Curse of Ash and Flame (Sacred Arbor Realm #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

SERAFINA

Fates save me, I hated fire.

Flames crackled and heat licked my cheeks despite the wall of onlookers between me and the smoking corpse on the pyre.

The stench of burned hair rode a macabre breeze, curling into every corner of the manor’s courtyard.

It was my nightmares come to life—visions of my own body bound to an altar, wrists restrained, fire devouring my flesh.

Seeing it while awake was even worse.

Lumpy porridge churned in my gut, souring at the back of my throat.

Do not throw up. Do. Not.

Not while the steward of Rottbarry Manor posed like a conquering hero before the burning woman.

“Magic must be extinguished,” he bellowed, bony arm trembling beneath the weight of his blazing torch. Soot smudged his starched cuffs, ash dusting his greasy hair, making it appear as though lice skittered across his skull.

“It is a curse upon this land, bringing nothing but pain and suffering.” Otto Mortis’ oily gaze swept the crowd, then landed on me. “It is we Puritans who walk the righteous path. Let none who sets foot here be led astray.”

That piercing stare dragged a shiver down my spine. Did he know?

Sweat trickled down my temple, my heart pounding in my ears.

He did. No. He couldn’t.

If he knew, I would be the one on that pyre.

Angry voices erupted around me.

“Unnatural heathen!”

“Burn the abomination!”

“Death to the heretic!”

Prickling heat clawed my nape, and I dug my fingernails into my palms. I dare not scratch the mysterious brand that recently appeared on my neck. One that represented Goddess Hathor, mother of all magic.

I might as well have worn a glowing sign that read, Burn me now.

Mortis’ dark glare pressed down like a boot on my throat, and I pinned unfocused eyes on the woman’s scorched remains.

As an indentured slave, my place at Rottbarry was more precarious than any servant’s.

More than once, Mortis had tried to beat the defiance out of me.

And failed. All I’d learned from his so-called lessons was to hide it better.

Rather than shout my outrage at the injustice before me, I sank my teeth into my tongue, biting until the metallic tang of blood filled my mouth.

The woman’s screams still echoed in my ears.

Her crime? Using magic to bring rain to her drought-stricken crops.

A desperate act forced upon a mother whose children faced starvation.

“Let none forget the threat this deviant posed to our lands.” Mortis’ nasally voice scraped against the stone walls. Nostrils flared, he swept us with a gaze steeped in contempt. “And that it was I who saved the great Village of Nefarr.”

Heads lowered. A baby cried, its mother quick to hush her child. A cough rattled.

“You are dismissed,” Mortis barked, and those gathered quickly disbanded.

Eyes pinned to the ground, I hustled along the walkway toward the outer wall, moving just shy of a sprint lest Mortis single me out. Curse that disgusting blowhard and his wandering hands.

A hard shoulder slammed into mine, jolting the basket in my grip.

“Hey, watch it, you stupid wench,” the affronted man shouted.

I swallowed my retort. This was not the place to lose my temper.

Not with Mortis lurking.

“Apologies, good sir,” I bit out. My status alone meant I was guilty before the argument even began. Nobody in this cursed land would side with someone as insignificant as me. Flark, I couldn’t wait to be free of this village.

I pushed my legs as fast as they’d go, leaving the bailey behind and heading for the northern pasture where the high ruler’s prized flock dwelled.

The moment I cleared the gates, tension unspooled from my shoulders.

I drew in a long breath—smoke still clinging to my lungs—and forced the smell of burning flesh from my chest.

At the foot of Gravestone Mountain, a woolly herd of nerf grazed in lazy contentment. Jaws slack, they gnawed sweet blades of grass, oblivious to their great fortune. Oh, to be a fat, curly-coated animal with lovely horns that twisted back over my head. To spend my days roaming sunlit hills.

Instead, I spent those days shut inside Rottbarry Manor, laboring to please one extraordinarily demanding noblewoman, Lady Penelope. Who would no doubt demand my assistance shortly. The reminder lit a spark under my feet, my calves burning as I trudged up the shallow slope.

Clumps of tall grass scraped my coarse brown skirt. A robust breeze whipped crimson strands from beneath my kerchief, my unruly mane little better than unsheared wool. The fluffy beasts cast me wary glances as I hiked past, my scuffed boots crunching gravel.

“Speck?” I called.

Bells jingled, and my friend’s tawny head popped up over the backs of the flock he protected.

Despite his skill with the beasts, the thought of him out here alone still kept me up at night.

While I was only seven years old at the time, the moment he slid from his mother’s belly and into my arms, he’d felt like mine.

