A Thousand Years to Wait Read online

  A THOUSAND YEARS TO WAIT

  A NOVEL BY

  L. RYAN STORMS

  “Beautifully written with lush world-building. Right in my fantasy-loving wheelhouse!”

  —SHANAH MCCREADY OF BIONICBOOKWORMBLOG.WORDPRESS.COM

  “Adventure! Danger! Magic! A budding romance! All wrapped up in an epic quest! L. Ryan Storms has created a vividly-described world of legend. Into that world, she’s placed a strong-willed, intelligent, young woman of principle and a cast of memorable characters. Billed as a YA fantasy, A Thousand Years to Wait begins a tale sure to enthrall YA and adult readers alike.”

  —SORCHIA DUBOIS, AUTHOR OF THE ZORAIDA GREY TRILOGY

  “Witty dialogue, captivating world-building, and a twisting journey kept me turning the pages.”

  —JEAN GRANT, AUTHOR OF A HUNDRED KISSES

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A THOUSAND YEARS TO WAIT. Copyright © 2018 by Lorraine Storms. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Published by RaineStorms Press, 2019.

  The paperback edition has been catalogued as follows:

  Name: Storms, L. Ryan, author

  Title: A Thousand Years to Wait / by L. Ryan Storms

  Description: Electronic file (eService)

  Series: The Tarrowburn Prophecies; Volume 1

  Summary: Prophecies are meant to unfold on their own—they can’t be forced into fruition. Or can they? When a war-torn kingdom is on the cusp of falling to a usurping general, a young healer who doesn't believe in magic is called upon to help a prophecy transpire. She must embrace the magic...or lose everything.

  ISBN 978-1-7328492-0-4 (paperback) | ISBN 978-1-7328492-1-1 (ebook)

  Subjects: | YFHR: Teenage fiction: fantasy romance. | YFB: Children’s / Teenage fiction: General fiction. | YFH: Children’s / Teenage fiction: Fantasy & magical realism | BISAC: YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Fantasy / General | YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Action & Adventure / General | YOUNG ADULT FICTION / General

  www.lryanstorms.com

  Cover Design by Jess Bieber, www.entertheglow.com

  For Caelyn & Abigail

  Because strong women have never

  been needed more in this world.

  Your magic lies within.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Direction of Death

  Only three things in the world never truly rest—memories of the past, hope for the future, and a Healer with the ache of death in her bones.

  Healers don’t sleep. Generally speaking, Healers never really got much in the way of rest, but at least I inherited an uncanny ability to function on little sleep. Long days and nights tending to my patients rarely bothered me. It was accepted as part of the job—a job no one in Barnham ever truly thought I could take on, at least not for many years.

  But necessity is a funny thing. Folks will allow you to set a broken bone at fifteen when the next closest Healer is over half a day’s journey away. And they’ll let you help birth a baby, especially when you’re the only one in the village who knows what to do with a child who insists on a foot-first introduction into this world. No one expected me to take on the role of Healer three years ago, least of all me, but I had, and I’d like to think my mother would be proud.

  Last night had been no different. The wind and rain raged on, the thunder rattling the tiny glass bottles on my workbench as the walls of the cottage reverberated with the worsening weather. At the height of the storm, Elric Asbury showed up at my door, fist pounding upon the wood.

  “Moreina,” he yelled from the other side. “Please come. He can’t breathe!”

  Brendon.

  Without hesitation, I was up and moving, my heart thumping, my mind already working through the remedies and dosages needed for Brendon’s episode. I didn’t stop to think about how much things had changed since I’d become Healer. A few short years ago, neither Elric nor anyone else in the village would have been pounding on my door for help. I was too young, they said. But, necessity. Necessity led them to me.

  I might have made it home long before dawn except I was pulled from the Asbury home to help deliver Elsie Ysack’s fourth baby, a plump little thing whose howling screams rivaled the intensity of the thunder above.

  Now, as I made my way home in the dim, early morning light, Aeros whickered at me from the paddock, the mare’s ears pricked forward, dark eyes full of hope grain was on its way. As if sensing my nearness, the three milgoats stumbled from the barn into the paddock, fighting one another for the coveted lead spot and bleating in chorus. Placing my bag at the doorstep, I made my way down the sodden path to feed the hungry mouths that waited. Mucking could wait until after I’d slept.

  I left my boots beside the door and peeled off my wet clothing, drawing a hot bath to wash the night’s grime from my clammy skin. The water soothed away the chill that settled deep in my bones from the storm. Gray clouds still rolled overhead, but they had finally depleted themselves of rain, and I was grateful.

  I sank deeper into the tub, expecting to feel my muscles soften with the heat of the surrounding water, but my body stubbornly refused to relax. The night had ended, my charges cared for, and yet my nerves remained raw. It hadn’t been the storm. It hadn’t been Brendon’s asthma. It hadn’t been Elsie’s labor or the little screamer who had been born.

