The Girl from the North
Cat Bruno
Author Bio
“The Girl from the North” is Cat Bruno’s first full-length venture into fantasy writing, although she has been an avid and loyal reader of sci-fi/fantasy for many years. Having gotten her start in poetry, Cat has only in the last few years gotten into fiction writing, and has found a voice for the characters she has long dreamed of creating. Many who are unfamiliar with the fantasy genre might be encouraged to read “The Girl from the North,” as the central themes are ones with which most of us can relate. The second book in the series, Daughter of the Wolf, will be released in Summer 2015, and continues the story of Bronwen.
Description
When a dark stranger, beautiful and haunting, approaches the flame-haired girl on a solitary stretch of beach, she senses that her life at the Healer’s Academy is about to change. As his hands reach for her forehead, gliding across it with intimacy and purpose, suddenly, she remembers who he is, and who he has been. Yet, still, Bronwen wonders why she was chosen, and fears what the mysterious man’s presence in her life will mean. Before he turns to leave, she asks why he has come and why it has been her he sought.
His reply silences her.
“Rexaria,” he whispers, low and gruff, yet louder than the tumbling sea and the screaming gulls flying overhead.
Somehow, Bronwen understands.
Kingmaker.
The first book in the Pathway of the Chosen series, we meet Bronwen, a healer-in-training, who arrived at the Academy as a child with no memory of who she was or where she had come from. Soon, we learn that there is much that she keeps hidden. Her fire-streaked hair marks her as a Northerner, far from her homeland, yet she recalls nothing. Until she is visited by Conri, the High Lord of the Wolf Tribe, who lets her remember. But what will those memories be? Follow Bronwen as she explores what it means to be god-touched.
Book excerpt
Chapter 1
A brisk wind blew, unusual, dark, out of the north, not off the sea. Dusk colored the sky orange, cooled the air, and stilled the water. Silence roamed over the beach, only occasionally broken by soft waves striking the shore. The gulls had disappeared for the day, and darkness hovered close. Yet, the light lingered, dropping a shadowy fog across the deserted beach, competing with the setting sun that peeked out across the water and casting streaks of red and orange atop the sea. Cross-legged in the sand sat a young woman, with wind-touched hair that rivaled the setting sun and a stillness that matched the sea.
Bronwen, as she was called here, had no fear of the darkness that was fast approaching and sat quietly, accompanied by her thoughts. She had just been named Master Apprentice, a remarkable accomplishment for one with her history and her young age. She had long worked for such recognition, relieved to no longer be seen as the Northern orphan.
Bronwen began to stir, suddenly no longer able to rest. She jumped up and brushed off her cream-colored healer’s robe, which she wore shorter than her classmates to accommodate the loose-fitting pants that she wore underneath the coarse robe.
With a small cry of dismay, Bronwen noticed the fading light, quickly grabbed her sandals, and hurried down the beach. She had much to share with Sheva, the woman who had fostered and raised her after her mysterious arrival in Tretoria. Smiling at the memory, Bronwen quickened her pace, hoping to find Sheva at the Academy, even though the evening meal had already ended.
*****
Bronwen remembered nothing of her life before arriving near Litusia. About ten moon years before, she had been found walking along the main road that led into Tretoria. Scouts, first and second year soldiers from the Cordisian National Brigade, had noticed her bright hair and light skin, shining under the high Tretorian sun. When they first approached, her appearance startled them, a bloodied face and soiled dress.
Ossa, Bronwen would learn his name later, had tried to communicate with her, first in Tretorian, then Common–the language shared by most Cordisians–and he even attempted a few phrases from the Northern language, Eirrannian. She had not been scared, nor did she appear much bothered by her injuries. Calm and clear-eyed, Bronwen had stood, leading the men to believe her to be half-witted or dazed from her pain.
After his attempts to get the child to speak had failed, Ossa had picked her up and carried her back to the others, who were now only a few steps behind him. Talia, the only female scout of the four, had examined the girl’s face, and concluded that it was nothing serious, yet they all agreed to bring the still silent girl to the healer at the Academy. Ossa had placed the girl upon his horse, climbed up behind her, and then rode toward Litusia, unsettled, yet uncertain as to why.
*****
The story had quickly spread of how the four scouts had found a strange Northern child, alone and bleeding. After the healers tended to her injuries, which looked worse than they were, she was questioned about her arrival, her injuries, her family, her name, and her age. Although many attempted to communicate with the girl, none succeeded, leaving the healers to believe that she was too traumatized to do so. Many wondered if she would ever be able to speak again.
