Death’s Gift (The Lost Tanith #1)

Chapter One

Andi

Have you ever felt like you're being followed? It’s like a bone-chilling dread that sends ice prickling along your skin and gives you an overwhelming urge to run.

Eyes watching your every movement, studying, waiting.

It’s not like the usual stares I get from folk when they notice my mismatched eyes. This is more disturbing.

Typical, that tonight of all nights, I get this weird feeling, when my town is teeming with newcomers paying homage to the goddess of harvest and fertility—Pria.

No matter where I look, folk stare, but the perturbing prickle that stings every inch of my body doesn’t belong to any of them. I shake off the feeling, putting it down to the dread I’ve had over this evening.

“Come on, Andi. I want to dance,” my younger sister, Elana, whines. Seizing my arm, she drags me past the crowd of bystanders.

Folks from all over the country travel to celebrate the Summer Solstice in our small town of Vendyl. For one night only, hardships are forgotten. The complexities of daily life are pushed to the back of the mind while they laugh, sing, drink, and dance until dawn—when regret rears its ugly head.

I love it. The whole absurdity of it all.

Often at these events, I hide in the darkest corners, spying on folk who are determined to make fools of themselves.

Peasants dancing with lords as though they are equals, disregarding their social differences.

The lords pretending they are part of the community; dancing in the mud while wearing their finery, flaunting their expensive jewellery, all while lapping up the simple lifestyle.

By morning light, the high and mighty lords go back to whatever lavish house they came from, forgetting about the impoverished folk they left behind.

Here in Vendyl, we used to live in relative comfort; everyone earned their keep, just enough to keep them content.

That is, until the new high lord rose to power.

Rumour has it, this new high lord—Adrian—is a shallow man who has a love for expensive, pretty things, and outlandish foods from far corners of the world.

How does he pay for all these extravagances?

By increasing taxes to extortionate and unfair levels, thrusting us all into hardship. All to appease his proclivities.

Now, folk scrape pennies together to buy bread, patching up clothes and shoes filled with holes.

Children play in the streets with broken toys, unable to afford new ones.

Every day, they go to the schoolhouse with a hungry belly and leave the same way.

While the lords and ladies feast at lavish tables, throwing scraps to the dogs, with new dresses for each occasion.

Their children moan for highly sought-after toys that are soon discarded for their latest desires.

It’s pitiful and disgusting, watching them laugh and drink together like best buddies. Arm in arm, cheek to cheek.

But I see it. The slight scrunch of the nose at the stench of commoners or the scrutinising of rags they have donned for such an event.

Egotistically, the wealthy laugh while parodying niceties.

No matter how hard they try, they can’t hide their disdain at being forced to mingle with those they deem unworthy.

Elana hauls me over beside the bonfire, where most of the young spend their night dancing. Mum never allows us to leave the house without looking our best. Tonight is no exception, our Mum hoping we’ll meet the man of our dreams.

Little does she know, the man of my dreams hates events such as these, and would much rather stay sulking in his flat.

Since Elana agrees with Mum, tonight we wear beautifully altered, old dresses of Mum’s: chiffon, with velvet bodices.

Colourful flowers decorate our hair, and wear pumps that are slightly too small.

Every year, Governor Jamieson makes sure everything is decorated in a classy manner, with food vendors invited from surrounding towns.

The bonfire crackles and spits embers. Each step we take whisks the sparks into the air like fireflies; glowing like the young men who are trying to chance their luck by pulling us apart, hoping to charm us, and trick us into falling in love with them.

It is the perfect atmosphere for it, with firelight, free-flowing food, and alcohol. Lanterns light the way into the lover’s labyrinth, created with the largest red, rose bushes in all of Linorah —Jamieson’s pride and joy.

Elana and I dance around the fire for hours, spinning and laughing. Elana bats her eyelids at the young men waiting in the wings. Seizing the opportunity, I spin her in their direction and blend in with the crowd before she can force me back again.

My feet are in searing pain. Blisters begin to bulge—thanks to the ill-fitting pumps.

Each step sends a shooting pain up my leg, causing me to ungracefully drop into a chair at the edge of the park.

Shakily, I slide off my pump, recoiling as the shoe tears off a layer of skin.

I rest the ball of my foot against an upturned bucket.

My foot stings with a burning sensation.

I wince as the cool air brushes against my raw heel.

I wonder if I can withstand the pain of hobbling home for some of Mum’s calendula salve.

Being the town’s medicinal healer, it’s Mum’s job to help the townsfolk with anything from cuts and scrapes, to childbirth and palliative care.

Elana—the squeamish sort she is—refuses to help, leaving it all to me. Surely after having helped Mum for as long as I have, I would learn a thing or two, but I’m as useless as I was on my very first day.

Leaning on the fence for support and grimacing with each step, I begin the long, arduous journey home.

Raucous chattering from the other side of the field grabs my attention.

I limp along, craning my neck over the sizeable crowd to see what all the fuss is about—most likely a fortune teller or a witch performing magic tricks.

“What kind of food does the giant eat?” A young girl asks from the front of the crowd.

“Oh, that can be anything from goats to people. He isn’t picky,” a quiet, croaky voice answers her.

The crowd is larger than I thought, must be around thirty folk crammed together.

Some sitting in front, whilst others linger in the back, all enthralled by her tale.