In my mind, he’d always be the youngling who hobbled after me.

Perhaps due to the innocence he’d kept despite all the hardships we’d faced.

Sadly, unlike Speck, I’d only grown more cynical over the years.

“Over here.”

The woolly sea parted, and Speck’s freckled grin broke through like sunlight.

“Sera! Didn’t expect you.” He sat on a mossy patch, legs stretched out. The bells tied to his crutch jingled as he set it aside. “Come sit.”

“Sorry I haven’t visited sooner. With the comet celebration coming, Lady Penelope has been particularly demanding.” As her personal maid, it was my duty to fulfill the young woman’s every whim, no matter how trivial—or spiteful.

“If they were smart, they’d watch it from out here,” he said, ever the optimist. “Still, I wouldn’t mind sharing in the feast.”

Why a village that loathed magic would celebrate a comet’s arrival was beyond me. Not that I was foolish enough to question our traditions within earshot of the others.

With nobody around to scold me, I hiked my skirt up to my thighs and sank to the ground, setting the basket in my lap. “Lucky for you, I brought something special.”

“Have you now?” Speck’s brown eyes gleamed with childlike excitement.

I dug in, handing him the sweetened loaf I’d wrapped in a bit of fabric.

“Honey cake!” He tore off a bite, moaning with delight. The bread was fresh, with no weevils, a rarity for servants. His joy was contagious, lightening my mood despite the pyre’s shadow still clinging to me.

“I begged a piece from Cookie when I dropped off her arthritis liniment.” My gaze drifted to the ragged brace on his twisted leg, a defect he’d had since birth. “How’s it feeling?”

“Better since you adjusted the new padding.”

“Let me see.” I set the basket aside and patted my thigh.

Speck swung his leg onto my knee. I’d remade the brace after his latest growth spurt, same as I had since we were children.

“I think this one is the best so far. Better than the one Father made me wear when I fell behind in my chores,” he said lightly.

My jaw tightened. Once, we’d both lived with his family—until they’d sold us as indentured slaves to the high ruler. While I was merely a lost girl they’d taken in, blood or not, being discarded still stung. Speck, however, took it in stride, proud to have provided for his household.

I pulled a bottle from my basket. “Rub this in three times a day.” I worked the oil into his swollen ankle. “Still have the tea?”

“Some,” he said, brushing crumbs from his lips.

“Finish it—it’ll ease the pain.”

Once I’d retied his brace, I packed my basket, saving the small knife I used for cutting herbs for last. The only reason I’d managed to slip away for a bit was Yaga’s order that I bring her some feverfew. I’d collect a few of the yellow flowers on my way back to Rottbarry Manor.

Speck placed his hand on my forearm. “Do you have to go already?”

“I should, it’s getting dark, and Lady…” Speck’s big brown eyes grew soft and syrupy in the fading light. Those twin pools of warm honey turned my denial into mush. Little devil. He knew I couldn’t deny him when he looked like that.

“Fine.” I ruffled his hair into his eyes. “I’ll stay a bit. But not for long.”

“Good.” He claimed my hand, and I startled at the contact while my insides melted at his touch.

Few besides Speck had ever shown me a crumb of affection.

Unless you counted Otto Mortis. And that bastard had wanted far more than a handhold.

I shoved the thought aside and looked at the darkening horizon.

“I sold three more tins of my swaddling cream. I’ve almost ten coins saved now.”

“That’s wonderful, Sera.”

“Someday we’ll have enough to leave this place. Just you and me. Living among the free-folk.”

We’d never earn the amount needed to buy out our contracts. Instead, we’d have to run. Far.

He squeezed my hand. “And I’ll have a flock of my own.”

“Yes. With dozens of plump nerf for you to watch over.” Speck was never happier than when he was caring for something smaller and more vulnerable than himself.

“And you’ll have your own shop,” he added, “selling herbs and medicines.”

“With nobody to order us around.”

“We’ll be free.” He sighed.

The back of my neck tingled, and I scratched at the scar.

If any of the Puritans saw it, we’d be forced to leave sooner rather than later.

It emerged on my recent birthday, hot, burning, and immune to every salve I’d tried.

I hadn’t even shown Speck. What it meant, I didn’t have a clue.

Only that it was likely an omen of bad things to come.

Just a hint of stars sparkled to life above our heads. Whipwillies trilled their rolling melodies. Folklore claimed the bird’s songs were a warning of impending death and misfortune. A shiver crawled over my skin.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Speck whispered, gazing out over his flock.

“Always.”