Forsaken: The Chosen Trilogy - Book One

Chapter Six

Cuna - eleventh month of the year; the beginning of winter

LANYA

The Rose Farm, Northwestern Valory

28 Cuna 572A.F.

"It's not fair."

Kryssa opened her eyes and glanced up at me. The others had all gone to bed, exhausted by the fury of another of Father's outbursts, and so we were alone in the great room. She had stripped to the waist, lying on the floor before the fireplace so I could press poultices to her back. The sharp smell of vinegar burned my nose. "What's not fair?"

"This." I jerked my head toward the marks, a rainbow of colors between vicious purple and fading yellow. "All of this. You should let me help."

Her gaze grew intent upon my face. "You do help."

I snorted, though I kept my hands gentle. "Useless lullabies and bits of medicine from Janis' books. I do little better than nothing. I want to do more."

Her face hardened. "No."

"You can't protect me forever."

"Perhaps not," she conceded, and shrugged before closing her eyes again. "But as long as I'm alive, I can certainly try."

I bit my lip, holding back what I wanted to say, afraid to tell her that being behind closed doors did not protect me from her pain, or Brannyn's. Echoes of the blows they took resounded in my bones as I were the one receiving them. I could feel the agony pulsing beneath their skin, the ache of it battering against my thoughts. We suffered the same; they could not shield me from their anguish.

My breath caught as I traced the ugly bruises on my sister's forearm, marks left from fingers that had grabbed her too tightly. Though her face remained serene, I could feel the pain even my light touch caused her, and my vision blurred with tears. She endured so much, and I could do nothing to save her.

"It's all right, dear heart," she murmured, her lips curving as she reassured me. "I've had worse."

The truth of her words clawed at me rather that comforting me, and I blinked, over and over, willing myself not to cry. It was not fair that she was beaten and I was spared, that she was punished for Father's insanity while I was forced to hide in my room.

Her bruises should be mine.

My arm began to ache, growing from a slight sting to a bone-deep throb. Kryssa's bruises faded away, and I gasped, shoving up my sleeve to stare wide-eyed at the finger marks that now encircled my forearm.

"What is it?" she asked, and I hurriedly yanked my sleeve back down, before she could see what I had done.

"Nothing," I lied.

She sighed, and smiled, her eyes remaining closed. "You're getting good at that, Lanya. My arm scarcely hurts anymore."

I kept silent. Kryssa had named herself our protector, and she was determined to save us to the point of foolishness. If she learned that I could take her pain and make it my own, she would no longer allow me to take care of her, out of sheer, stubborn pride.

But I was just as stubborn as she, and so after that night I began to steal her bruises, and Brannyn's. Not all of them, or they might have grown suspicious, but enough to reduce their suffering, to allow them to sleep comfortably and wake without stiffness. They thought it was my poultices, that I was gaining more knowledge of herbs and medicines. I let them believe it, even going so far as to start an herb garden in front of the house, where I gathered the ingredients I claimed I needed to treat their injuries.

It was nonsense, of course. As I learned more of my gift, both its limits and its strengths, I found that I had power over their emotions as well: I could drain my siblings' unhappiness at a touch, chasing the shadows from their eyes, or push my contentment into them, easing their worries so they could rest. I gave them my exhaustion until they collapsed into sleep, though it left me wide-eyed and jittery for hours after; I drained their pain, though the weight of it transferred to me, heavy and agonizing. I could not take cuts or broken bones, nor could I heal our father's broken mind- though I tried once as he slept, and spent several hours vomiting over a bucket for my efforts.

But I grew stronger, and as the years dragged on I kept my family from giving in to despair.

I earned my secret.

But it was a burden, and hard to keep when we lived in such close quarters. More than once I was nearly found out, flinching as one of the others brushed against my ill-gotten bruises, and then having to allay their concern with careful falsehoods. I took to avoiding contact, never quite allowing the others to touch me, lest they discover the marks I hid beneath my clothes. I bathed while they slept, and slept in my clothes. Thankfully, the others mistook it for a manifestation of the fear that walked among us like a living thing, and never pushed me for the truth.

A year passed, and another. I turned thirteen, and Kryssa showed me how to hide the changes of womanhood, though I do not believe our father would have noticed. I took over my sister's duties at home so that she could earn more coin in the village; though we never spoke of it, I was more talented at these domestic chores, especially cooking, and she was grateful to relinquish them.

Destiny works mysteriously- if Kryssa had not been working in the village to pay off the debts that hung over us like a headsman's axe, we may never have learned how strong the connection between us truly was.