Chapter 1
one
Daylan
Flames lick the darkened sky, embers flickering in the distance.
I stand on the front step of my cabin, hands folded in prayer as I watch shadows move in the night, their forms highlighted by the blaze.
The guards work in tandem, carrying buckets of water from the wells to quell the fire that has broken out in one outbuilding along the edge of the compound, their shouts and calls to each other echoing through the air.
Despite their best efforts, the flames are not subsiding, and the amount of water they can carry does not match up against the inferno burning the tool shed to the ground.
Wind whips through the trees, carrying moans and snarls from the damned ones that live beyond our fences to our ears, forcing a shiver out of me where I stand though I can’t say it’s out of fear or the chill of fall as it approaches.
Two days ago, grain and corn stored for the coming winter were plucked out from under the guards’ noses.
Yesterday, three chickens were slaughtered in their coop, their bodies taken and heads left behind in puddles of blood and filth.
And this evening, the outbuilding that holds our farming tools burns.
“The Devil has come,” a voice behind me whispers, startling me where I stand.
I whirl around and find Timothy, one of the most pious members of our faith, standing there, green eyes wide with terror as he appears to look right past me and into the burning night.
Though Timothy is older than me, he still bears the signs of youth in his face with his soft cheeks and cotton-fluff blond hair.
“We do not know this for certain,” I respond, weighing my words carefully.
Though the thoughts of wickedness spreading here in our safe, Godly community has plagued my mind, to speak those thoughts out loud would make them real.
Would give permission for everyone else here to speak the same and would deepen the unease that already lingers like a cat on our edges.
Timothy hesitates, then turns his eyes away from the men dousing the fire with buckets and towards my own.
He offers a nod, but only because he must. While he could easily argue with anyone else within this community, to argue with me is to argue with God himself, and that is a sin his soul cannot bear.
As he turns his eyes towards the fire again though, I can see him chewing on his lip, worry etching lines into his forehead.
“Timothy,” I command, shaking him out of whatever he is thinking.
“Go to your home and gather your brothers. Pray for the safety of these men you see before you.” He nods again, bowing his head and averting his eyes from my face.
I reach out and bless him with a hand on top of his unruly blond curls, feeling him tremble beneath my fingertips.
A shriek from the ones who exist beyond the safety of our fences meets my ears, and Timothy’s trembling rattles his entire body where he stands.
His big green eyes meet mine as I remove my hand from him and offer a gentle smile.
“They cannot get in. Even with this fire, the fences hold. God will keep us safe; that is His promise to our flock, okay?”
“Yes, my Lamb,” he whispers, before turning and dashing away from my front step across the compound to the bunkhouse where the farmhands all live.
I turn my attention back to the dying flames, watching as the guards continue hauling buckets of water from the well.
Water we may not have to spare, if I’m being honest. Worrying about things like that is not my job, but I do it all the same.
We take time to shore up our supplies for the long Canadian winters, and being down in grain, corn and chickens means rough times are ahead.
The smoke rises as the fire is snuffed out at last, men slumping and falling to the ground in exhaustion.
Buckets hang from hands, and I take a step off the front porch, casting a glance behind me at the front door.
Father, the leader of our community, is sleeping in his bed, entirely unaware of what is happening out here, and it is only because of this that I can make my way across the grassy field to see the damage for myself.
If he were awake to watch me leave the safety of the porch, his rebuke would be swift, but he is not here, so I head for my people and the smoldering embers of the toolshed.
“Drink of the water,” I murmur softly, approaching the soot-covered men resting on the grass. Some of them cough as the lingering heat from the smoke and flame lingers in the air. I grip the sleeve of my creamy white robe, lifting it to cover my nose and mouth against the scent of burn.
“My Lamb,” one man croaks. “Forgive me, but this is not a sight for your eyes.”
“I have seen fire,” I respond. There is an unease that settles among the men at my words, and I turn to look at their stricken faces. My heart beats wildly in my chest as they glance between the ashen logs and my face. “Unless there are more than flames to see here.”
“We must tell Father,” Arn, one of the men on the ground, says as he pushes himself to his feet.
He is a large man, muscled and tall. His size lends him importance, but so does the brand burned into his shoulder blade.
Of the men seated before me, only he carries the half-sun scar that labels him an Elder in this community.
“The devil has touched our lands once more.”
He takes off through the night, heading for the longhouse.
The rest of the men sit on the grass still, some trembling though I don’t know whether it’s from the cold that still clings to the air or what they have seen in the fire.
I step towards the back of what was once the toolshed, looking at the still smoldering logs and ash carefully to see what has gotten them all so rattled up beyond the fire itself.
And then I see it.
There is nothing buried in the ruins of the toolshed, but there is a dark omen present here this evening.
My entire body jerks to a halt as my eyes find the symbol carved into the wooden fence behind the toolshed.
It is shaped like a ‘V’ with curly horns rising out of either edge of the top.
The mark of the ram. A sign of the devil.
The same symbol that was left behind at each of the acts of devilry to plague our community as of late.
I cross myself quickly and raise my eyes up to the Heavens, murmuring a prayer to God that my body will be spared this devil’s curse.
“His vengeance will be swift and just,” a voice murmurs from behind me. I startle and whirl around to find Angelo, one of the workmen, standing there covered in soot and ash.
“This is an accident,” I offer, for I cannot have more worry spreading through this community. We cannot bear it.
“This is an act of the devil,” Angelo comments, reaching out and brushing his fingers against the symbol carved into the wooden fence. “You know the omens as well as I do, Lamb. Everyone here knows that the devil has returned to Bright Haven.”
