Dragonfae & The Soul Catcher (2 page)

Lumos considered the dragon’s words
. “Gods, if you are correct, our mate could be a thousand realms away, and as many years to find.”

“Ahh, Lumos, do you believe our mate will not sing again?”
The Nightdragon slipped from the top of the mountain and dropped into a thermal current to hover above the city.

“Perhaps, but how will that help if she is a thousand realms away?”

“Don’t worry, our mate will call to us again soon. She is our chosen one and sings only for us, Lumos.”
The Nightdragon chuckled. You must hope she waits to sing again until after the challenge for Drakka.

“Why?”

“The Dragonsong is a mate’s claim and one we cannot refuse, Lumos. It is the will of the gods.”
The Nightdragon let out a triumphant roar.
“If it takes a thousand years, I will find her.”

* * * *

The Kingdom of Broclarre

Thalia of Broclarre struggled against the guards, her movements as useless as a sparrow in the mouth of a cat. Her shoulders burned, tendons stretched to the limit and threatened to rip from bones. These men cared less if they tore her arms from the sockets. The hard-faced soldiers, gripping her so cruelly, were unfamiliar and not the usual palace protectors. These men wore the uniform of the king’s elite militia.

“I banish you from the kingdom of Broclarre, never again to set foot in my kingdom by threat of death.” King Garro lifted his chin, sitting back on the golden throne. “So have I declared this day, so shall it be done.”

Out in the hallway, an angry crowd had gathered to hear the king’s proclamation. The masses had fallen silent to stand waiting like buzzards over a fallen lamb. One of the guards restraining Thalia swore under his breath, and dug his strong fingers cruelly into her arms.

She yelped and turned to face her father.

“Banished?” She stared at Garro. “Father…please…what have I done to displease you so?”

“Speak no more, witch. Think not to cast a spell over me for I know your wickedness.” King Garro struggled to his feet. His hand rested on the hilt of the gold dagger at his waist. “I took you into my house, treated you as my own, and you repaid me with death.”

Aghast, Thalia gaped at her father in disbelief. “Is that what you believe…? That I had a hand in killing the queen?” She stared at the king’s ashen face, the lines around his mouth cut deep, turning his expression bleak. Had he lost his mind with grief?

Beside him, the High Priest stood erect, his lips curled in a vicious smile. Thalia glared at the man in the crisp white robes. “Did you fill the king’s mind with these lies? I would never hurt Mother.” She met her father’s daunting expression. “I could never hurt anyone. I am a healer. Ask anyone in the village, I help people.” She pointed at the High Priest. “There! There is the evil in this palace.”

“To think my dear wife had compassion for your sorry soul.” Garro shook his head slowly. “Her belief that a wholesome upbringing would prevent the evil magyck rising in a demon’s seed was the error of a gentle, childless woman.” The king ran a hand over his face. “And she paid with her life.” His black gaze travelled over Thalia, and he gave a snort of disgust. “No more will you breathe the same air as my people.” He punched a fist into the palm of his hand. “If I had not given my word to uphold Bria’s dying wish to set you free, I would have your head this day.”

Pain tightened Thalia’s heart. Confused, she met the king’s enraged expression. The man’s piercing blue eyes looked on her with contempt, disgust and hatred. The only father she had ever known curled his large hands into fists. This angry man had once loved her, had taught her how to hold a bow, and gentle a horse.
Gods help me, now he wants me dead.

Overwhelmed by grief she drew a shuddering breath. Tears stung her eyes. With effort she bit back the sobs threatening to break forth and lifted her chin. “Aye, Father, indeed I do have the magyck. If you had seen your way to allow me to treat Queen Bria’s illness, instead of locking me in the East Wing, she would not have died.”

