Fall of the Reaper E-Book

Miranda Honfleur

• Herausgeber: Holabird House LLC
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Serie: Witch of the Lake
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 258

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Should it wake, its nightmares will consume the world…

After her life nearly fell apart, Brygida finally knows her place: away from the village, with her mothers, healing the slumbering wood to keep the nightmares at bay. Her family grimoire warns that the wood may never be allowed to wake, and she claims that duty for her own. Her mind does turn to the new lord of Rubin, but wishing for more almost lost her everything, and she’s not about to lose her witchlands to its nightmares caused by the villagers. That is, until the dreaded cult arrives…

Kaspian has never wanted the rulership, but when his father passes away, he has no choice but to ascend to lord. With tensions high between the village and the witches, trust lacking between him and his subjects, and a heavy heart turned toward the wood, Kaspian can’t help but wish for someone to take it all away… And then a familiar face from his past comes to grant it.

With a tide of blood and demons in its wake, the cult arrives to cleanse the so-called stain of witchcraft upon Rubin, and it won’t stop until Brygida and her mothers are dead. But with demons closing in and the fitfully slumbering wood ready to wake, the cult’s spark of violence could destroy not only the region of Rubin, but everything. Desperate for allies, betrayed by blood, and alienated from one another, can Brygida and Kaspian stem the dark tide of the cult together, or will they, their people, their lands, and everything drown in the mortal inevitability of blood, demons, and a waking wood with an insatiable hunger...?

Find out what happens when the slumbering wood wakes in FALL OF THE REAPER, the thrilling conclusion to this romantic dark fantasy trilogy inspired by Slavic mythology and folklore, sure to please fans of Juliet Marillier’s Blackthorn & Grim series and Naomi Novik’s Uprooted.

Read Fall of the Reaper to unearth the secrets of this beautifully haunting adventure today!

Leseprobe

FALL OF THE REAPER

Witch of the Lake Book Three

MIRANDA HONFLEUR

NICOLETTE ANDREWS

PRAISE FOR THE WITCH OF THE LAKE TRILOGY

"Steeped in rich and dark folklore, Feast of the Mother is young-adult fantasy at its best. Honfleur and Andrews take witches, murder, and romance, twist and weave them together with an imaginative and mysterious backdrop of medieval grievances. The result is a page-turning tale that will keep you riveted from the first page until the very last."

RAYE WAGNER, USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE MAGI RISING SERIES

"If you love Naomi Novik's books, Feast of the Mother is the dark, romantic story you've been waiting for! The mythos is vibrant and multi-layered. This fantasy satisfied to the fullest degree!"

ALISHA KLAPHEKE, USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE UNCOMMON WORLD SERIES

“A mythic delight and new release you must read… For those who love stories with well-woven mythologies, this is a wonderful tale. It draws from Polish mythology, and features a well-crafted Eastern European world, complete with a foreboding forest, Mrok witches, and strange denizens of the deep which demand justice for murdered women.”

J.M. BUTLER, AUTHOR OF THE TUE-RAH CHRONICLES

"Feast of the Mother is a delightfully magical old-world fantasy. With a heroine who is both grave and valiant, a world full of mystery and haunting magic, and a mystery that will keep you riveted, you won’t be able to put down this delightful tale. Recommended for fans of An Enchantment of Ravens. Don’t miss this triumphant first-in-series by authors Miranda Honfleur and Nicolette Andrews."

SARAH K. L. WILSON, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE DRAGON SCHOOL SERIES

"Completely unlike anything I expected or anything I’ve read before. Brygida is a witch who is only beginning to know what she’s capable of and what her duties are. She’s a fantastic character, strong in her convictions and loyal in her beliefs. I can’t help but root for someone like that. And this world! It’s so intriguing and fun that I flew through the pages, not wanting to stop. Utterly fascinating! With a slow burn romance, well-developed world, and beautiful prose, this is a story that should not be missed."