“Do not speak-”
“Do not speak of the devil that lived here? Do not tell the story of Lazarus, the fallen? It has been ten years, Lamb. Ten years since he was cast out during this very season. This is an omen. Evil has returned to our community.”
“Do not speak of this to Father,” I hiss, glancing around us to make sure we are alone here.
If Angelo is caught speaking of the sinner Lazarus, Father will send him for cleansing without even giving him a chance to explain.
Everyone at Bright Haven knows that to mention his name is to call to the devil himself.
“I will watch my tongue,” Angelo says, with a small smile. “But you should heed the warnings. We did not see his nature until it was too late and lives were lost. Bright Haven needs to prepare well and good if he has returned to us.”
“He is dead.”
“Is he? You were here to watch him die?”
I scowl because I was not here. At the time Lazarus lived within the community, I was a child traveling with my parents through the wastes as part of a trading caravan.
When they died on the road a few years after Lazarus was cast out to die among the rotten damned souls in the woods, one of the other traders brought here me.
She’d started training me in how to trade goods and had intended for me to leave with her, but Father had paid a hefty price for me to stay here the morning I’d nicked my hand on a saw blade while watching the workmen cut logs.
He’d taken one look at my pure blood and had fallen to his knees, weeping for joy and praising the Lord for returning what was lost to their community at Lazarus’ wicked hand.
If anything has returned to Bright Haven, it is me.
The second coming of their Blessed Lamb.
Paid for in three bundles of spun wool from the backs of the best sheep in Bright Haven’s flock and eternally free of the taint of sin that turns the blood of other living men dark.
“Heed the warnings, Lamb,” Angelo murmurs, stepping close to me and raising his hand to place it on my shoulder. “Take care, for if he has returned, there will be hell to pay.”
“If who has returned?” Father’s voice booms, and Angelo’s face goes pale.
He drops his hand from my shoulder and takes a step back, folding his hands in front of him and trembling where he stands. “No one, Father.”
“Angelo was speaking of nothing,” I agree, my stomach wobbling in fear as I take a step back from Angelo’s shaking form.
Father and Arn have made their way to us, and I regret entertaining this conversation with Angelo in a place where we could easily be overheard.
I should have shut it down and walked away the moment Angelo approached me.
“We are rattled by the symbol and speaking without thinking. We meant no harm.”
“Who has returned? Say his name. Who is it you speak of?” Father hisses, his teeth grinding and face turning red with anger as he stares at Angelo with his cold, hard eyes.
“No one, Father,” I offer at the same time as Angelo whispers, “Lazarus.”
Before I can even try to undo the damage that one name has done, Father has clamped his hand down on Angelo’s shoulder and wrapped his fist in his robe.
His face is furious as he holds onto Angelo, dragging him forward and staring right into his face.
I step forward quickly, placing my hand on Father’s forearm though it is hardly my place to do so.
“Father,” I murmur, glancing between his face and Angelo’s trembling form. “It is a tough morning. We are all shaken. Please deliver mercy to your child for this transgression. Angelo meant no harm.”
“I meant no harm, Father,” Angelo blurts.
“He is dead,” Father snaps, spit flying from his angry lips and spattering onto Angelo’s face. “Lazarus is fucking dead. Say it.”
“He is dead!”
“Lazarus is dead, Father,” I add, my hand still resting on his forearm. I can feel his muscles tensing beneath his robe as he grips Angelo’s shoulder tight, and I send tiny prayers up to God for Angelo’s sake.
“My Lamb, Angelo has sinned and must be cleansed,” Father snarls, thrusting his arm forward and letting go of Angelo’s robe. Angelo falls to the ash and soot beneath us, landing with a thud in the wreckage of the toolshed.
“No,” I protest. “Father, it is a small thing he has done. May I counsel?”
Sometimes he allows that. If the sin committed is a tiny thing, instead of sending someone out for cleansing in the red rains, I may sit with the sinner and read passages from the Book of the Father, the leather-bound journal that guides us all.
Father turns his cold eyes to my face, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening as he scowls at me.
Once, I am sure he would have been a good-looking man, but the years have not been kind to him and now, barely 50 years old, he appears much older.
He stares into my eyes. “You are wearing on my last nerve this morning, Lamb.”
“Please, Father?” I ask, glancing down at Angelo on the ground, trembling in fear. “Allow your Lamb to do his duty.”
Father is silent for a moment, and I think I’ve saved Angelo from the cleansing in the red rains, but his face does not soften. “Your duty is to do as I say. The devil has caused Angelo to sin, and he will be cleansed.”
Angelo lets out a small fearful noise at this, and there is nothing left that I can do for him. Arn steps from behind Father and grabs Angelo, dragging him to his feet and hauling him off to the small hut where the sinners awaiting cleansing are kept to wait for the storm to come.
Once they are gone, Father turns and grips my arm, dragging me to him so close that my chest bumps against his. He scowls down at me, and it is my turn to tremble in fear.
“I am sorry,” I whisper.
“If you dare question me again in front of my Elders, my whip will strip each word you say out of your flesh. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father. I understand.” My stomach trembles as he lets me go, the sting of his whip glimmering in my memories.
While my pure blood cannot carry the taint of sin against God, I am still just a human being and over the years I’ve required Father’s correction.
The scars on my back are a testament of how I have learned and grown into my duties to this community.
Duties I cannot forget.
I cross myself, thinking of Angelo, wishing that he hadn’t spoken of Lazarus and praying to God that He grants him the mercy that Father will not.