I clenched my bandaged fist to my chest. Heart in my throat, I turned to Speck. “Promise me you won’t mention this to anyone.”
He scratched his head. “Tell them about what? The flowers?”
“Yes.” I clutched his hand. “Promise me.”
“Sure, Sera.” Confusion crinkled his youthful face. “Though I really don’t see the problem. They’re only flowers.”
Except they’d grown directly under me. A rare species onlyfound near Goddess Hathor’s temples.Magicaltemples. An occurrence that was unnatural.
Unnatural! Burn the heretic!Voices rang in my mind.
With the Puritans, anything outside the norm was often scorned and feared. The sacred arbors with their mystical obsidian didn’t grow in this despondent place as they did in other regions. Blessed regions. Places I ached to visit.
I crushed the thought. No, I didn’t. Puritans did not covet magic.Idid not covet magic. Ours was a pure race, free of such wicked influences. Or so we were told. Often at the end of a switch. Sometimes at the stake.
“Help me! I wanted only to feed my children.”
“Burn the vile wench.”
“Look upon me, you fools. For you’ll be next.”
“Let her burn.”
“He’s coming for you. None will be spared.”
“Heretic. Evil’s whore!”
I shivered, shoving the voices back.
Since my birthday, these strange occurrences had become more frequent. A woman in my position couldn’t afford to draw this kind of attention. Speck, in his sheltered pasture, may not understand. I suspected he didn’t even realize another magic wielder had been burned.
“Speck. Please listen to me. If the others—”
Startled bleating interrupted my explanation. The wary flock of nerf grew restless, their shaggy bodies shoving into each other.
My heart raced. Though I had no magic, some innate sense prickled with foreboding. Invisible eyes pressed down on me from the shadows, predatory, calculating. There was a hunter in our midst.
“Something’s got them spooked.” Speck ambled to his feet, his crutch tucked under his arm, his manner far more subduedthan mine. He was accustomed to such occurrences, living at the foot of the mountain.
“It could be the trogg,” I offered in a shaky voice. The trogg were a race of cave-dwelling creatures with green-tinted skin. Though half our height, their stout yet powerful build allowed them to navigate the narrow ridges along the steep face of Gravestone Mountain. Their courage far surpassed that of the Puritans, who refused to step foot inside that soulless place.
Not only was this area devoid of magic, but it seemed to drain the very life out of you. The mountain, a dark predator, feasting on the marrow of your spirit. To stare at it too long was to be sucked in, your soul drawn into a yawning void.
I stood beside Speck, squinting into the darkening landscape. The twin moons climbed the horizon, spilling cold light across the field.
“You’re right. Probably the trogg. Still…” He pulled a carved whistle from the cord around his neck and blew. While our ears failed to register the high-pitched sound, it drove a number of predators mad, forcing them to flee.
We stood in silence, breath held. The restless noises of the flock were the only sounds.
“Did it work?” I whispered.
Woosh.
A massive shadow swooped over our heads, blotting out the twin moons. For a heartbeat, the world went dark.
Speck and I flinched, ducking low.
“What was that?” His voice wobbled.