After consulting with Rova, Master Healer at the Academy, the healers decided that the girl would be placed with Sheva, a recent widow who had no children of her own. Sheva was in charge of the kitchen at the Healer’s Academy and was well liked by both the students and the masters, and Rova had known the woman for many moon years. A runner had been sent to find the Tretorian woman, and when she arrived, the Litusian Council explained to her what had occurred.
The idea of fostering a Northern child had been surprising, even though she had done the same for a few children whose parents had needed extended treatment at the Healer’s Clinic. At the time, she had known nothing about the Eirrannia, yet the girl had looked at her with trusting eyes and a shy smile, and Sheva abandoned all doubts, accepting the offer at once.
Often, when Sheva told the story, she would pause, gazing at Bronwen, eyes heavy with emotion and memory. The girl had slowly started talking again, mostly in Common, although her words were accented with the lilt of the North. After a moon, it was as if she had never been silent, and after half a moon year, Bronwen asked to attend the Healer’s Academy, having spent nearly all of her days with Sheva on the Academy’s grounds. Quickly, she had flourished at the Academy, showing both a natural ability and a fierce desire to learn all that she could.
But Bronwen wondered about her life before she had been found and about where she had come from, and who she had been, as her true name was even a mystery. Yet, her memory never returned, not even ten moon years later.
*****
As she walked, the wind increased and tumbled the waves, spray flying and splashing her as she edged the shore. Bronwen slowed her pace, enjoying the now tumultuous water, as it was usually calm this time of year. Her unbound hair danced in the wind, resembling the sunset, copper highlighted with orange and ginger. Bronwen laughed a slow, spontaneous sound, nearly lost in the crashing of the waves. Yet, as quiet as the laugh was, and as loud as the waves were, the unexpected noise pierced the one who silently watched.
He moved effortlessly through the thick sand, leaving no footsteps behind to mark his trail. The air hesitated around him as he walked, and he quickly closed the gap between himself and the woman in front of him. In moments, he would be upon her. With the last light of the falling sun, his image appeared. Ebony hair, sleek, black clothing that hugged his long, slender legs and narrow waist, boots that ended just below his knees, and an unusual jacket that looked modern and ancient at the same time as it clung to his chest before flowing over his hips, ending at his knees.
The man moved in determined, confident strides, fearlessly, at home in the sudden darkness.
*****
Soon, Bronwen noticed that she was no longer alone, stumbled, and paused. Yet, she, too, was fearless, and she relaxed into a smile that lightened the oncoming nightfall, warmed the cool breeze, and silenced the banging waves.
Bronwen held her ground, unmoving, as the stranger approached. Even from a distance and with little natural light remaining, Bronwen named him a Tribesman. Her heart fluttered in her chest, reminding her of the butterflies she captured as a child, watching as they beat their bright, speckled wings against the jar, struggling to escape. She loved watching them so closely, but always let them go soon after, guilt-ridden for imprisoning them and fearful for their well-being.
He was very tall, much taller than the small, stocky Tretorians she had spent the last twelve moon years surrounded by. His skin was paler too, ghostly white, another sharp contrast to the nutty skin tones of the locals, including Sheva. He seemed to glow, luminous and shining, bright against the dark sky, as he made his way across the sand. When just steps separated the two, Bronwen’s confidence started to dwindle, and she wondered if she should be frightened.
He was a handsome man, breathtakingly so. His long, rectangular face had a hint of royalty to it–high cheekbones, a sharp, angular nose, and full lips. His eyes were dark, glistening, yet guarded, revealing nothing. Bronwen sensed a weariness about him, a reluctance to approach, which made little sense, despite her limited knowledge of the Tribe.
Bronwen glanced at the man again, taking in his broad shoulders, lean, muscled arms, and a waist that was slimmer than Bronwen would have imagined it to be. He’s dangerous, Bronwen thought, and his beauty only makes him more so. A wolf, and none other, could have such a fierce, sleek look, yet remain captivating. Bronwen paused, realizing the man was upon her, then looked up at the man who was now reaching up to her face with a soft, smooth hand. Before she could speak, his hands were on her forehead.
Then, she smiled again, because she was a Northerner still. And a Northerner never shows fear when facing a member of the Tribe, even though she wanted to run as fast and as far as her legs could carry her. But she stood, motionless, transfixed, her gaze locked on the man’s opaque eyes.
When the man placed the palm of his hand across the center of her forehead, Bronwen’s smile deepened, acquiring an ironic edge. Her smile deepened, although now it was because she began to remember.