M. LYNN, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE FANTASY AND FAIRYTALES SERIES

Copyright © 2019 by Miranda Honfleur and Nicolette Andrews

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

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Cover art by KD Ritchie at Storywrappers

Map by Rela “Kellerica” Similä

Proofreading by Anthony S. Holabird

Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-949932-25-6

ALSO BY MIRANDA HONFLEUR

The Blade and Rose Series

“Winter Wren” (available on www.mirandahonfleur.com)

Blade & Rose (Book 1)

By Dark Deeds (Book 2)

Court of Shadows (Book 3)

Blade and Rose: Books 1-3 Digital Boxed Set

Queen of the Shining Sea (Book 4)

The Dragon King (Book 5)* upcoming

Immortelle (Book 6)* upcoming

The Dark-Elves of Nightbloom Series

No Man Can Tame

Bright of the Moon

An Ember in the Dark

Crown To Ashes* upcoming

The Witch of the Lake Series with Nicolette Andrews

Feast of the Mother (Book 1)

Fate of the Demon (Book 2)

Fall of the Reaper (Book 3)

Witch of the Lake: The Complete Trilogy

Boxed Sets

Realm of Darkness: A Limited Edition Fantasy and Paranormal Collection

Of Beasts and Beauties

ALSO BY NICOLETTE ANDREWS

WORLD OF AKATSUKI

The Tales of Akatsuki Series

Kitsune:  A Little Mermaid Retelling

Yuki: A Snow White Retelling

Okami: A Little Red Riding Hood Retelling

The Dragon Saga

The Priestess and the Dragon (Book 1)

The Sea Stone (Book 2)

The Song of the Wind (Book 3)

The Fractured Soul (Book 4)

DIVINER’S WORLD

The Reign of Prophecy Series

Duchess

“Sorcerer” (available at www.nicoletteandrews.com)

Diviner’s Prophecy (Book 1)

Diviner’s Curse (Book 2)

Diviner’s Fate (Book 3)

Princess

The Thornwood Series

Fairy Ring

Pricked by Thorns

Heart of Thorns (Book 1)

Tangled in Thorns (Book 2)

Blood and Thorns (Book 3)

This book is for…

Alisha Klapheke, Alistair North, Andrea Peel, Anthony Holabird, Ashley Martinez, Barbara Harrison, Charity Chimni, Charley Curry, Chloe Bratt-Lewis, Clare Sager, Cyndy Shubert-Jett, Dana S. Jackson Lange, Darlene Kunst Rooney, Deb Barringer, Deborah Dunson, Donna Adamek, Donna Levett, Donna Swenson, Emily Allen West, Emily Wiebe, Erin McDonough, Erin Miller, Eugenia Kollia, Fanny Comas, Fiona Andrew, J.M. Butler, Jackie Tansky, Janel Iverson, Jennifer Hoblitt Kaser, Jennifer Moriarity, Jennifer Robertson, Judith Cohen, Karen Borges, Katherine Bennet, Kathy Brown, Kelly Scott, Kimberly, Kris Walls, Kristen White, Krys Baxter-Ragsdale, Lea Vickery, Linda Adams, Linda Levine, Linda Romer, Lyn Andreasen, Maggie Borges, Marilyn Smith, Marla Ramsey, Mary Nguyen, Michelle Ferreira, Nicole Page, Patrycja Pakula, Rachel Cass, Roger Fauble, Samantha Mikals, Scarolet Ellis, Seraphia Sparks, Shannon Childress, Shauna Joesten, Shelby Palmer, Shivani Kitson, Spring Runyon, Stan Hutchings, Susanne Huxhorn, Tanya Wheeler, Teri Ruscak, Tina Carter, Tony Sommer, Tricia Wright, Vicki Michelle, Wanda Wozniczka…

…and everyone else who’s supported us and spread the word about our books from the start. We couldn’t do this without you, and you being in our corner has meant the world to us.