  Something else was coming. My bones tingled almost as they did when death was close, and yet death had not made an appearance last night. Shifting in the water uneasily, I wondered what unpleasant surprise today might yet hold. I washed and rose from the tub, then ran a comb through my hair before dressing for sleep and making for my cot. Even the best Healer had to sleep some, and there was little doubt in my mind I was hardly the best, not with only three years under my belt.

  No amount of unease could stop me from pulling the covers up to my ears and allowing sheer exhaustion to pull me into a deep sleep, a sleep where I’d no longer feel the ominous tingling of my bones, the looming promise of death somewhere in the near future.

  Some hours later, I awoke to a knock at my door. Was this the something else? I rubbed the remnants of sleep from my eyes and stood with a stretch, shivering at the damp chill that hung in the air.

  Wrapping a worn knit shawl around my shoulders, I opened the door to meet the dark, attentive gaze of Quinn D’Arturio. I had not seen him in some time, yet it didn’t surprise me the man at my door no longer matched the memor
y of the boy I once knew.

  Quinn had grown.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Reina,” he said, hardly seeming sincerely apologetic as he bent in a half bow and a lock of nearly black hair fell across his brow. “My father requests your presence.”

  My ability to function on little sleep was no less appreciated now than it had been last night. I estimated I had slept maybe three hours. It felt like seven.

  With a nod, I assured him, “Let him know I’ll come right away.” I needed time to dress and since it clearly wasn’t an emergency, I figured I might appease my rumbling stomach with a quick snack before heading out once again.

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll wait,” he said.

  “Ah—” I hesitated, now wondering at the reason for my summoning. “All right, I’ll just be a minute.” No snack for me.

  Clasping his hands behind his back, Quinn turned from me as I closed the door. I dressed simply, fastening my apron over my skirts and wishing now I’d had a chance to wash it of the Larkspur stains it carried. I stole a peek at Quinn through the condensation on my window, observing him as he surveyed my farm for some imperceptible danger only he might know.

  There was a time when I had known much about Quinn and many of my former schoolmates, but past the days of school and childhood games, I had hardly spoken more than a dozen words to him since his return to Barnham.

  I backed away from the window and fastened my hair into another knot, tucking the stray strands behind my ears. I pulled on my boots once more, flinching at the wetness still inside. Bag in hand, I opened the door and stepped outside once again.

  Though still cool, the afternoon had pleasantly warmed despite the occasional gust of wind, and an earthy dampness permeated the air. I stepped onto the well-worn walk beyond the cottage door and inhaled the familiar sweet scent of the violet and red kissing blooms that greeted me. The few tiny petal chalices that hadn’t been blown off their vine by the storm harbored droplets of rain, but the majority of the flowers lay flattened on the ground, a stark reminder summer was gone. As was tradition on any farmstead in Castilles, my mother planted kissing blooms at the door of our tiny cottage, and they grew in vine-like abundance along a supporting trellis to remind our home’s occupants never to leave without a parting kiss to the loved ones left behind—a custom I currently never needed to concern myself with.

  I fell into step quickly and wordlessly beside Quinn as we made our way to his father’s home. Stealing a sideways glance at Quinn as we walked, I studied the seriousness on his face. I tried to remember if I’d ever seen him smile in the time since our childhood days. He might be attractive if he did. His hair was shorter than the current style and the bottom half of his face seemed perpetually shadowed with the hint of a beard men twice his age would covet. His hawk-like eyes were always in motion and I forever had the distinct impression there wasn’t much they missed…including my current observations.

  I turned my eyes forward as we entered the village proper. “Is the governor well, Quinn?” I asked, attempting a chat despite knowing where it would get me.

  “Aye, he’s fine.”

  “His knees?”

  “Good,” he responded, effectively ending our conversation. As I’d expected. I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

  Where did you disappear to for the last two years? Why won’t you speak to me? Do you remember me at all? There were so many questions I wanted to ask him. Instead, I nodded and let my gaze roam the town as we walked.

  The place was a flurry of activity as the townsfolk cleaned up from the storm, assessed damage, and hacked fallen tree limbs into firewood. Small streams of water trickled along the edges of the streets, meandering between the cobbles, swiftly finding their way to gutters, to creeks, then to rivers beyond.

  For the most part, it seemed the village had been spared major damage, though a large pine had come down on the corner of the Preswicks’ roof, leaving a gaping hole in its wake. Three neighbors were already in the process of helping Jim Preswick to clear the tree and patch the hole.

  A small swell of pride for my town at the sight had me clearing my throat to keep tears of gratitude from welling in my eyes. Barnham may not have been the biggest town in Castilles or the richest, but her citizens were no less than first class. Here, our neighbors were family. There could be no better place on Liron to spend one’s days. Of that, I was certain.

