Get a FREE starter library : Subscribe to Thea Reads .
<<<>>>
Aislin felt her heart pounding against her ribs, trying to rouse her and free her from the tethers of fear. The smell of scorched flesh clawed into her nostrils, heightening the sense of panic that skewered her bowels. Another nightmare; it had to be. Just one more smoke-riddled dream where she suffered beneath a shroud of linen, each breath taking in lungfuls of spiced oils and char, bound so tightly she could barely whisper for help.
This one was far worse. While those visions grew from a night-addled mind, weaving tales that dissipated with the coming of dawn, this one just grew stronger, gained frightening clarity as she fought for consciousness. Even as she opened her eyes, belly flattened against her mattress, she knew it was no dream. Something was wrong.
Memory overlaid sickeningly with the present as she raced through the great house, frantically searching for sight of her sister, her mother, anyone. Barefoot, clad in her night shift with her hair still plaited and tucked beneath a kerchief she checked each room, forcing herself to slow her breathing, pay attention to detail, hoping all the while her senses were being tricked by a waking nightmare.
No one had entered the building, that much was certain. Everything was in its place, the fire still crackled happily and it's hearth. Someone had laid out bread and cheese.
She bolted for the door.
The marauders could have come just as the sun winked over the horizon, slipping through huts and houses alike with the spectral presence of shadows. It was how they worked: get in, find the weak spots and the best of the horses, sometimes a woman or two, or children for slaves, and then raze the place to the ground, leaving no one to mourn or fight for the pilfered trophies.
At least, those were the stories, made true by dozens of villages over dozens of years until it became a commonplace threat told to the sentries who guarded each town in the hopes of setting off warnings to protect those within. Sometimes it worked; most times, the measures were a temporary reprieve at best. Villages several days away no longer existed, or came to a budding life only to suffer annihilation by hordes that were stronger, and they in turn suffered at the hands of the even more powerful.
Yet, Aislin's own village hadn't been touched since she'd been seven seasons old. She remembered the sounds of screaming and horses keening in their stables. The unmistakable scent of smoke had pulled her from her bed that morning, and if she gave the memory permission to enter her mind, she could still feel the shiver of fear goose-fleshing her skin. That was all she remembered, though. Her village still stood as testament to the fact that whatever fires had leapt to life that day, had been set by her own mother, and the men who dared attempt such atrocity had been the kindling used to spark the memory of it for any who might dare violate her town again.
Even so, fire a dozen seasons old inevitably turns to ash and then to a mere plume of smoke destined to disperse in the summer air. The memory of it and the witch who set it alight becomes an event lost on the newness of men. And men, when new, have no need of memories, putting their faith instead in their own prowess rather than the tales of elders to guide them through their generation.
It was inevitable that the insulation wouldn't last.
Indeed, the sun had just lifted itself over the eastern wall. She might as well have been seven again as she watched women and children being rousted from their sleepy homes, racing through the square, trying to avoid capture, their water buckets left abandoned on their sides and spilling water across the well-trod earth. Chickens and geese squawked at the paws of dogs unheeded by their masters.
This time, she wasn't a child of seven and while the fear still prickled her neck, this time she knew her mother would remind these infidels of the
<<<>>>
Aislin felt her heart pounding against her ribs, trying to rouse her and free her from the tethers of fear. The smell of scorched flesh clawed into her nostrils, heightening the sense of panic that skewered her bowels. Another nightmare; it had to be. Just one more smoke-riddled dream where she suffered beneath a shroud of linen, each breath taking in lungfuls of spiced oils and char, bound so tightly she could barely whisper for help.
This one was far worse. While those visions grew from a night-addled mind, weaving tales that dissipated with the coming of dawn, this one just grew stronger, gained frightening clarity as she fought for consciousness. Even as she opened her eyes, belly flattened against her mattress, she knew it was no dream. Something was wrong.
Memory overlaid sickeningly with the present as she raced through the great house, frantically searching for sight of her sister, her mother, anyone. Barefoot, clad in her night shift with her hair still plaited and tucked beneath a kerchief she checked each room, forcing herself to slow her breathing, pay attention to detail, hoping all the while her senses were being tricked by a waking nightmare.
No one had entered the building, that much was certain. Everything was in its place, the fire still crackled happily and it's hearth. Someone had laid out bread and cheese.
She bolted for the door.
The marauders could have come just as the sun winked over the horizon, slipping through huts and houses alike with the spectral presence of shadows. It was how they worked: get in, find the weak spots and the best of the horses, sometimes a woman or two, or children for slaves, and then raze the place to the ground, leaving no one to mourn or fight for the pilfered trophies.
At least, those were the stories, made true by dozens of villages over dozens of years until it became a commonplace threat told to the sentries who guarded each town in the hopes of setting off warnings to protect those within. Sometimes it worked; most times, the measures were a temporary reprieve at best. Villages several days away no longer existed, or came to a budding life only to suffer annihilation by hordes that were stronger, and they in turn suffered at the hands of the even more powerful.
Yet, Aislin's own village hadn't been touched since she'd been seven seasons old. She remembered the sounds of screaming and horses keening in their stables. The unmistakable scent of smoke had pulled her from her bed that morning, and if she gave the memory permission to enter her mind, she could still feel the shiver of fear goose-fleshing her skin. That was all she remembered, though. Her village still stood as testament to the fact that whatever fires had leapt to life that day, had been set by her own mother, and the men who dared attempt such atrocity had been the kindling used to spark the memory of it for any who might dare violate her town again.
Even so, fire a dozen seasons old inevitably turns to ash and then to a mere plume of smoke destined to disperse in the summer air. The memory of it and the witch who set it alight becomes an event lost on the newness of men. And men, when new, have no need of memories, putting their faith instead in their own prowess rather than the tales of elders to guide them through their generation.
It was inevitable that the insulation wouldn't last.
Indeed, the sun had just lifted itself over the eastern wall. She might as well have been seven again as she watched women and children being rousted from their sleepy homes, racing through the square, trying to avoid capture, their water buckets left abandoned on their sides and spilling water across the well-trod earth. Chickens and geese squawked at the paws of dogs unheeded by their masters.
This time, she wasn't a child of seven and while the fear still prickled her neck, this time she knew her mother would remind these infidels of the
Similar Books