A LETTER FROM THE AUTHORS

Thank you very much for reading Fall of the Reaper! We really appreciate it. Because of your support, we’re able to keep writing, which means more stories for you and continuing this career for us.

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To Jessica,

without whom this story

never could have been told.

I feel the nights stretching away

thousands long behind the days

till they reach the darkness where

all of me is ancestor.

ANNIE FINCH, “SAMHAIN” (1997)

CHAPTER1

Dark whispers hissed secrets, slithering up Brygida’s arm and to her ear like serpents. There is another, they whispered. Another has arrived.

Yet another. With a grimace, she set aside the pestle and bagged the red raspberry leaf, lemon balm, and chamomile tea for her latest patient, then removed her apron and rolled down her sleeves.

The black crescent mark on her palm throbbed, its darkness and whispers seeping from her skin like smoke. She curled a fist, a tight one, and strode across Anita’s small cottage to her altar, where the Scythe of the Mother rested on its two hooks. With a frustrated huff, she retrieved it.

Standing there before the altar, she listened—really listened—tightening her grip on the scythe’s snathe, closing her eyes. Speak to me.

Maybe this time she would feel something, anything…

But in her hand, there was nothing but dead wood and silence. The voices of Anita’s ancestors had not spoken to her, not yet, but she hadn’t given up hope. Maybe one more demon tamed would be enough. Maybe today she would calm the forest back to slumbering at last.

Outside, the sun had risen just beyond the tree line, and long shadows wove over the clearing between the cottage and the forest. Her patient would be here at midday, so she’d need to make this quick.

Crouched in the shade, Matoha waited for her, his red eyes gleaming. His body was goat like, but that was where any semblance of natural appearance ended; he had a ridge of spiky fur down his spine, bladed claw-like legs, and a long black tail, shifting ruminatively. He was always waiting, always watching her. As she approached the oaks, he rose to his full height, his menacing long horns scraping against low-hanging branches.

“Back again?” she asked him.

Matoha opened his mouth, baring rows of pointed teeth in a fearsome grin. We have a new arrival, he spoke into her mind.

“So I’ve heard.” She rested her hand against the trunk of a nearby oak, closing her eyes as she tried to listen for the voices of the wood. But all she could hear was the hiss of demons, those that watched from the shadows. Those that never quite left her for long.

I can take you to it, Matoha prompted. It was tempting to let him take the lead, guide her to the demon, but if she was ever going to reconnect with the forest, to truly heal it, she had to do this herself.

Hefting up her scythe, she gave a short shake of her head before venturing into the forest. Thank Mokosza, Mama had taught her how to track, and recent spring showers had left the ground muddy. Deep imprints in the mud led to the heart of the forest, and she followed them, Matoha accompanying her at a distance.

The canopy of trees had only just begun to fill out, and shafts of light pierced through, illuminating the soft forest floor, where fresh green stalks of ferns poked through dark soil. Months had passed since she’d made her home here, and although she’d defeated every demon that had arrived on these lands, they never stopped and the forest was still restless. She might not be able to hear its voice, but she could feel it as the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

A tree branch snapped behind her.

She spun.

A bristly thick-horned creature threw its head back, roaring. Long claws and a cow’s tail—a lichyj.

It rushed toward her.

Her hand fumbled for the vial of lake water around her neck, but the words of the incantation dried on her tongue. She couldn’t use the wrath of the blood.

Leaping out of the way, she rolled into the new ferns. The lichyj skidded to a stop and turned, clawing at the ground, ready to charge once more. This was no lone little panek, but a true danger. And she’d made a foolish mistake, relying on instinct.

The crescent mark on her palm throbbed, the faintest trail of darkness seeping from it.

She held up her hand, summoning the power within the mark. Darkness billowed out, like thick black smoke spreading outward and toward the lichyj.

As it reared up, looming over her, their eyes met. With flared nostrils, it inhaled the black smoke and froze in place.

