Prologue
England
1292
The sound of birds chirping floatedin through the window of the one-room cottage. Even though sunlight streamed through the open shutters, the room was cold. The hearth against the far wall was out, the fire long since extinguished. The brightness of the sun and the happy song of the birds were strangely out of place.
Raven Hawke, a thin girl of eight summers, stood over the straw mattress tucked into the corner of her home, staring at her mother. Her mother’s eyes were closed, her brown hair framed her head, and her hands were limp at her side. She had been motionless for a long time now.
Willow, the youngest sister, gently called out to their mother and shook her. But their mother did not move.
As the oldest, Raven was expected to be in charge. To know what to do. Yet, she couldn’t move. She silently begged her mother to get up, to breathe, but she had watched her mother for a long time, watched her chest for the rise and fall of her breathing. There was no movement. Still, she appeared to be sleeping. Raven anticipated that her mother would sit up and smile and hug them at any moment, even though she knew she would not.
Sage, the middle sister, sat in a rickety chair behind Raven at the table. She crossed her legs beneath her. Her brown hair fell in disarray about her shoulders as she pouted and flicked at a small indent in the wood of the table.
Willow knelt on the floor beside her mother’s mattress. Her long, blonde locks draped over her mother’s half-open hand. Reaching out, Willow pulled a ragged blanket over her mother to her chin before placing a tiny hand on her cheek. She turned her head to lock a watery gaze with Raven. “She’s cold.”
“She’s dead,” Sage proclaimed.
Raven spun, casting a harsh glare and reprimanding, “Sage!”
Sage uncrossed her legs and pushed herself from her seat. Her auburn hair was unkempt, hanging around her shoulders like an old cloak. Her eyes were aged, haunted past her six summers. “It’s true! Mother’s gone,” she insisted.
Willow sobbed quietly, her small body shaking.
Raven glanced at her youngest sister before taking a step toward Sage with her fists clenched. Sage had always been like that—stating facts. This wasn’t the time. They had to figure out what to do. “Look what you’ve done now!” She flicked a hand at Willow.
“She should know the truth,” Sage said with a frown.
“Not like that. You don’t even care that Mother is gone!” Raven accused.
Sage stuck her tongue out at Raven.
Raven nearly lunged to yank Sage’s hair and hit her arm, but she felt a tugging at her skirt and paused, looking down.
Willow stared up at her with large, wet blue eyes. “What will we do without Mother?”
Sage stared at Raven with expectant eyes.
Raven was supposed to have all the answers. She was supposed to know what to do. She cast a look at their mother, at her gray skin, at her peaceful, sleeping face. Raven’s shoulders slumped, and she wrapped her arms around her stomach. A frown formed on her brow. What were they supposed to do now? How could Mother do this? How could she leave them alone?
This time, Raven didn’t have any answers.
Suddenly, the door flew open, sending a gust of air into the room.
Willow ducked behind Raven, hiding. Sage took a step back from the door, moving to her sister’s side.
Raven lifted her chin to glare at the strange man standing in the doorway.
Silhouetted by the sunlight behind him, the tall man ducked beneath the doorway to enter the cottage. His severe gaze moved from sister to sister. His dark, shoulder-length black hair blew forward, pushed by a rush of wind curling into the room. His jaw was square and firm, and his eyes were hard. Leather armor fit snugly over his torso, and a sword was strapped to his waist.
Raven instinctively placed a protective arm around Willow, drawing the man’s gaze. Her heart beat madly out of fear.
His stare shifted to their mother. His wrinkled brow softened, and the sternness in his face diminished. He strode across the room, striding past the girls until he was at her side.
He knelt at the woman’s side and stared for a long moment. Easing a strand of brown hair from her forehead, he tucked it behind her ear. He touched her hand, squeezing it, before lifting the blanket over her face.
He stood, inhaled deeply, and turned to them.