“Do not utter her name, witch. My queen was not your mother.” Spittle formed in the corner of King Garro’s mouth. “You… You unholy spawn of the devil were born of the forest and considered so evil your own blood left you to die. Had we known then the meaning of the name marked on your garments, you would have been left to the wolves.” King Garro grimaced. The rich, red cloak bearing his colours swirled around his legs with each agitated step. “Aye, we all heard you sing to the dragon, no doubt to use the beast’s magyck to hasten the death of my queen.” He dropped his head, defeated. “Too late…too late, to save her innocent life but at least she sleeps in peace now.” Garro swiped a tear from his cheek. “Thank the gods I secured you in the East Wing. Did you think I would allow you to practise magyck on my sweet Bria and send her innocent soul to the Underworld?” He stepped menacingly closer to Thalia and met her gaze. “Aye… I know what you are and why your people left you to die. You are a Soul Catcher. I know of your magyck and vow you will never again use your evil spells on my people—not as long as I live.” He slid the dagger from a jewelled scabbard at his waist and waved it in front of Thalia’s face. “Speak no more or I will remove your tongue myself.” With a curt nod to the guards, he turned, and with a swirl of red robes strode from the great hall. The echo of his retreating footsteps sealed her fate.

Disbelief slammed into Thalia. She fought back the desire to scream. The mortifying sadness of losing her mother paled into insignificance. A wave of desolation consumed her—nothing she could do or say would change the king’s mind now. The man had delivered her into the hands of a vicious group of guards. Thalia took in the smirking faces of the men and made a silent vow.
I will survive this injustice and one day I’ll prove my innocence.

Thrust towards the massive, studded oak doors, Thalia stumbled. The crowd cramming the hallway roared and the air filled with the stink of the unwashed. She fell onto the cold flagstones and sprawled on the ground. On impact, pain shot from her scraped hands and knees. She dragged in a breath, her lungs empty from the fall. People crowded around her—her people—the familiar faces distorted with hatred. Someone aimed a kick at her ribs and a dirty boot crushed her fingertips. She cried out in pain, cradling the throbbing fingers against her chest. A trickle of sweat slid down her back. Fear curled in her belly.
They will tear me to shreds. The gods help me.

“Burn the witch. Burn the witch.” The chant echoed through the corridors of the great palace.

Tomatoes and rotten vegetables splattered Thalia’s back. A sharp stone hit her cheek. She blinked at the crimson drops of blood staining the floor and swiped at the stream tickling her face. A night soil bucket crashed to the ground close to her head. The stained, metal container tipped, splashing the contents over her in a wave of brown fluid. She gagged at the acrid stink and bile filled her mouth. The crowd cheered in approval. She gathered up her stained silk gown and rose to her knees. The dirt and soil ground into open wounds. Looking into the hatred before her, she opened her arms wide.

“I am innocent… Please…do not do this to me.”

“You will not speak.” A guard dragged her roughly to her feet. He turned to the other guard. “Erik, you are in charge. Let me tie her hands and gag her before she starts cursing the entire palace.”

“Aye.” Erik turned a look of disgust on Thalia. “Show no mercy.”

The rope cut deep into her flesh. The guard, Erik, gave her a malicious grin. The guard groped the front of her bodice for a silk handkerchief with his gloved hand. He gave a feral grunt and tied the soft yellow fabric around her head. Thalia’s mouth gaped open. She tasted the stream of warm, metallic blood seeping into her mouth. Wide-eyed, she scanned the crowd in the hope of seeing one friendly face. Surely, one of the hundred or so people that she had tended this past year would speak on her behalf? The crowd hushed and split apart to make way for a group of heavily armed militia. They formed a guard around her. Erik wrapped the rope around one of his large hands.

She turned her gaze on the large man. “Let me walk. I beg you do not drag me on this hard floor.”

“Take a last look at your home, witch.” The man’s nostrils curled with distaste and he turned away, dragging Thalia along the passageway.

Blinded by tears, Thalia stumbled behind Erik. The familiar passageway stretched out before her. They turned left to take another corridor, leaving the angry crowd mumbling behind them. Here, oppressive black granite walls opened into an entry hall with a majestic cathedral ceiling. Portraits of King Garro’s ancestors glared down at her as if to stand in judgement. Along each side of the hall a row of polished, white marble columns brought back sweet memories of a wondrous childhood, playing hide-and-seek, and laughter, so much laughter.
How did I come to this? Gods, what did I do?

The great doors to the courtyard stood open—sunlight danced across the flagstones dusting the sandstone with gold and diamonds. Thalia moved forwards through the door. She blinked into the brightness and noticed the two covered wagons containing her possessions, her trunk, her spinning wheel and the thick woollen cloak she wore hunting. She gazed up at the man holding her so cruelly. He resembled a hawk, his shaved head accentuating a hard, angular face with black eyes ever watching.