It was hers to command now.

As she held her hand up, it awaited her command, like a part of her. And with a downward motion, it lay down on the ground, eyes trained on her.

That was close, Matoha remarked.

She ignored his commentary; it was never helpful. Matoha had to know how to soothe the forest—why else had he been hovering around her for weeks?—but he had refused to answer her, despite numerous attempts to extract answers. She’d read Anita’s grimoire from cover to cover, given numerous offerings to demons and to Holy Mokosza, but no matter what she did, her water powers wouldn’t return.

Matoha raised his head, goat ears angling back and forth. The lichyj, too, lifted its head back in the direction of the cottage. It’s a human, its rumble of a voice announced in her head. A human. A human has arrived. A human’s come to your domain.

She balled her marked hand into a fist again. It’s not my domain, she wanted to scream back, but it never changed their minds. The demons understood only one thing: power. But their warnings—that a human was here—meant that her patient, Jadwiga, had likely come to retrieve her morning-sickness tea. Just in time, too. The witchlands were cleansed of chaotic demons, something all the more important with an expectant mother traveling to her cottage.

I await your call, the lichyj said, before it dissipated into the forest, a phantom once more.

Matoha pranced ahead of her, leaping through the forest, avoiding the occasional spots of sunlight. It wasn’t like him to stick around after a demon had been subdued. Was something amiss at the cottage?

Hastening her step, she arrived at the forest edge. Instead of finding Jadwiga, as she expected, a man with golden hair waited at the door. Wrapped in a well-tailored and luxurious poppy-red jacket and gleaming brown boots, he cut a lean but strong figure.

Kaspian?

He turned, and what she’d mistaken as golden hair beneath the bright afternoon sun was in fact a darker blond. Not Kaspian. And not Jadwiga either, but her husband, Nikodem, the future lord of Granat.

Shading his hands against the sun, he stared in her direction. Had something happened to Jadwiga? Had she gone into labor early? It was unusual for a first pregnancy but not unheard of.

There is only one reason a man comes to a witch’s cottage, and you still have no successor, Matoha remarked.

Snapping her gaze in Matoha’s direction, she flushed at the insinuation. You dare, goat-demon?

An entertained chuckle lilted to the corners of her mind, echoing.

He’d never attacked her, nor anyone, and didn’t give an aura of ill intent, so she’d never tried to tame him… Although now, it was tempting.

Nikodem was a married man, and his wife was her patient. And as Matoha well knew, there would be no successor for her. These were not her witchlands, and until she redeemed herself in the eyes of Mokosza, and for herself, there was no room in her heart for anyone else.

After Kaspian, she wasn’t sure she even wanted anyone else. That had gone about as swimmingly as a rock in the Skawa River. She left Matoha at the edge of the forest and jogged over to greet Nikodem. “What brings you here? Is Jadwiga well?”

His mouth dropped open, but he quickly closed it. “Yes, she’s well.”

If Jadwiga wasn’t ill, then perhaps this was just a visit? Nikodem and his sister, Urszula, came here from time to time to share news and keep her company. They didn’t say as much, but their regularity had washed away any doubt. Besides, it would be rude not to serve tea now, when he’d come all this way. “Will you come in while I finish Jadwiga’s morning-sickness herbs?”

He nodded his head in response.

She led him inside, offered him a plate of rabbit sausage and freshly baked bread, and put the kettle on the fire, the same way Mamusia had always done. The feeling of homesickness was like a punch to the gut, strong but quickly stifled, to reflect on when she was alone.

While the water started to boil, she cleared the table of her mortar and pestle, the herbs, and the other things she had been preparing for Jadwiga. She put them into a jar to give to Nikodem.

Jadwiga’s constant morning sickness, even this late in the pregnancy, worried her. She could hardly keep anything down, and when the baby came, she would need her strength.

