Barb Hendee, J. C. Hendee

Sister of the Dead

Prologue

Amber light spread across the dirt floor from a fireplace embedded in the cottage's sod-and-timber wall. It barely illuminated a rough table and stools, two low beds with patchwork quilts, and other hand-me-down fixtures so old, no one remembered whose father's father or mother's mother had first acquired them. And on the tail of nightfall, a tall and black-haired woman in her twentieth year lit but one candle upon the table, for even that was a luxury.

She was straight-boned, with deep brown eyes beneath eyebrows that arched high, and strands of hair escaped her long braid. Beneath her wool coat, she wore an age-stained apron covering a blue dress. She swung a cook pot out from the fire on its iron arm so the stew wouldn't burn, then stepped to the cottage's one front window. Brushing aside burlap curtains, she cracked the shutter to peer anxiously up the village path.

Few villagers moved among the huddled huts, carrying in firewood or heading for the common well, buckets in hand. She closed the shutter, let the curtain fall into place, and returned to the table to set out two clay bowls and wooden spoons. From the shelves she gathered a cloth-wrapped bundle and a knife, then settled upon a stool. She unwrapped a loaf of rye bread to cut away the dried end. There was nothing more to do, and she watched the fire's flames recede.

When the knock came, she sighed in relief.

Before she stepped to the door, a hollow voice growled from outside. "Enough pleasantries!"

The crack of shattering wood filled the small hut as the door slammed inward. Its top leather hinge broke away, and splinters skittered across the dirt floor. She backed into the table, nearly tripping over a stool.

Three shadowed figures stood in the opening, their features hidden by cowls and cloaks. The tallest lowered his foot as the broken door ceased shuddering.

"That was not necessary, Father," said the one next to him. Dressed in a charcoal cloak and hood and crafted riding boots, his gloved hand was still raised to knock again. He let it drop to his side.

The third figure hung back as the father entered and, in three strides, grabbed the woman by the throat.

She clutched the table for balance as he bent her backward. His thumb levered her chin sideways to face his companions as he studied her profile. Even with her head tilted, she kept her gaze upon her assailant.

Candlelight partially exposed his face inside the hood. Nearly colorless crystalline eyes stared back at her, and his features were paler than those of her own fair-skinned people. A long aquiline nose ran down to a thin-lipped mouth. He wore steel vambraces on both forearms, and beneath his cloak was a crestless, burgundy tabard over a shirt of mail. She fumbled for better support on the table, and the base of her palm scraped something sharp.

"This is the one?" he asked, but his question was not to her.

The one who called him Father took a step into the hut, allowing the third figure to drift toward her.

His long, hooded robe swirled like black oil as he glided across the cottage floor. Firelight made faint markings and strange symbols shimmer in and out of sight upon its folds. Where his face should have been was a mask of aged leather that ended above a bony jaw supporting a withered mouth. The woman saw no eye slits in his mask. He reached toward her, as if he "saw" her, but his gaunt fingers stopped shy of her cheek as she struggled to pull away.

"Get out of my home!" she shouted. No one gave her notice.

"Yes…" the masked one whispered with a voice like windblown sand. "The one shown to me. The one sent into my dreams by our patron."

The father glanced back to his son.

"You should be pleased," he remarked. "She'll make you an attractive bride."

The woman's eyes widened. She wouldn't be the first or the last to suffer the whims of a vassal lord assigned to a fief, but nobles did not take village women as wives.

"Bride?" said the son. "I doubt, Father, that your lackey"-and the masked one hissed over his shoulder- "would bother with the customs attached to such a title. Take her and let us leave. The sooner done, the better."

The masked one's fingers inched forward, and she felt her captor's grip tighten to pull her up. At the touch of fingertips on her cheek, her hand closed about the knife on the table.

The robed one recoiled to the room's far wall before she even moved. She twisted forward, thrusting low and upward. The knife blade slipped into the side slit of her captor's mail shirt and buried in his abdomen.

His grip clenched harder about her throat. No one in the cottage moved.

Her rage drained when she stared into the father's face and saw no hint of emotion in his eyes. He pulled her upright by the throat, not bothering to remove her hand from the knife hilt. The masked old man glided evenly toward the door and out into the night. The father pulled her along by the neck as he followed the old main.

She staggered and regained her footing. The son turned away as she passed, and she caught no glimpse of his face. Two large horses waited outside in the village path. The son mounted the closest, a tail bay, and the father lifted her up behind him as if she were no burden at all. Shouts rose out of the dark.

Villagers emerged from cottages and huts, but most stayed well back. A few held torches or candle lanterns that barely illuminated the path between their homes. Three young men came forward in smudged and grimed field clothes, armed with hoes and hay rakes. Two hesitated, but the third showed no fear. Even in the dark, the woman recognized his brown unwashed hair hanging loose around angular features and a square, dark-shadowed jaw.

"Adryan, don't!" she called, as much in anger as concern for his safety.

A villager who assaulted a noble was a corpse sooner rather than later, and no one of importance would question it. The young man barely glanced at her, his attention shifting between the masked figure and the tall, armored father.

"Release her!" he snapped. "She's mine."

"You fool!" she shouted back. "Stay back. There's nothing to be done."

She was about to slide off the horse, but the son swung his arm back to block her.

"You should listen to her," the son said.

Adryan rushed the father. The tall nobleman brushed back his cloak to expose the knife handle protruding from his abdomen. The young man faltered, and the masked old one slid forward into his way. The robed figure slapped Adryan across the cheek with one gnarled hand.

Adryan buckled and fell backward to the ground, screaming and clutching at his face. As he writhed, the father gripped the knife hilt and withdrew the blade from his own flesh as if from a sheath. He tossed it to the ground beside Adryan, and the young man's two companions backed away.

The masked one closed on Adryan.

"Enough," ordered the father. "We've no more time to waste here. Meet us at the keep."

The robed figure turned and nodded agreement. His arms stretched out to the sides at full length, palms up to the sky, and his breath came out in a long, audible exhale. The air in the village path began to churn.

Sitting upon the horse, the woman watched leaves and twigs swirl on the ground in a circle about the dark robe. Flickering shapes shimmered in the turning breeze. The light of the villagers' lanterns and torches caught something taking shape in the air.