Table Of ContentArrow of the Mist; 2013 Christina Mercer All rights reserved
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Summary:
Terror strikes the Celtic inspired kingdom of Nemetona when barbed roots
breach the land and poison woodsmen, including 15-year-old Lia’s beloved
father. Lia embarks on a quest to the forbidden land of Brume to gather
ingredients for the cure. She relies on her herbal wisdom and newfound gift as a
tree mage through a land of soul-hungry shades, trickster creatures, and
uncovered truths about her family.
March 2013 © Christina Mercer
Hosted by indie-visible ink www.indie-visible.com
Cover art by Chelsea Starling
Formatted by Novel Ninjutsu
Edited by Susanna Rosen
For Dwayne and our boys, Joshua and Quinton.
And for Grandpa,
who inspired me to achieve my dreams.
You will always be remembered.
Chapter 1: Roots
Chapter 2: Buds
Chapter 3: Shade
Chapter 4: Fertile Ground
Chapter 5: Deadwood
Chapter 6: Split
Chapter 7: Lumber
Chapter 8: Rootbound
Chapter 9: Waterlogged
Chapter 10: Sap
Chapter 11: Hedge
Chapter 12: Kindling
Chapter 13: Keys
Chapter 14: Whorl
Chapter 15: Crown
Chapter 16: Stump
Chapter 17: Taproot
Chapter 18: Hollow
Chapter 19: Reseed
Chapter 20: Family Tree
Nettles stung Lia’s flesh. She pressed her fingers against her mouth for relief.
This is what I get for letting my thoughts wander. Grandma wouldn’t have been
so careless while harvesting sting-leaf. She wouldn’t have let the villagers’
opinions prick at her mind, no matter how many called her mad for crafting
remedies in the old ways.
Koun whined and nudged Lia’s arm with his nose.
“I’m all right, boy.” Lia gazed into her hound’s violet eyes and then turned
her attention to the friendlier mallow plant. Its white flowers matched Koun’s
coat and its leaves and roots promised a soothing balm for the nettle’s bite.
She’d make another batch of salve for Da, too. He swore her “potions” kept his
hands fit enough for hewing wood and soft enough for holding Ma. Her ma
could use a bit more mallow infusion for her soaps, as well, and she’d take a
bundle of clippings to Granda—
Her thoughts scattered as Koun shot from the garden. Lia whirled around to
the pair of horses charging up the path. She squinted in the dusky light and
recognized Da’s friend, Kenneth, on one of the horses. Then her insides went
cold. Across the other horse’s back lay Da’s limp body.
She dropped the harvested mallow and sped from her garden toward them.
Ma’s scream shot like a bolt through her, but Kenneth’s words, “He’s alive,”
offered Lia a morsel of hope.
Kenneth carried Da into the cottage, and Lia caught a glimpse of her father’s
torn and bloodied clothing. “I’ll fetch Granda,” she cried, and hurried to her
filly.
Clad in her usual boy’s breeches and high leather boots, Lia raced her horse
down the path with her heart pounding in rhythm to the hoof beats.
Stay strong, Da! Just a little longer, and Granda will be there to heal you.
Why hadn’t her dreams forewarned her? What good were fate-dreams if
they showed when the mares would give birth or when visitors were coming
from afar, but failed to give a timely warning for Da?
She blazed across waves of shamrock green hills dotted with the ancient
She blazed across waves of shamrock green hills dotted with the ancient
quartz towers unique to Rockberg. She turned down the main road and rushed
into the heart of the village. A few villagers lifted curious eyes, but many only
cast contemptuous looks her way.
Let them glare until their eyes fall from their hollows.
She jumped off her horse and bolted into the makeshift store where she
found Granda Luis at the counter cutting willow-weed. “Come quick!”
Her grandfather’s brow shot up and he reached for his walking staff.
“What’s happened, child?”
“Da went chopping in the Bryns. Kenneth brought him home,” she stifled a
sob, “passed out and covered in blood.”
Granda headed for the door, and Lia hurried outside and untied his horse
while he walked as fast as his ailing legs would allow. Granda pulled himself
into the saddle, wincing. Just then, two women in lacey frocks passed, scowling
at them. More newcomers from Nemetona’s southlands, more people to shun
the old ways.
Lia set her jaw tight and mounted her horse. She didn’t give a thistle about
what they thought. All that mattered now was Da. With a silent nod from
Granda Luis, they urged their horses into a run and left a cloud of dust behind
them.
They roared like a gust of wind from the marketplace to the outskirts of
town. Granda gripped his amber-tipped staff like a fighting lance, and he offered
no explanations to the villagers despite the cries of alarm his urgent pace
claimed.
They turned off the road and darted around the towers of quartz, lofty prisms
standing proud and brilliant in the setting sun, and sped down the path to the
whitewashed cottage.
“Lia girl, grab m’satchel,” Granda said, dismounting his horse.
Lia’s heart stampeded as she unstrapped the travel bag full of concoctions
while Granda hobbled ahead.
Koun greeted her as she entered the cottage, whining and nosing against her.
“Easy, boy,” she soothed. She ran a hand over his snowy fur and hurried to the
bedchamber.
She neared Da’s bed and halted. Her chest tightened and tears stung her
eyes. Oozing green blisters dotted his body like a strange pox, and jagged red
sores covered the spaces in between.
She’d never seen her beloved da hurt or sick beyond a winter fever before
this day. He was always her rock, hammering away on a new table or bench in
his woodshop, tilling soil for her gardens, or teaching her how to hunt with her
bow. And whenever he accompanied her to town, his quick wit put anyone with
a wagging tongue in his or her place.
Ma lifted his head and struggled to pour some ale between his lips. She
placed a wet cloth on his forehead, and then turned to Granda Luis. “Kenneth’s
gone ahead to fetch Doc Lloyd. Surely, between the two of you, something can
be done.”
Granda nodded, though storm clouds had settled on his brow.
Lia peered at Da’s riddled flesh and a chill crawled up her spine. Her mind
spun with recollections of the handful of elders that had come into Granda’s
store the past week, imploring him for a remedy to help their kinsmen. Like Da,
the men were carried back from their hunting or chopping treks in the eastern
Bryns, all feverish, pained and blighted by sores.
“His sores … the strange blisters … just like the others.” Hope withered like
leaves within Lia. She and Granda had tried to craft skin salves and decoctions
to cure the odd symptoms. Granda searched through Grandma’s Grimoire for a
remedy, but Lia knew every word of the beloved book, and nowhere on its
pages did it mention such ills.
If Granda couldn’t help the others, how could he heal Da?
The lump in Lia’s throat grew thicker. Her family was everything. She had
no friends, save her hound Koun and the horses. She spent every waking hour in
Granda’s store, in her gardens, or in Da’s woodshop. It was a simple life, and
fine by her, but now it was starting to splinter.
Ma’s lips trembled. Several strands of copper hair escaped from her bun,
clinging to the sweat beading her face. “He felt fine this morning, eager to go
chopping. What could have possibly happened?”
“Briars, roots … took hold,” Da sputtered, “dragged me down … I held to
Merrie’s lead … she ripped me … from them.” His muscles tensed, and his feet
