WeatherMaker Hearts Desire Prologue

‘Hey look!’ Amaia called running from her mother’s side. ‘Butterflies!’

Amaia leapt forwards, squealing and giggling in delight as she chased them. She jumped, trying to catch the butterflies fluttering about, but they lifted higher into the sky and out of her reach.

Amaia smiled up towards them as they disappeared from sight. She turned, the hem of her dress swirled as she did so. Amaia crouched, running her fingers through the grass and picking a flower from one of the many scattered about. Amaia lifted the flower to her lips, smelling the beautiful scent.

‘It’s so pretty’ Amaia said, ‘I wish I could keep it. I wish flowers would stay pretty forever.’

She drew the flower away from her, concentrating hard. The flower began to whiten. Frost grew down from the petals and down the stem, enveloping the whole flower in an icy glaze.

Someone suddenly grabbed her arm, wheeling her around. The flower slipped from her fingers and fell, the frost quickly melting away as it lay in the grass. Amaia stared up into the face of her mother, who was livid with rage.

‘Never do that again!’ Ramana hissed through gritted teeth, shaking her violently. ‘Do you understand me? Never, ever again!’

Amaia stared up at her mother in utter shock and disbelief.

‘Promise me’ Ramana whispered, tightening her grip on Amaia’s shoulders. ‘Promise me you will never do that again.’

She was hurting her as her nails dug into her arm, but Amaia didn’t try to resist.

‘I promise’ Amaia whispered back.

‘What’s wrong?’ Farrell asked as he approached them.

Ramana released Amaia, turning to face him.

‘Nothing’ Ramana replied sternly, glaring at her daughter who shrank uncertainly under her mother’s gaze. ‘I was just teaching Amaia a very valuable lesson.’

Farrell shrugged this off, and continued. ‘Look Amaia’ he said, kneeling as he produced an item hidden on his person.

Amaia glowed at the sight of it.

‘It’s a little person’ Farrell explained, dancing it through the air to demonstrate. ‘We could make more of them together if you like.’

Amaia snatched it from him greedily, but Farrell did not tell her off for this. Amaia stared wide eyed down at the little toy man made of straw and twig.

‘We could make a whole town’ Amaia said.

‘I’ve just had a good idea’ Farrell said enthusiastically at her thought. ‘We could make this town, with all the people that you know, and the buildings. And we could make little mini fences for the fields.’

‘And we could make your scary horse too’ Amaia said bouncing up and down excitedly. ‘I’m so happy! Could you help me make them? Pleeeeeze!’

’She was furious when she saw me using magic. I’ve never seen her so angry before. My mother never raised her voice to me, not ever. But on that day, I thought that she would hit me. Amaia hugged herself at the memory.

‘I was frightened.’

White Feather watched her silently as she told her story. There was a sadness about him as he listened, a strange sort of understanding, like he had heard a similar story before.

‘I have not used my magic since that day’ Amaia continued. ‘But perhaps by then it was too late.’ She sighed, turning away from White Feather. ‘I’ve thought of it a lot in the years I’ve spent here. Perhaps on that day someone other than my mother saw me. Maybe it was one of my father’s soldiers, or perhaps a traveller or merchant that was passing through the town. I must have been seen by someone, because that was the only time in my life that I have ever used my magic… and I’ve been afraid to ever since.’ Amaia’s lip began to quiver. ‘It was not long after when………when….’

She took a steady breath.

‘What happened?’ White Feather asked tentatively. ‘Was that the day you were taken?’

Amaia’s eyes glazed over.

‘That was the day’ she finally continued after a time, ‘that my life changed…’

Ramana sighed wearily, resting with her chin on her hands. For some time Amaia played, completely distracted with her own games.

‘Hey look! Mother look!’

Ramana lifted her head, straightening up to see her daughter lying on the ground on her belly with her arms and legs sprawled out awkwardly.

‘Look!’ she gleamed, crawling forwards. ‘I’m a beetle!’