  As we neared the governor’s house, small crowds gathered in doorways, their curious eyes on me and Quinn as we passed. Intriguing whispers carried to my ears in snippets and I listened intently as we walked, hoping to piece together what was being said.

  “It’s only a matter of time before Bruenner takes the west. He won’t stop until he has all of Castilles bent to his will.”

  “You think Arden’s going to search for it—”

  “—putting together a candidate group.”

  “—force the prophecy to be fulfilled.”

  Indeed? Now my curiosity was piqued. This would explain my unease, the discomfort in my bones. Something else, for sure. Was it possible they spoke of the Prophecy of the White Sorceress? The timing was right. General Bruenner of the King’s Army had taken King Edgar’s premature death as a personal invitation to maneuver his way onto the throne. At least, he had tried. Almost as quickly as he had taken the throne, a Resistance Army formed to fight him.

  We had almost become accustomed to the daily fear pervading every aspect of our lives. Would today be the day the troops would flatten our town? Tomorrow? Death was growing closer. My bones ached of it, virtually screaming of its nearness some days. Now, more so than ever, the ache was a constant reminder Barnham wouldn’t remain safe forever.

  It was easy enough to push aside the reality, to ignore the pain, when I threw myself into my craft, but the times in between…well, it seemed all we did was worry more often than not these days. Was this why death’s presence seemed so near today?

  With the thought still in my head, we reached the governor’s house. Stepping into the foyer, I nodded my thanks to Quinn as he held open the heavy oak door. Inside, I was hit instantly with a pang of nostalgia. I spent many hours, days, and perhaps even years following Quinn through these rooms as a child on spring days too filled with rain for outdoor adventures. Now the warmth of the house greeted me like an old friend.

  The scent of rising dough wafted from the kitchen, a mouthwatering odor that instantly brought to mind Quinn’s mother. If I ventured into the kitchen at that very moment, Mathilde D’Arturio would overwhelm me in a bear-like embrace smelling of briarmint, sage, and half a dozen other unnamed spices, all while covertly pinching my arm to determine the precise amount of fat on my bones. She would then sit me on a wooden stool, growl at me for allowing myself to grow so thin, and force-feed me a variety of dishes specifically made to match my meatless tastes. I smiled at the thought. If ever there had been anyone who could make me feel as though I still had a mother, Mathilde was it.

  “Ah, Moreina,” said Governor Arden, meeting me at the open door. He reached for my hands, covering them in his large grasp, and squeezed them in a greeting. His round, welcoming face was a contrast to Quinn’s, all angles and sharp features. “My thanks for your coming to entertain my ideas.”

  “I’m always glad for a visit, Governor, but I’m afraid I’m not sure what ideas you mean to share with me.”

  “Quinn didn’t tell you why I asked you here?” he said to me as he turned to face Quinn, a father’s consternation apparent on his face. I may not have had a father in my life, but even I knew that look.

  “I’m afraid not,” I said with my best disarming smile.

  “Quinn!”

  “But,” I continued, “there really wasn’t much time to discuss anything on our way here. I was interested in seeing how the village fared in the storm. I’m afraid I distracted Quinn with all my questions." I didn’t look at Quinn to gauge his reaction to my lie.

  The
governor seemed to accept my excuse and ushered me to a seat by the hearth. “Of course, of course. Please sit,” he said, gesturing to a plush rose-embroidered armchair. “Can I interest you in a cup of kai?”

  I nodded. “Please.”

  The governor offered some to his son, who declined with a shake of his head. He then poured two mugs with the steaming brew, handed one to me, and sat beside me in a matching armchair. Quinn took a watchful stance near the window, leaning against the wall, his arms folded across his broad chest. He seemed unable to relax even within the comforting walls of his childhood home. Why?

  “And you got through the storm all right, Moreina?” Governor Arden asked. “No damage to the farm?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to survey fully,” I admitted, holding the mug of bittersweet kai close to my face, my cheeks growing damp as the steam settled dew-like on my skin. “But it doesn’t look like I lost any trees and the creek only rose half to the edge of the flood plain,” I added.

  “Good, good.”

  “It could have been much worse.”

  “The animals fared well?” he asked in a typical Governor Arden fashion. Eventually, I was sure I would learn why I’d been asked to come. Governor Arden was a talker, and if I intended to find out why I’d been called to his home, I’d have to wade through the chitchat first.

  “Oh yes, everyone was tucked away before nightfall. Penny stayed safe and dry in Aeros’s stall with her,” I answered. Penny was a three-legged milgoat I had taken in to foster when she was only days old. Aeros couldn’t often be found without the little goat by her side.

  “That’s very good. Glad to hear it,” the governor replied as he sipped his kai.

  The pause in conversation allowed me to sip from my own mug, and I let the bitter warmth of the spicy liquid slide down my throat.

  “If I may, Governor,” I began, “can I ask what ideas you’re eager to share with me?” No point letting the small talk go on forever. I still had stalls to muck, eggs to collect, and goats to milk.