“Was Jadwiga too tired to make the journey herself?” Brygida asked as she worked. It would not be entirely surprising, given the lateness of her pregnancy. A good husband like Nikodem would gladly make the trip, but she hoped it wasn’t something more serious.

“No.” Nikodem sat at the table, hands folded in front of him, as he surveyed the cottage. The kettle started to whistle, and Brygida filled a cup and set one before him. He looked deeply into it as the tendrils of steam rose, a slight frown on his brow.

He was a man of few words, and when he visited, he usually just brought some provisions from town, did some work on the cottage or the barn, and listened to her talk. But he’d only just come two days ago. Surely he hadn’t come all this way again so soon just to drink tea with her.

“Something on your mind?” she prompted gently.

“There is.” He sighed, his shoulders tight and raised toward his neck.

“If there is something wrong with Jadwiga, tell me straight away. I can go to her if necessary.”

He shook his head. “She is well.”

“Then what’s troubling you?” Clearly, something was.

He cleared his throat. “I came because I need your help.”

She drummed her fingers on the table, trying to hide her curiosity.

Nikodem met her eyes and held her gaze, as grave as a ghost. “A man calling himself the Prophet of Weles has arrived and is recruiting people to join the Cult of Weles.”

Her fingers froze in their drumming. The cult was back? “I thought you and your sister chased the cult out of Granat.”

“We did, but he has an ally here, a vassal of my father’s, who is protecting him. A wealthy man is housing him. We cannot risk physically removing him without endangering the people of Granat. This vassal would use our intervention as an excuse to start a war with my father.”

The crescent on her palm throbbed. The last time she’d gone up against the Cult of Weles, she’d still had Mokosza’s favor, and even that hadn’t been enough. It had been the blackmark that had killed them. She couldn’t risk it, not again.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.” She stood, pushed in her chair, and stepped behind it.

Nikodem stood as well. “You have the power to stop them, the Mark of Weles.” He gestured toward her palm.

She concealed the mark with her other hand. “I know how the Cult of Weles works. They use women to defend themselves against witches. I won’t hurt a woman. It goes against everything I believe in.”

He took a slow step forward, reaching out to touch her arm, then let his hand fall. “I would not ask you if we were not desperate.”

Brygida regarded him with caution and curiosity, her fingers curled over the cursed mark. Normally solemn and quiet, he had to be truly afraid of this Prophet of Weles to make such an emotional appeal to her.

Perhaps there was a way she could defeat this Prophet of Weles that didn’t involve killing? After all, she’d found ways to soothe the forest without Mokosza’s favor. The people of Granat knew her, and they were starting to trust her; maybe she could find a way to turn their feelings against this prophet before it was too late, before all turned to violence. They needed a time and place for the truth to defeat this so-called prophet.

She inhaled deeply. “I won’t harm any women, but I will help you. I think I know just how.”

CHAPTER2

The sun beat down on Kaspian from the bright cloudless sky. He pulled at his collar as sweat dripped down his brow, blurring into his eyes. The effigy of Marzanna, crafted from bundles of dried twigs and wearing an old cornflower-blue dress of Mama’s, looked nothing like the goddess of winter he’d seen depicted in tapestries. As a boy, the same effigy had scared him when he’d stood here with Tata, but now his concerns didn’t brush fear of the divine so much as the mundane.

The morning was wearing on, and only half the village had arrived.

“Why don’t we wait a little longer?” Mama whispered.

“Not a very good turnout,” Stryjek remarked, shaking his head. He had stayed longer than they’d anticipated; Kaspian had assumed his uncle would move on to his next destination with the first melt, perhaps never to be seen again. But even now he showed no signs of leaving. He’d become a fixture—a gruff, sardonic one.

Peasants shuffled their feet, few looking toward him, Mama, or Stryjek. This year’s drowning of Marzanna was a more subdued affair than most. Usually the return of spring brought with it joy and laughter. But unlike years past, where Tata had overseen the ritual, the peasants seemed more dispirited than usual.