“The king wants nothing of your evil to remain.” Erik pulled on the rope. “It is only by the grace of our queen that I didn’t burn this rubbish.” He ground his teeth. “Although we all know you had her spellbound.”

Thalia looked back at the palace, her home, once a place of safety and love. A sob caught in her throat. Never again would she bathe in the comfort of her family or the trust of her friends. The rope tightened and Thalia stumbled forward, the dusty trail shimmered through her tears, the road ahead leading her to wherever or whatever her future may be.

Chapter Two

Thirsty, so thirsty. Not one drop of water had passed Thalia’s lips in three hours. She coughed, wincing at the pain in her throat. Her feet hurt. The silk slippers she wore gave little protection from the sharp stones on the road. At least her hands no longer throbbed. In fact, all life had left her fingers and the swollen digits had turned the odd blue colour of a rotting corpse. Hot, dusty and exhausted, Thalia lifted her head. She drew magyck from the cloudless, blue sky, the song of birds in the hedge grove. Each one of the woodland creatures shared their magyck with her. A movement, a shadow crossing shadows flashed beneath the trees lining the dusty road. There, under the cover of a bramble bush, Thalia caught the glint of orange eyes, the flash of a tail held high and proud. She drew in a deep breath. Brew.

The black cat rarely left her side. With sly glances, Thalia watched the sleek, black fur catch the sunlight. Brew blinked his large, round eyes at her in acknowledgement and leapt from one zebra stripe shadow to the next, moving beside her in concealment. She trudged on, her mind going back to her friend, old Nell, and the tales she told of the Singing Forest.

The old woman had come to the palace one day selling herbs. Enthralled by Nell’s stories, it had taken little encouragement for Thalia to agree to meet the ancient woman. Each month, the day after the moon hung full in the night sky, she slipped away to meet Nell beneath the Lion’s Head rock. Such stories the old lady had told, of witches and goblins, the secrets of mighty dragons, the Fae, and the gods. With each visit, Thalia had learnt more about her real heritage, of mystical herbs, and her place in the world—her destiny.
I am a witch, a healer by way of the goddess Cymbeline.

Thalia watched a squirrel bounce across a clearing, dance mischievously, then pick up an acorn and tear up a nearby tree. The small being had given her all the help he could. She took his humorous gesture with a smile of thanks. The small offering flowed into her power reserves like a warm, perfumed breeze. A child of the forest, she blended her magyck with all things living.

 Of course, she had informed the queen, proud to explain her newfound talent and her joining with the goddess Cymbeline. With a heavy heart, she remembered the expression on her mother’s face, the fear, or was it anger? From that day on, Thalia had no longer met Nell in the forest. The old woman had vanished. Soon after, her mother had fallen ill. Thalia’s heart twisted. Rather than accept her help, the king had locked her in the East Wing with only Brew for company.
How could he think I would hurt Mother?

A horse whinnied and she heard voices from the men riding before the wagons. The sound of flowing water and the scent of damp earth wafted on the breeze. A cloud of dust rose from the road, twirled up in a plume of silver glitter, and danced in a will-o’-the-wisp. Thalia blinked. Before her, a width of sparkling, blue magnificence peeked through a line of weeping willows. She moaned, her gaze fixed on a river running fast and clear, the banks green and lush. Thalia staggered, falling to her knees.
Oh sweet Cymbeline, thank you, for I am dying from thirst.

“Get up.” Erik jerked the rope. “I am sick of the stink of you.” He dismounted and unsheathed his dagger.

Stumbling to her feet, Thalia stared at the man and waited for the death blow. She drew her magyck around her and met his gaze. She had to survive and fulfil her destiny. She concentrated on Erik’s face, using what little power she had to influence the big man.
You will not kill me. Remember the queen’s dying request.

“Don’t waste a curse on me yet, witch. I am not going to kill you.” Erik took hold of the front of Thalia’s dress and split the front wide open with one pass of the lethally sharp blade. “You are far too valuable as entertainment.” He untied her hands. “Take off what remains of your clothes and bathe.” With one swift movement, he removed the gag, and pushed it into his sleeve.