The Chosen (The Compendium of Raath, Book 1) (2 page)

What would it do to him to
lose me too? I have to get home. Maybe I can beg for forgiveness.
He might respond to that. He'll be there waiting for me. How long
have I been gone? Oh God, he's there waiting for me.
She would open the door and he would be drumming
his fingers on the table, his eyes dark. There was no
escaping.

I'm an idiot!

Panicked, jumbled thoughts crashed into her
as she started to stumble through one of her farm's large corn
fields. It was still muddy, not having been planted yet, and she
had a hard time getting traction, her heavy boots sucking down into
the mud. Lightning illuminated her voyage a split-second at a time.
Her farmhouse sat in the distance, a hulking thing that the
shifting lightning strikes brought to life. She could see the barn
and shed, rainwater splashing off their rusty roofs.

She reached the back of her
house a few moments later, but was hesitant to step onto the
porch.
I have to hide. Begging for
forgiveness won't work. I can't go in like this. He'll look at me.
He'll see me.
Her clothing clung to her.
She looked down in horror. She choked back a sob.

Wren ran to the barn. There was a pile of
blankets for the horses that would be dry, and with luck she could
find a place to stash her shirt, pants, and boots until she could
retrieve them later.

When she entered the barn through the big
door some of the horses whinnied, their storm-scared eyes following
her.

“What are you looking at?” she shouted at
them, ashamed of herself, trying to cover her chest, to conceal
herself even from the horses. She used one blanket to vigorously
rub her hair dry and then – in one of her braver moments – stripped
off her bloody, soaked clothes and wrapped them in it. She stuffed
the whole wet mess deep into a pile of straw, getting a few small
cuts on her hands in the frenzied process. She reached hastily for
another blanket to wrap herself in.

This blanket – with its pattern of red and
gold checks - would have to be her armor as she went back into the
house. She wrapped it up and around herself with shaking hands. It
came down to her ankles and covered everything. It served as a
dress and didn't cling to her body as her wet clothes had. She was
still shuddering as she headed back into the storm.

I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know
what I'm doing!

Wren sprinted to the back porch during a
brief break in the rain and then, summoning every ounce of courage
she had, reached slowly for the doorknob and grasped it. She stood
still, trying to calm her panting, shuddering, and sobbing.

He'll be asleep.

No. He's waiting.

She couldn't face him. She could. She had
to. She wouldn't.

She would.

Just before she started to turn the knob it
turned in her hand from the inside and suddenly she felt warmth
running down between her legs.

H
er
father opened the door and stared at her for a brief
second.

Wren stood frozen in place, her muscles
turned to wood. She had the urge to flee, but could not.

Then her father got a strangely concerned
look on his face.

Wren's heart lurched.

“Where ya been?” he asked softly. “Ya been
out?”

“I was out in the woods,” Wren gasped
through her sobs. “Please. Please.” She didn't know what she was
begging for, but he must have understood.

“In this storm? Ya need ta come in and keep
warm. You'll catch your death.” His strong arms scooped her up and
carried her inside the house. He brought her to her room and laid
her down on her bed, then went to the next room. Wren heard a few
clanking noises and realized he was fetching the lantern.

“You been out?” he asked
again, coming back into the room. He seemed confused. His face was
now lit in the orange glow of the lantern. “I don't like you going
out into the world like that. Somethin' coulda happened to ya. Ya
coulda been
killed
.”

“I know,” Wren said. She knew now that she
could have stepped in a hunter's trap, been eaten by Foglins or
wolves, or maybe even fallen down, broken her leg and died of
starvation.

Feelings of grief and guilt collided.
Perhaps her father had had a vision while he was sleeping. A vision
from God telling him that what he was doing was wrong. The looking,
the touching. Wren didn't know much of religion, but she knew
enough to believe that sometimes, maybe if you were lucky, God
would save you.

God could help you if you were broken.

“I wasn't supposed to be out
and I won't do it again,” Wren said through chattering teeth. “I
went to check on the horses and got curious about the forest.” It
was only a partial lie. She
had
initially been going out to see if she could
muster the courage to harm one of the horses. She hadn't been able
to do so and had gone farther afield, looking for a smaller
target.

“Ya look like yer mother,” her father said,
hanging the lantern on a hook on the wall. His eyes were sad as he
came to her bedside, gripping at the ends of the horse blanket.

It was now she truly saw the look in his
eyes and smelled the alcohol on him.

“Please don't,” she said, her throat
tightening. She had been a fool to think it would end. That was why
she hated herself the most.

Her weakness couldn't hold him back. He
picked at the places that held her armor together, and the blanket
came undone.

He'll touch and leave.

Wren's flesh stood cold with goosebumps. She
stared at the ceiling, fixating on a point - on anything but what
was going on in this room. Her first reaction was confusion as her
father lowered himself onto her. She felt him part her legs and
then felt something much more horrible.

Everything went blank.

C
rack!

The whip fell hard against Otom Aldenburg's
back. He willed himself to not cry out. He took his punishment
silently as the lashes echoed in the stone room. The walls of this
place were covered in beautiful murals, painted by some of the most
talented artists Otom had ever known. All of Raath might have known
them if the world had cared to look this far up in the bitter,
frozen north.

Crack!

His bare skin was cold. It was always cold
in the north. The biting winds flung snow and ice through the air
almost every day of the year. Otom always told himself that if a
Southerner moved up here he would die within a few days, unable to
handle the bitterness of the climate. This island in particular was
frigid. The wind whipped west, driven by some maniacal force that
was hellbent on flattening everything in its path.

Crack!