Small wonder. His rulership felt like when he’d worn Tata’s boots as a boy, big and hard to fill, and at any moment presaging a fall.

But just as he had grown into Tata’s boots, he would grow into his new role as well. With time, he felt confident the people would come to love and respect him.

The loss of Tata and many others had cast a long shadow over the village. They were in need of healing, a return to hope and goodness. Mama had said over and over that his first ritual would set the tone of his rule. What that tone was, he had spent much time debating. Tata had ruled with an iron fist; Kaspian had been practicing what he would say for days, and trying to emulate Tata’s tone and delivery, but the words still stumbled on his tongue, like his boyish feet had in those too-big boots. He’d seen Tata perform it every year, for as long as he could remember. But standing here, it was as if all those memories were just too far beyond his grasp, and he was left staring blankly.

Mama nudged him gently. “Perhaps we should get started after all?” she asked brightly.

Was he that transparent? Blinking away his thoughts with a sigh, he cleared his throat and took a step forward. Maybe trying to act like Tata wasn’t the best course of action. He should be more himself. “Let us begin...”

He clapped his hands together, stalling for time. “The long winter has passed and... now we welcome the rebirth of spring.” He gestured toward the effigy of Marzanna.

Someone coughed, but otherwise there was silence. They stared at him, their reactions more subdued than he would have hoped. But no matter, best to just carry on with the ceremony. It would get better with time; it was only his first after all.

Kaspian gestured to Stryjek, who took his cue, taking up the torch. He tossed it at the effigy, and soaked in oil, it caught fire almost immediately.

As the flames burst to life, Kaspian leaped backward, evading a plume of fire. The peasants gave excited gasps as it burned. Now that they were in the rhythm of things, it felt more natural. And after a few minutes, the fire had faded enough that he could pick up the effigy and carry it. As he got close, the flames licked toward his face, and he had to resist the urge to shield himself from the fire.

Tata had always carried the burning effigy without hesitation, leading the people of the village through the ritual.

Before he could second-guess himself, he grasped the unburnt bottom half and hoisted it up into the air, then took a step toward the Skawa River where it would be tossed.

Mama and Stryjek fell into place behind him as he led the procession down the winding dirt road from the manor and to the river, which cut through their village.

As they walked, the villagers began to sing. “Marzanna, Marzanna, swim across the seas. Let flowers bloom, and fields turn green...”

As their procession made its way through the village, shadows stretched on the ground in front of him, and for a moment it was as if he and Tata were walking side by side.

A few more peasants joined their procession, and the more that joined, the livelier they became, their song more joyful in the spirit of the spring celebration. This was the tone he wanted to set for his rule, one of celebration and community.

They reached the banks of the river, near to bursting as the winter snow had melted and filled it with cold, clear water.

The Skawa gurgled happily, and as he stood at its banks, he remembered Tata standing in this place just a year ago. He’d been so healthy and strong. Who would have thought that in the next year, he would be gone?

But there was no more time for grieving, and the wheel of time moved ever forward. He couldn’t continue to look back, only forward. He was the leader now, as Tata had wished, and the village was in his care. To the gods who bore witness, let this be his offering that he would be a good ruler, a fair ruler.

“Now we lay to rest the remnants of winter. Let our crops be plentiful, and our calves and lambs healthy. So I pray to the gods above,” Kaspian said, willing it to truth with every fiber of his being.

The villagers’ song carried on the wind as they linked hands, along the river bank. Seeing them united this way made his heart swell. He tossed the effigy into the water. The flames were extinguished, and the current swept it out of sight. With it, he washed away his past. It was time to start over fresh. And although he knew it was best to let it all go, he couldn’t escape the feeling of longing for what he was leaving behind.

With the ceremony over, Kaspian turned to the peasants. “Let us celebrate the new birth of spring. A feast has been prepared at the manor.”

