Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 517(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 517(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Elara stepped outside, drawing her cloak tighter against the chill. The morning had broken pale and cool, mist rising from the stream that wound behind the inn. The village was already waking, the muffled bleat of sheep somewhere near the edge of the fields, the faint clang of a smith’s hammer echoing down the lane.
Dar stepped out behind her, casting a glance around. The faint traces of earth still clung to his boots, though he said nothing about where he’d gone in the night or if he had spoken to anyone. She did not waste time asking again, sensing he would not offer an explanation.
“Feena’s cottage lies at the far end of the village,” he said, his voice low. “Near the tree line.”
Elara nodded. “Then let’s not waste time.”
They walked side by side through Barloch’s narrow lanes. The cottages here were old but tended, smoke curling from stone chimneys, small gardens fenced in with woven reeds. Children watched them from doorways. A woman paused in hanging her washing, her gaze sharp but not unfriendly.
Elara noticed how the air changed the closer they drew to the forest, cooler, damper, and heavy with the scent of moss and loam. The cottages grew fewer until there was only one, set apart from the rest, its thatch silver with age and its walls half-covered in ivy.
“That must be it,” she said softly.
Dar nodded, scanning the tree line beyond. “Keep alert. Danger lingers in a place this close to the border. I’ll keep watch and shout out if necessary.”
Elara nodded and hurried to the small gate that creaked as she pushed it open, and the soft jingle of wind chimes made from hollowed reeds drifted in the breeze.
Before Elara could knock on the door, it opened.
An old woman stood there, her frame thin but upright, her eyes sharp and startlingly clear—a blue so pale they seemed to catch the light. Her dull silver hair was braided and coiled at the nape of her neck, her hands steady as they rested on the doorframe. Her face bore endless wrinkles, some deep, others fine, but, as a whole, told a story of a woman who had seen much and, regardless of age, was eager to see more.
“You’ve come far,” she said, her voice like dry leaves and honey, “and with purpose.”
Elara inclined her head respectfully. “Are you Feena?”
“I am.”
Elara’s heart eased a little. “Dea of Wedderlie said you might help me.”
Feena cast a quick glance past her at Dar before urging, “Come inside. The morning has long ears.”
Elara followed her into the cottage. The air inside was warm and thick with the scent of dried herbs. Bundles of rosemary and betony hung from the beams, and on the table near the hearth lay neat rows of bottles and jars. It was a healer’s home, orderly but lived in.
Feena motioned toward the hearth. “Sit, lass. You’ve come a long way, and I expect you’ve questions heavy enough to fill the room.”
Elara moved closer to the fire. The warmth felt good after so many cold mornings, but something in the stillness of the cottage made her uneasy. It was too quiet, the kind of silence that harbored secrets.
A soft scuff of movement drew her attention. From the small room beyond, a young woman appeared, a bit shorter than Elara, carrying a bowl of dried petals. She was slender and pale, plain-featured, her red hair braided down her back, and her eyes, dull green but gentle, lifted briefly toward Elara.
“This is Adira. She cannot hear or speak,” Feena said, her tone practical, not pitying. “Her mother was a healer before her, a good one, taken by fever three winters ago. I found the lass after, half-starved, and brought her here. Her hands are clever with herbs, and her heart is steady.”
Adira gave a polite nod and crossed to the worktable. She began sorting the petals into neat piles, her movements precise and deliberate, each motion filled with quiet concentration.
Elara’s voice softened. “She seems… peaceful.”
Feena smiled faintly. “Peace is learned, not granted. She’s had to learn more than most. Now, how may I help you?”
Elara folded her hands in her lap to stop the nervous tremble. “I’m searching for the truth of the tale, the healer who has the power over death.”
Feena chuckled softly, the sound like crinkled dry parchment. “Ah, that old ghost of a story. Every healer in Leighfeld grows up with it, told by mothers to daughters, over fires that burned brighter than ours does now.”
“The king believes it. His Hunters scour every village, taking healers who might fit the tale. He means to find her. Do you believe it is nothing more than a tale?”
Feena’s gaze went to the fire. “Belief is a strange thing. Once, the kingdoms were one. Magic and healing were not divided. Then came the Great War that tore Scotara apart, and with it came fear. What could heal could also destroy, and men are quick to name destruction the stronger of the two.” She looked back at Elara. “So, they called it witchcraft or dark magic, take your pick. They banished what they didn’t understand, and the healers hid what they could not lose.”