An old woman sits hunched on a wooden chair in the corner, her silver hair tied up in a loose bun.

Small, rounded glasses rest on the tip of her nose.

Her face beams with light and kindness, her blue eyes twinkle in the moonlight, with a dazzling glow around her that is captivating.

“Will he come here?” a small child asks, her voice trembling, her arms wrapping around her petite frame.

I imagine nightmares will follow her home tonight, of a giant traipsing through town, hunting her and her family. The adults around the group smile at her question, knowing the same as me. Giants are the things of fairytales, grim stories told to make children behave.

“I wouldn’t think so, my dear.” The old lady smiles at the girl, her bony hand reaching for her chin. “He only eats old ladies like me. You have youth on your side,” she says with a wink, and the girl giggles.

Entranced with the exchange between the two, I don’t notice when a large man stumbles backwards until he stomps on my already sore foot.

I yelp. The old woman meets my eyes, scrutinising me, I wave apologetically, mouthing ‘sorry.’ I should be accustomed to the stares, but after all these years, it still bothers me.

With one dark brown eye and the other a vivid, ruby red, I think it gives me a distinguishing feature.

So, I try to ignore idle gossip or the gawps, acting as though I am unfazed.

The old woman’s eyes seem to have darkened, her pupils now pinholes, boring into my soul. No matter how much I try to break away from her gaze, I can’t.

“I’m not scared of giants. Tell us something scarier.” A little boy stands and yells.

Her focus on me breaks as her attention is called back to the crowd. “What about a Mimicry then? Ever heard of those?”

The little boy shakes his head.

Darkness plays tricks on my eyes as the light and warmth she first portrayed, vanishes into something sinister.

“Who has heard of the tragic tale of the Tanith dynasty?” A wicked smile spreads across her face, as she looks around the crowd to shaking heads and eager faces.

“No one? Hmm, I guess it has been many years, twenty I’d say.

” Darkness surrounds her as she delves into her tale, making her story ominous.

“The Tanith royals were an unusual sort, hailing from an old tribe of people—Septir’s—sorcerers if you will.

With each member having the ability to control a different type of magic: ice, fire, water, time, shadow, you get the idea. ”

“What makes them so special? Other folk have magic,” the boy shouts.

“Yes, but Septir’s magic is always replenishing. It’s in their very bones. The magic wielders you have heard of eventually need to rest.”

Murmurs fill the area, folk muttering about which magic they would love to wield if they could. Those with magic are usually travellers, never staying in Vendyl long enough for anyone to get used to them. Most marvel at the powers they have, some however, become fearful at the unknown.

Listening to them now, I laugh at the fake reverence. Every time a magic wielder tries to settle in Vendyl, they’re soon driven away, unable to live with the whispering and abuse thrown at them daily.

“A special marking can identify this family, a four-pointed star on their back, sitting between their shoulder blades—the symbol of Septir.” My face drops thinking about the strange scar on my back.

No, stop being stupid. I got that scar falling from the oak tree in our garden. The pain is vivid in my head. The blood trickling down my back, Mum patching me up, and Dad fuming because I was told to stop climbing many times, yet I never listened.

“Many moons ago, the Tanith family was attacked and killed by a mimicry—a ferocious man who wanted the powers for himself. Everyone within the Tanith family was slaughtered for their magic, or so King Zayn announced. Except, these old ears of mine heard the tale of an escapee. Simply fables, though.”

The crowd goes silent, until a small boy breaks it, “What happened to the mime–mi…”

The old lady smiles, and the darkness disperses, stars sparkle around her once more.

“Mimicry.” She answers for him, “No one knows. Zayn proudly proclaimed he defeated the beast that took the lives of the beloved royal family, as he claimed the throne for himself. There have been murmurs that the mimicry still roams these lands, hunting for his next victim.” Folk gasp, looking at those around them, like one of these idiots could be the mimicry.

“But you know how the rumour mill goes. A story will grow arms and legs within a matter of days.”

A blast of fireworks breaks the old woman’s spell, bright, colourful designs explode into the clear night sky. The crowd breaks away in small groups for a better look. I follow, hobbling along, flinching as I step on broken branches and sharp stones.

Bony fingers grip my arm, pulling me off my feet. I trip, crashing into a body. The old woman stands uncomfortably close, reaching her hand up, she takes hold of my necklace, and rubs her thumb over the gemstones.

“Pardon me, dear. I have been admiring your necklace. It’s unique. Where did you get it?”

The frail and old woman from a few moments ago, leaning on her walking stick, is gone. Now, she appears strong, her walking stick hooked over the crook of her arm.

Subtly, I take a step back, giving myself some space.

“My Dad gave it to me when I was young.”

The old woman rubs her fingers over my necklace once more before letting it drop, a weight unlike anything I have felt before slams into my chest. She retreats, muttering something to herself. Her eyes wide open, with a wave, she turns and leans on the walking stick to stroll away.

I don’t know what she had on her hands, but my necklace stings the skin on which it rests. Limping backwards, my ankle twists and I cry out in pain. Mum catches my eye from across the field, frowning at my foot.

“What happened to you?” she asks as she walks my way. I hold up my shoe; Mum’s eyes soften as she understands. They weren’t a good fit but they were all we had. “Come on, let’s get you fixed up.”