Betrayer: (The Cursed Bloodstone Book 1)

A humid summer night wraps around me in a thick blanket of darkness as we leave the small tent and head toward the center of the camp, where a roaring fire lights our way. The flames lick greedily at the warm air as my captor guides me down a long pathway where tall square-shaped tents line both sides—enough to contain at least five hundred warriors.

My steps falter at that realization. I’m in a camp full of Bloodstone barbarians. The warriors on night patrol are the only men moving around the camp. They wear the same type of armor as the man who took me. That combination of leather and mail. Yet, I don’t need to set eyes on all the warriors to know how precarious this is—my being here.

The first prickle of fear needles into my skin. It wasn’t there when the man took me from the alehouse and forced me onto the back of his horse. Nor was it there when we rode until the moon gave way to the sun.

As Olah is my witness, I must show my worth. That is the only way my kidnapper will allow me to live. I glance at him, taking in the determined jaw. Those haunted, sad eyes.

A tall warrior wearing a combination of mail and leather armor straightens at the front of the largest tent in the center of the encampment. Thick black battle marks slash below his intense blue eyes and under his bottom lip. If not for his dark beard, I’m sure he’d have more paint on him. I shudder at the thought. The imagery of him ready for war with his face smudged in death.

Another night rears into my thoughts like an angry nightmare, blinding my vision in intense images. The Bloodstone warriors racing into my village. The way their black battle marks slashed across their harsh features. The way they brutally swung their weapons. The way they plucked lives the way others pluck weeds. Nobody meant anything to them.

I swallow and shove the memories into the farthest crevices of my mind, locking it there with all my other painful memories. Like losing Aniah.

A sharp pang pierces my chest as I allow thoughts of my younger sister for a breath before shoving it away too.

It’s not the time for such memories. Not here. Not among the Bloodstone.

“What have you done, Luc?” the tall warrior asks, his voice strained and his dialect as crude as the man holding on to me.

The Bloodstone talk faster than Kyanites, as if they must rush through everything they say.

“What I had to do.” The man’s grip on my arm strengthens. I resist the urge to wince or to grunt my objection. “Now, make way.”

“Luc.” Amber shadows weave over the warrior’s disapproving features. “She doesn’t belong here.”

“She’s a Kyanite healer, Gabriel.”

The warrior turns his angry blue eyes on me, slashing them over me in displeasure. “Precisely. She’s a Kyanite. Her magic cannot be trusted.”

“What choice do I have? What other solution? I have tried everything.” Desperation fuels my captor, this Luc’s words.

The man steps closer to Luc and lowers his voice a fraction. “I am close to finding the stone.”

What stone?

Surely, he doesn’t mean bloodstone.

Forty summers ago, the gods cursed the Bloodstone tribe, taking all their magic and their ability to obtain even a pebble-sized stone. Without their bloodstone, they cannot call on their gifts, and without it, the rest of us are safe from their darkness.

Luc’s jaw clenches. “Leah doesn’t have time.”

Something flickers behind the disapproving warrior’s stare. Maybe the first hint of compassion. “Use the Kyanite’s magic,” he says, his tone brittle, “then before the light of the sun, send her away.”

No!

They cannot send me away. I have waited ten summers for this moment. Besides, this is the closest I have ever gotten to the Bloodstone tribe.

Luc offers a curt nod. “So be it.”

Without another word, the warrior moves aside, allowing us access to the tent. Luc steps through, bringing me with him into the well-lit interior. Beds line the walls of the room. Shelves and a large, well-crafted washing stand mark the center. Their furniture isn’t shabby like I expected, nor is it ornate. Father would call it comfortable.

Father.

My chest aches as I recall sneaking away from our home in the middle of the night. It has been four summers. Four summers of wondering if he thinks about me.

A bed near the far wall catches my attention. Rather, the woman lying on the mattress catches my attention. Her chest rises and falls in labored breaths. Long brown lashes flutter against her cheeks. A sweaty sheen coats her skin.

My stomach sinks to my feet. I expected a soldier or a leader—someone they couldn’t bear to live without. Not a young woman, and never one this ill.

Empathy prods at my chest, compassion for a woman who should sleep soundly in her bed right now.

Luc leads me closer. “You will heal her.”

I wrap my fingers around the leather satchel tied to the belt at my waist and make myself meet his hard gaze. “I will.”

When he finally releases me, it takes all my fortitude to not rub at the spot where he held on to me. Instead, I armor myself with the meek facade I have adopted since Luc kidnapped me and kneel next to the bed. As I open the satchel, I listen to the woman’s breathing. It’s labored but not forced, nor is it hanging between the edge of this world and the next.

I pull back the bodice of her nightdress to observe the cloth covering her chest. I remove it and inhale at the sight of the angry wound below her right shoulder. By the redness and swelling, it looks like someone struck her with a poisoned arrow.

My anbellem weed should draw out the poison, and my swallow flower petals will lessen her fever.

Hope stirs in my chest as I prepare the mixture of herbs grown only in Kyanite soil. My blue kyanite stone fails to amplify my magic, but my education in medicinal herbs will not forsake me. It is the only thing I can truly control—my mind, my ability to learn.

Thankfully, I learned to grow the herbs—that way, I’ll never run out of my supplies. And thankfully, Kyanites use potent herbs to supplement using magic. Otherwise, they would spend all their energy and not be able to help many people. Even the best Kyanite healers require rest between curing patients. Their weaknesses provided me with these herbs.

Knowing Luc will expect it, I chant words in the healing dialect of my people. Every utterance burns my tongue and prickles my skin. Children can cast better magic than me.

Moonlight trickles through the slats in the tent opening as I pull back the wool blanket covering the woman’s chest and apply the poultice. Luc stands over me in stony silence, his presence a threatening storm cloud.

After applying a thick layer, I move to the washing stand. Luc doesn’t budge, nor does he remove his attention from the woman. I wash my hands and allow my determination to dampen my fears.

They will not send me away.

I’ll prove myself valuable.

After all, they cannot heal the way a Kyanite can. They don’t have our herbs or training. Even without the ability to cast magic, I’m more efficient than their healers.

I return to the woman, take a small glass jar from my satchel, and pull the lid off. With one hand, I lift her head, and with the other, I allow a few drops to slip between her parted lips. Without looking at Luc, I bring a chair close and sit. Time will determine her Fate … and Olah, of course.

If he wills it, the woman shall live, and I shall live too.