Otom drew upon a tiny string of power within
and Calmed himself. It wasn't something he liked to do too often.
Punishment should be taken without the need to use magic on
yourself, but Otom was feeling vulnerable today. Normally the whip
didn't bother him this much. Normally he could withstand it, but
today was different. Today was the anniversary of his failure.

Crack!

That was the last stroke he could handle
right now. He stood up and placed the whip in the drawer of a
simple wooden table. That table and the small bed next to it were
some of his only possessions. He had built them himself from the
wood of the tall pines that grew near the Monastery.

He tucked his wool pants back into the tops
of his fur-lined boots, then grabbed a brown robe from a peg on the
wall and secured it around himself with a rope belt. Otom turned
and kindled his Fire, letting the magic flow from his hands to the
hearth. Life could be arduous for a Monk, but Otom would never
complain about being able to create his own Fire. It burned in the
hearth, the flames a physical manifestation of the power within
him.

He had sacrificed his world and gained that
power.

O
tom
sat on the edge of his bed with his eyes closed, recovering from
his flagellation, which he had not technically completed for the
day. He would have to come back to it later. For now, however, he
needed a moment to reflect and then he had an appointment to
make.

His room was one of the biggest in the
Kilgane Monastery, with decorated walls, eight foot ceilings, and
an ornate fireplace. At least, ornate for Otom's current standards.
Candles burned with normal fire. Otom mostly put his own Fire in
the fireplace. It was difficult to control tiny amounts of it. A
healthy blaze was easier to produce. The powers of a Monk were
stable and reliable. As long as he was Sacrificing – which he
always was - he would have magic to draw on.

There was only one other Monk in Kilgane
Monastery that had even a glimmer of the magic that Otom possessed.
The man had trained him when his powers had bloomed. It wasn't a
sure thing, getting that power from God. Many good men led lives of
Sacrifice never to have magic bestowed upon them.

Otom was a rarity.

Kilgane Monastery had few allures about it:
it was constantly freezing outside, the days and nights were of odd
lengths, and the food was tasteless. Otom knew for certain that
there were worse things than isolation and penitence. He hadn't
left the island in thirteen years, and he wasn't planning on going
anywhere anytime soon.

Here he had camaraderie, escape,
purpose.

There was a small fishing village on the
southern shore of the island and the people there mostly regarded
the Monks of the Kilgane Monastery as a mystery, not really
frightened of them, but not really wanting conversation either. Of
course, Otom couldn't have given them that anyway. To talk would be
to break one of his Vows, and to break a Vow was to give up a piece
of your Sacrifice. He sometimes wondered what his voice would sound
like. He remembered that it was deep and steady, but the last time
he had talked was at the age of seventeen. He supposed his voice
would sound different now if it even still worked.

He talked mostly in hand signs for
unavoidable essentials. On every First Day he would make the trek
down to the village to trade for fish and cloth and other things
the Monks might need. Sometimes he would trade wood, beads, or
furs, but oftentimes he would simply trade Fire or Calm.

Monkish Fire didn't consume wood, and could
last a good long time, depending on how much magic was poured into
it. There wasn't a person in the village who could turn down such
an offer, even if they regarded the Monks with wary eyes.

Calm was more subtle magic, but just as
desirable. If someone had nearly died from falling through the ice,
Otom could Calm them and wash away their fears, saving them years
of fear and doubt. If a fight was about to break out, Otom could
stop it most of the time. These were the kinds of services that
only a Monk like Otom could provide.

Otom walked over to the door and pulled it
open, the heavy metal knocker on the other side clacking once. The
dormitory hallway wasn't much colder than his room. The Monks kept
the entire Monastery lit most of the time, Otom's magical Fires
joining in with their normal ones.

Otom walked quickly down the hall so he
could arrive on time for another scheduled Vow. The Vow of Bondage.
He was actually going to be a bit late even if he ran. Everyone
would probably be already waiting for him there. It was fine.
Forgiveness was easy to receive here.

He had to pass through the cloister in order
to get to the chapel and as he stepped outside the wind whipped at
him, threatening to blow his hood off. He reached up and tugged it
back down so that it covered his forehead down to the top of his
eyes. His bushy brown beard took care of warming the lower half of
his face.

It was snowing. The fat flakes drifted down
out of a gray sky.

Thirteen years since my
failure,
he thought.

The cloister was silent as he padded through
the snow, his fur boots would have been excellent for hunting and
tracking, but today they were ceremonial. The chapel door had much
the same design as his room's own door and fires burned around it,
making a glorious arch that kept away the snow and warmed the wind.
Otom swung it open and went inside, closing it heavily behind
him.

It was quiet, but that was to be
expected.

But not this quiet . . .

S
omething fell on him from above and Otom dropped to his knees
on the hard stone floor, cursing silently at the pain. He could
feel some sort of claws pressing through his hood and thought at
once of the Coraline Beast from The Book. But this creature wasn't
the Coraline Beast, for the Coraline Beast was much larger.
Whatever it was, it let out an otherworldly screech as Otom reached
up and grabbed hold of a thin leg, tossing the creature away. It
smashed against the stone wall.

Otom threw his hood back now, balancing the
advantage of its claw-stopping thickness against the way it blocked
his visibility. He decided it would be better to be able to
see.

He glanced around the room to find a macabre
scene. At least thirty Monks – almost the entire population of the
Monastery - were laying scattered about, bodies looking badly
beaten within their brown robes. Blood pooled around some of them,
limbs sticking out at odd angles, faces crushed and slashed.

Otom stripped the robe from his shoulders,
not knowing if he could still move the way he had been able to
thirteen years ago. But he felt the need now, staring down the
monster he had thrown from his shoulders. The top half of his robe
now hung on his waist by the thick rope belt, dangling down to look
more like a martial arts Skada: loose, unrestricting.