9
WREN
It takes a day and a half of hard riding to reach Leeds from Lansing.
The first thing I see is smoke, and my stomach coils. Each breath is suddenly laborious. The stench of burnt wood and straw is an assault as Dax, Quinn, and I drive our horses through the charred remnants of the village. We’re met with the sickening sight of the once-bustling town reduced to rubble. The village green and market are destroyed, with the bodies of people I’ve known all my life littering the streets, their carcasses mutilated beyond recognition.
A handful of soldiers linger, draped in John’s colors, their tabards sprayed with the blood of the innocents they slaughtered. I pull free my sword, and without thought or hesitation, I attack. I gallop Frenzy toward the men, hearing Dax and Quinn follow close behind me. Together, we cut them down as easy as batting away flies. But our attack draws out three additional soldiers from one of the last remaining intact buildings. Quinn shouts something, but I can’t hear him past the rush of blood roaring in my ears.
Because I know what I’ll find here.
I know.
“Wren, look at me, damn you!” Quinn’s demand whips me out of my stupor. I blink hard and turn to my left, where he’s seated atop his black destrier.
“Finish them,” I sneer, even as the need to kill them myself burns hot.
“She’s alive,” Quinn assures me, but the words don’t match the edge in his black eyes.
An ocean of doubt flows through my body as I break away from my friends. Kicking Frenzy into a run, I weave the horse through bloodstained, trampled streets. Around ransacked and ruined homes. Survivors call to me, their strangled voices faint echoes as they lie bleeding on the dirt. They reach out to me, pleading for help. Forced to ignore them, I’m desperate to find my mother. My gut coils tighter the closer I get to home. Sweat trickles a steady path down my face, and when I swipe hair away from my brow, my gauntleted hand comes away wet.
Perspiration?
Tears.
No matter. I don’t care.
Houses this far north, away from the center of the village, were spared. A spark of hope flares inside me, and I send a silent plea to God.
Let her be alive if You have a shred of mercy in Your heart.
I slow my pace when I round the armory. The modest home where I spent two decades of my life comes into view. The coil loosens, and I exhale a relieved breath at the sight of the pristine exterior.
The door lies open and a curse whispers from my lips.
Jumping off my steed, I race toward the entrance but skid to a stop before entering. So many memories rip through my mind as I inch my way forward. I lick dry lips and swallow hard. Once. Twice. Then heave when I see a smear of blood among the muddy footprints on the stone floor.
Mercy.
There is no such thing in this realm.
There are only the lies fed to us on the silver tongue of a cruel king.
The coppery tang of blood thickens the air as I trudge through the main room. A cooking fire still smolders in the hearth. It’s sickening how perfectly preserved everything is, as if my mother stepped out for a moment while preparing her evening meal…
…except for the drops of blood on the table and the overturned pot with stew puddled on the floor.
Numb legs carry me toward my mother’s bedroom, following a pair of large, bloody boot prints. The sudden rush of adrenaline makes me sway like a drunkard, but I regain my balance. I charge forward as rage and desperation clash when I reach the threshold and see her lying prone on the floor.
Mary Kincaid. The foundation of our family.
The woman who was a light to everyone who knew her. A pillar of strength in this village. As Leeds’s midwife, she’s a woman who helped bring so much life into the world.
Now struck down in her own home…
…with her murderer scavenging through her bedroom.
His first mistake was killing my mother. His second was lingering for me to find him.