The peasants gave a cheer, and their procession looped back toward the manor house, everyone chattering amongst themselves. The change in their reaction was reassuring. Although there might be growing pains, together they could build a bright future. He was confident of that. But still, he lingered behind, across the river. Together…

The Madwood was beginning to come alive once more, fresh green buds ready to unfurl. Was it springtime where Brygida was now? Was she walking amongst the trees, communing with nature, free and unburdened? The forest offered no answer.

He likely would never know. Like the effigy of Marzanna, their time together had been swept away and would never return. And yet what memories remained wouldn’t depart with the current.

He could say they haunted him. But could a man ever be haunted by something he loved so much? Perhaps enchanted. Or more aptly, bewitched.

He shook his head, hoping to clear it, and took a deep breath before he turned his back on the forest and joined his people. One farmer lagged behind, watching him approach. He was a grizzled old man with white hair and a back starting to bend from years tilling the soil. The frown was not a good sign. Kaspian braced himself.

“My lord,” the farmer said, bobbing his head to Kaspian. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but there’s a catastrophe. Several farms have been taken by the blight.”

The blight. The word sent a chill down his spine. The spring planting had started early this year, as the snow had receded earlier than years past, and the farmers had anticipated a bountiful harvest. But a blight, if left unchecked, could sweep through the entire community and leave many starving and hungry.

Mama and Stryjek would know what to do, how to handle a situation like this. If this was his new start, then he needed to take responsibility. The two of them were heading back to the manor, but he was still here. And he was responsible.

“Show me.” Kaspian gripped the farmer’s shoulder, in what he hoped would be seen as authoritative but kind, and motioned toward the fields.

They hurried down the road, past farmlands with rows upon rows of neat lines of wheat. Small green leaves burst through the fertile soil and swayed in the wind. But as they approached the farmer’s land, the field was covered in sickly dead plants, leaves curling inward. Kaspian knelt down and grasped the leaf, which broke off from the stem. What could have caused this?

“That’s not all, my lord. My neighbors to the west have been affected as well.” The farmer wrung his hat in his hands.

More? If this was widespread, it could cause a panic. Taking the farmer’s lead, he visited two more farms, each of them with similar crops dying before they’d ever had a chance to bloom. But what was most unusual was that whatever had caused this blight, it was nothing he’d ever seen before. There was no scale, no signs of disease. Just crops that had withered for no apparent reason.

The farmer yelped and pointed toward the forest. “What is that?”

A shadowy figure moved among the trees, and Kaspian reached for the sword at his belt. Uneasiness settled in his chest. It couldn’t be one of the demons, could it?

The figure emerged; it wasn’t a demon at all but Stefan, who approached with a sheepish wave, his roughspun work shirt and breeches disheveled.

“What is he doing in the Madwood?” The farmer pointed an accusatory finger at Stefan.

A very good question, and one he himself wanted to know the answer to. Albeit less desperately than the farmer, from what he could tell.

“Where have you been?” Kaspian asked him.

Stefan shrugged. “A horse got loose and ran into the Madwood, I chased after it, but when I did, I got turned around.”

A likely story. Especially with no horse at his side.

Kaspian shook his head. Only Stefan would be so reckless as to venture into the Madwood alone. He hadn’t set foot there since Brygida had left…

His chest and shoulders tightened, that painful ache of loss surging through him as he recalled her ferocity, beauty, and tenacity. But best not to think about that right now. Best not to think of the woman he’d loved and lost. Best not to think of the most stunning woman he had ever beheld.

“I’ve seen you going in and out of the Madwood before.” The farmer narrowed his eyes, looking at Stefan.

The farmer’s rough voice jarred Kaspian from the tumultuous hold of his thoughts.

Stefan pointed at his own chest. “Me? Why would I go into the Madwood? There are plenty of other places I’d rather go. You must be mistaken.” Stefan laughed off the notion with a dismissive wave, his expression incredulous.

He trusted Stefan, but this disappearing act had become more common lately, even during the ceremony today.