Forsaken: The Chosen Trilogy - Book One

Chapter Two: Part Three

KRYSSA

566A.F.-20 Alune 569A.F.

Harvest came, and the return of winter. Father was led back inside the house, shaking and frail. He scarcely looked human: gaunt, hollow-eyed, his face so bearded and dirty he could have been mistaken for a week-buried corpse. Janis and I bathed him as before, then burned his clothes. He was even more listless than he had been the first time, and Janis had to all but carry him into his bed. She worried over him for weeks after, but there was little she could do.

We spent the next two years this way, watching our father become a living ghost as Janis raised us without his help. She continued educating us, though she grew frustrated with our questions as we got older. The twins were old enough now to join our lessons, and their mischievous antics and constant questions were enough to make her despair of teaching us anything. But somehow she managed to teach us the basics of mathematics, geography and history as well as our religion.

In my ninth winter, Janis grew ill, developing a deep cough that wouldn't abate. It was left to me to tend to her and Papa as best I could, but I watched her grow weaker as the long winter months dragged on.

Spring was halted by a late winter snowstorm. The night it struck, she developed a fever, complaining of cold and chills though she burned beneath my touch. By the third day she no longer spoke to me, only to the hallucinations brought on by her fever, her voice high and childish.

On the fifth day, she slipped into a sleep I could not wake her from, and I was forced to seek out the Crone.

I had never left the farm before, and the ride on our plow-horse Renic was both terrifying and exhilerating. The enormous trees were heavy with snow, the road nearly waist deep with it. The entire world was eerily silent, and I thought my heart would beat out of my chest as I slowly made my way along the road to the village.

The Crone's house was decrepit, shutterless windows dark and menacing. It appeared almost sinister, perched on the edge of the nameless village, ready to devour the unwary. If not for my love of Janis, I would have fled at the sight of it. But I did not, and I forced myself up the rotting steps to the front door and knocked timidly. Then I waited, listening to the wind wail through the clawing branches of the trees that loomed too close to her home.

After several long, drawn out minutes, the door opened. I stared up at the expressionless face of the Crone, my mouth dry with terror.

"Do you have payment?" she rasped.

"I- I-" I swallowed, mustering my courage as I held out a handful of copper coins. "Janis is sick. She won't wake up."

She took the money, her fingers icy as they brushed against mine. "Let me gather my things."

It didn't take her long to get ready, and soon we were on our way back to the farm. The Crone rode her tired grey gelding, Teodore, who followed behind Renic as we slogged through the path we had made to her door.

Though the journey home was faster, it was no less miserable. The light was fading quickly, and the temperature had plummeted. An icy wind sprang up, sending probing fingers beneath my cloak. I was unbearably cold by the time I saw the lights of our house, my hands and face numb with it.

Brannyn came out to take the horses, leading them to the barn as I staggered inside. The Crone was right behind me, and she immediately went into Janis' room and shut the door. Lanya took my arm and led me to the fire, pulling my snow-crusted cloak and replacing it with a warm blanket. Though it was painful at first to regain sensation in my hands and chilled feet, I was soon warm again, and managed to fall into a doze as the others went to bed.

The Crone emerged from Janis' room around midnight, waking me. I watched as she briefly checked on my father, then she joined me by the fire, sinking into a chair with a weary sigh.

"You can't heal her, can you," I whispered. It was not a question, and I did not expect her to answer. I had no doubt she could feel the steady approach of the God of the Dead, just as I did.

"Someone told me once that death is a blessing," she murmured after a moment. "It's supposedly the Gods' way of telling us that our lives have been well-lived. There is supposed to be comfort in the knowledge that their suffering has ended, that they will be at peace in heaven."

I stared at her. She didn't sound as if she believed it. "Is that true?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I have often thought it was little more than a pretty sentiment to comfort the grieving. I have never known death to bring peace, only more pain."

I nodded slowly, thinking of Papa.

The Crone looked at me, a strange emotion in her eyes, but it was gone before I could decipher it. "Life is fragile, little Rose. Be sure to treasure it before it is gone."

I didn't understand the warning in her words, not then. But her tone made me shiver nonetheless, and I fell silent, no longer sleepy. We continued to sit, side-by-side, watching the fire burn down as the long night passed.

Janis died in the morning.