and tumbled the waves, spray flying and splashing her as she edged the shore. Bronwen slowed her pace, enjoying the now tumultuous water, as it was usually calm this time of year. Her unbound hair danced in the wind, resembling the sunset, copper highlighted with orange and ginger. Bronwen laughed a slow, spontaneous sound, nearly lost in the crashing of the waves. Yet, as quiet as the laugh was, and as loud as the waves were, the unexpected noise pierced the one who silently watched.
He moved effortlessly through the thick sand, leaving no footsteps behind to mark his trail. The air hesitated around him as he walked, and he quickly closed the gap between himself and the woman in front of him. In moments, he would be upon her. With the last light of the falling sun, his image appeared. Ebony hair, sleek, black clothing that hugged his long, slender legs and narrow waist, boots that ended just below his knees, and an unusual jacket that looked modern and ancient at the same time as it clung to his chest before flowing over his hips, ending at his knees.
The man moved in determined, confident strides, fearlessly, at home in the sudden darkness.
*****
Soon, Bronwen noticed that she was no longer alone, stumbled, and paused. Yet, she, too, was fearless, and she relaxed into a smile that lightened the oncoming nightfall, warmed the cool breeze, and silenced the banging waves.
Bronwen held her ground, unmoving, as the stranger approached. Even from a distance and with little natural light remaining, Bronwen named him a Tribesman. Her heart fluttered in her chest, reminding her of the butterflies she captured as a child, watching as they beat their bright, speckled wings against the jar, struggling to escape. She loved watching them so closely, but always let them go soon after, guilt-ridden for imprisoning them and fearful for their well-being.
He was very tall, much taller than the small, stocky Tretorians she had spent the last twelve moon years surrounded by. His skin was paler too, ghostly white, another sharp contrast to the nutty skin tones of the locals, including Sheva. He seemed to glow, luminous and shining, bright against the dark sky, as he made his way across the sand. When just steps separated the two, Bronwen’s confidence started to dwindle, and she wondered if she should be frightened.
He was a handsome man, breathtakingly so. His long, rectangular face had a hint of royalty to it--high cheekbones, a sharp, angular nose, and full lips. His eyes were dark, glistening, yet guarded, revealing nothing. Bronwen sensed a weariness about him, a reluctance to approach, which made little sense, despite her limited knowledge of the Tribe.
Bronwen glanced at the man again, taking in his broad shoulders, lean, muscled arms, and a waist that was slimmer than Bronwen would have imagined it to be. He’s dangerous, Bronwen thought, and his beauty only makes him more so. A wolf, and none other, could have such a fierce, sleek look, yet remain captivating. Bronwen paused, realizing the man was upon her, then looked up at the man who was now reaching up to her face with a soft, smooth hand. Before she could speak, his hands were on her forehead.
Then, she smiled again, because she was a Northerner still. And a Northerner never shows fear when facing a member of the Tribe, even though she wanted to run as fast and as far as her legs could carry her. But she stood, motionless, transfixed, her gaze locked on the man’s opaque eyes.
When the man placed the palm of his hand across the center of her forehead, Bronwen’s smile deepened, acquiring an ironic edge. Her smile deepened, although now it was because she began to remember.
2
It was he who spoke first, a voice deep in timbre, yet laced with a sultry softness that seemed out of place.
“Hello young Northern cousin. You seem far from home. Are you lost?”
He had spoken the dialect of the Elders, or so Bronwen believed, one that she never realized that she knew, words that she should not have known. Yet his words echoed around her and there was not a single one that she didn’t understand, even as edged with laughter as they were.
Before she answered, she surveyed him from his shining hair to his high boots, finally letting her gaze settle on his dark purple eyes. To even the untrained or inexperienced, there was no doubt that this man was a Tribesman. No doubt that he was a very important Tribesman. A very powerful one. His ability to destroy made her ability to heal seem as small as a grain of sand beneath her feet. He was, to most Cordisians, an enemy. To some, the enemy, she knew.
*****
As he stood before her, smiling and eyes aglow, Bronwen stared back with scattered thoughts. Cousin? Surely he was mocking her. Or did he refer to her Northern lineage, a lineage that descended from Luna, the Moon goddess, the mother of his people. Bronwen struggled to remember her early lessons in history. She knew so little of the Tribe, and her head was pounding, spinning, her vision blurred.
It had been years since she had studied the Tribe, and she couldn’t remember right now who had been the instructor for the class, nor when she had taken it. Many believed that the Tribe could never die; some believed that they were never truly alive. Yet, Bronwen knew that neither was true. The Tribe could indeed die. But the only way to kill them was with centuries old tools that were constructed by the God of Fire, Ardoro, or so the tales promised.
Bronwen could recall a class that she took in her beginning years at the Academy, taught by Master Durante, that encompassed the history of the first gods of Cordisia. What she had learned was little more than a simple summary of a thousand or more moon years, but perhaps there was some truth to it. Early in the history of Cordisia’s creation, the gods battled each other for control over the land. During one such conflict, Nox sacrificed a great amount of his own power to craft an army to defend his territory. Thus, the Tribe was born. Ardoro himself had already formed his own line of descendants, the Royal Rexterrans, who were also gifted with near immortality. Ardoro and Cymba, God of Craft, allied together to make a weapon that could cut the threads of immortality. After several attempts, the two developed a sword that was born of fire and ice, forged of a type of rock only found under sheets of glacial ice in the Faelan Mountains. It was then cut, molded, and fired under a massive flame. Ardoro bestowed his favored descendants with the weapons, black-iced and rare. Atraglacia.
Which was all that Bronwen could remember, which seemed to matter little now.
Lost in thought, she stood motionless and dazed as he raised his other hand to shoulder height and placed
it on the back of her head, holding it in place for what seemed like a moon year. Bronwen shivered, then staggered backward, falling, until he moved with a speed of one who had done this same thing countless times. He had moved his right hand from her forehead to her lower back, cradling her until she regained her balance.
Bronwen shook her head from side to side, and it was almost too heavy to move. She was aching all over and felt nauseous and dizzy, struggling to keep her eyes open. She would have fallen over if not for the man behind her.
When she stood still and quiet once again, he dropped both of his hands and stepped back, waited, as if he knew, which angered her. Suddenly Bronwen’s eyes blinked repeatedly, without her control, and her vision blurred. She stumbled again, this time sinking to her knees in the sand. Bronwen closed her eyes and remembered.
*****
Bronwen had forgotten all of her childhood. Until now. She opened her eyes, settled her gaze on the man standing before her, and smiled. A smile so deep that it illuminated the darkness that now surrounded them both.
Finding her voice, Bronwen replied, “Indeed, cousin, it seems I am found yet again. Will I be allowed to remember our meeting this time? Or will you take it from me again, Conri?”
He laughed, a glimmering, musical sound, and smiled broadly, showing brilliant white teeth.
“Bronwen, dear girl, you have changed this last year. But, still you amuse me. Your new title has certainly agreed with you. Should I offer my congratulations?”
And so much made sense. Her arrival in Tretoria, her time spent with him, her decision to join the Healer’s Academy.