Page 1 of Kissed By the Gods
PART I
THE GROUNDED
“Selencia, granted the protection of Faraengard’s shield against the Kher’zenn, owes its survival to the strength of its betters. Their grain and labor are a small price to pay for existence.”
Letter from the King of Faraengard to the newly instated Overlords of Selencia in Year 36 of the Eternal Wars
CHAPTER ONE
YEAR 987 OF THE ETERNAL WARS PROTECTORATE OF SELENCIA
When I remember Irielle,I think of lace. She wore it when she burned to death on her wedding day.
I remember how she carefully slipped into her gown six years ago, eyes bright with unshed tears as her fingertips traced the hand-worked floral designs.
How the decorative overlay browned and curled inward long before the flames lit it on fire. My vision narrowed and went grey, until all I could see was that meticulous pattern, even as I heaved out tears and snot and vomit into the dirt at my sister-in-law’s feet. Then, when her dress finally started to burn … I don’t think I’ll ever forget the smell. The assault of it choked me—that stench of charred lace.
It’s a moment I can’t escape. Not in the bright light of day, where the memories loom, hazy and throbbing. Certainly not in the darkness of sleep, where they come to life in nightmares so real, so vivid, that I’m trapped reliving it night after night.
Mother says it’s because I’m cursed, like Irielle. She’s right, of course.
Sweat drips down my face when I finally stop swinging my scythe and raise my eyes to the deep blue sky. The scalding heat from summer has long since faded, but the autumn breeze tangling the wisps of curly hair against my neck isn’t enough to cool me off.
I wave at my youngest brother, who runs over with a bucket of water.
None of us—not even my mother loading the wheat in the two-wheeled cart behind me—comments on the water sloshing to the ground as five-year-old Leo skids to a halt in front of me, his crooked grin lighting up his face as he hands me the ladle.
“Thanks Leo,” I gasp between gulps. His chest puffs with pride.
“I’m a very good helper until I can be strong like you and Seb,” he tells me.
“You are.” I nod, serious. “The best helper.”
I take a full, deep breath. The vaguely sweet smell of the wheat is overwhelming, but I still pick up dozens of other smells, like the tangy musk of my 19-year-old brother, Seb, in the row next to me. A hint of tobacco clings to my father’s shirt, though he’s way out in the back of the field. Even the smell of the clean water in the bucket wafts to my nose, crisp and fresh.
Suddenly, the entirety of the landscape crashes into me in a torrent. It makes a swarm of bees buzz in my mind until my eyes start to blur from the biting pain of it.
I take another breath and focus on our cottage. Just our cottage.
How the thatched-roof slopes down the sides; how the door is slightly ajar and hangs crookedly; how the brown curtains, fashioned from old grain sacks, blow gently against the white-washed stone. How the lavender Mother grows underneath thewindows waves at me, the sweet smell a soothing comfort. The sameness of it brings me back into myself, and I’m able to calm my racing heart.
With measured calm, so I don’t trigger another episode, I widen my focus to take in more of my surroundings. Our cottage sits on the west edge of the property, backing up against the Weeping Forest that runs from here to the Kingdom of Faraengard, not that I’ve ever been.
I’ve only ever been to Lalica, the city that’s a two-day walk to the east from our little village, to help father deliver our crops to the market. Mother only lets me make that trip so that I can pray in the temples and beg the gods to change my fate. She doesn’t know that I’ve never actually set foot in a temple. The priests are uncompromising about the votive offerings, and the price is steep. Father and I spend the few coins we have on extra supplies, instead, to help us last through the winter.
I turn to the east, toward the overlord’s manor house. I shouldn’t really be able to see it. Six years ago the manor was a tiny speck on a horizon of waving wheat. Now, I can see it in all its glamour, with marble columns framing the large wooden door and a roof of black slate that wouldn’t dare leak. Three levels of luxury built and sustained by generations of free labor. It’s pretentious and vain, like the lord himself. From here, I can even see the termites that have taken up residence under the veranda. I hope they eat through every beam, pillar, and rafter.
I rub an unsteady hand over my face, and the sweat smears my forehead, gritty and rough.
Sometimes it’s like this, where all my senses open like flood gates and immerse me in wave upon wave of sensation. What I smell, touch, feel, hear, see, and even taste, until I’m drowning in our field of waving wheat.
A large, brawny hand reaches out to grasp my shoulder. “Leina? Are you alright?”
Seb’s deep voice should be a comfort, but I startle and drop the ladle into Leo’s bucket, causing water to spill.
