The De'Nauguath Chronicles - Book 1: The Summoner's Daughter

Chapter 1: Mists

Krócia, 6072 (Adican reckoning)

"Up."

A gravelly grunt cut the air.

"UP." He pounded on the door. "It's already six."

I opened my eyes. I shivered.

Cold. It was a cold morning. I reached for the old wool sweater and started to put it on, but the prickly sleeves made me flinch. It took a long moment to realize why. Somehow, I never remembered getting them. Gareth always took his time, but it didn't make it more distinct the next day.

I felt around on the floor for the bottle of rubbing alcohol. I uncorked it and dribbled it over the cuts. I hissed long through my teeth. I tied some old rags around the largest gashes and drew the lumpy sweater tight around myself as I shuffled over to a washbasin. I stood and stared at the wall for awhile as the wool spread warmth into me. It would be too warm to wear it in an hour, but shivers were one thing I didn't need.

I knew the water in the basin would be damn near icy before I even tested it with a finger. I took a few bracing breaths, set the sweater aside, and splashed the water on my face. I didn't mind the cold, but I still wasn't used to chilly nights in Krócia. The washbasin was always stark proof of the dark.

I rummaged around for my comb and tackled the disheveled mound on my head, though it never took long when the longest hair was seven inches long. I'd decided as a child that I would have short hair. Mira had yelled herself purple about it – and then promptly gone quiet about it when she herself brought ticks home the same week.

Another rapping sent a small, splintered hole through the door. "Fine," I called.

"That alcohol's coming out of your pay."

"Shut it, both of you," Mira hollered.

I made the longish walk down the hall, past a few pantries and the room that was always closed. I trudged into the kitchen. Gareth was grumbling indistinctly. "Where's my eats?" he managed.

"Nowhere," Mira countered.

"Eh?"

"Jar's empty. You see, it takes money to buy things, and when someone doesn't–"

"You," he boomed.

"Me." I didn't look at him. I'd just begun to salvage some bread.

"I put five hundred reika in that jar two weeks ago. That's enough to last a month. What'd you do with it?"

"Nothing."

"You sneak off bits. I know you do. You've done it before."

"Just fifty last week for new socks."

He tossed an arm halfheartedly and turned away.

Mira huffed and moved to a thick row of nails in a wall by the front door. After a good deal of rummaging, she produced a coin pouch. "There's a hundred in there. Halve it with Sóra and buy your own damn food. I have a headache today." She threw the bag at Gareth, who barely caught it. He counted half of the coins out and plunked the rest onto a table.

"Where're you off to this early?" I chirped.

"Priestly duties won't wait for anything. Got to hear confessions and take offerings." He shuffled for the door. "Don't forget Longfeather tonight."

I counted the coins up and began stacking them in neat little piles. Gareth tugged the door shut with a flourish, but I was thinking too hard about counting to flinch like usual.