Ramana chuckled to herself, cheering up a little. She rose from the stump and glided over to her daughter, kneeling behind her and picking her up. She nuzzled into her neck, tickling her. Amaia squealed in happily, wriggling in her mother’s arms.

‘I love you so much’ Ramana said to her. ‘You mean everything to me. My precious treasure.’

‘You mean more to me’ Amaia giggled. ‘I love you like a swallow loves honey.’

‘What?’ Ramana chuckled. ‘Swallows don’t eat honey.’

‘How do you know?’ Amaia asked her. ‘Have you ever followed one around?’

‘No’ Ramana smiled to her daughter. ‘Of course I haven’t. I can’t fly.’

Ramana let go of her daughter, drifting away and leaving Amaia to her games of being a beetle, her mind beginning to drift again.

‘Mother?’ Amaia spoke up a moment later.

Ramana turned to her daughter who lay on the ground with her head turned to the side, her ear against the earth.

‘Do you hear that noise?’ Amaia asked. Her voice was uncertain.

‘What is it?’ Ramana said.

‘Rumbling.’

Ramana lifted her head, stiffening at the sound of falling hooves. The thundering of the horses steps signalled the swift arrival of many.

‘Amaia’ her mother hastened, ‘come quickly.’

Amaia picked herself off the ground, running to her mother’s side. Ramana marched quickly back down the road and towards the town, walking with her arm around her daughter’s shoulders and head down. Behind them the horses approached. Ramana pulled her daughter tightly to her as the horses descended upon them, hoping that they would simply pass them by. But the great the beasts walled them in, trapping them from either side, turning around and blocking their path at the front, as more horses closed the net behind them.

Ramana stared up in alarm as she and her daughter were surrounded by rows of great black stallions, tall and mighty war horses, and the men that rode them who were dressed in richly dyed silks embroidered with intricate designs. Their armour was lined in silver, and appeared to be designed to be both showy and functional. In the centre of each of their breast plates, was a depiction of a wolf swallowing the moon. The kings crest.

These were the king’s men.

Ramana had no time to wonder what they were doing here; too wracked with fear and uncertainty. She watched as one of the men, the only one wearing a helmet that covered his face, dismounted his horse.

Ramana clutched her daughter tighter to her, staring wide-eyed and unblinking as the soldier took three steps towards her. He stopped, leaving a considerable gap between them, and speaking in a hoarse voice, he made his demand.

‘Give us the girl.’

Ramana’s heart plummeted to the ground as she realised he meant her daughter; and she clutched the frightened Amaia even tighter, holding her protectively.

‘Hand her over’ the soldier spoke with calm cruelty, ‘or we kill you.’

And then Ramana said something that surprised all of them.

‘If you want her, come and get her.’

Ramana could not see the face of the man that stood before her, but knew by his demeanour he must have been surprised. The soldiers surrounding them all glanced to each other, a few sharking smirks.

The soldier standing before her cocked his head, regarding her serenely.

‘Very well’ he said.

He took a step towards her, but suddenly froze. Ramana fixed her attention on him, concentrating hard. A few of the mounted soldiers around began to fidget, waiting for him to do something. And then, the helmeted soldier fell forwards. He collapsed and hit the ground; the fallen leaves which covered the forest floor softened the thud of his helmet and armour upon the earth. But he was already stone dead.

A few of the soldiers cried out in alarm, but before any of them could act, there was a great bolt of lightning that came from the sky, sticking the ground between them. The sudden flash of light and the great crack sent the horses into a blind panic. Many screamed in terror, several of them rearing up, throwing their riders from their backs. The wall surrounding Ramana and her daughter broke, and Ramana made for the gap.

She ran.

Amaia struggled to keep up with her mother’s long legs as she was pulled along by her wrist; quickly she was tiring and began to stumble.

‘Hurry!’ Ramana cried in panic back to her.

She heard sounds swiftly catching them up from behind; one of the soldiers had managed to get his horse under control, and was tearing after them.

‘RUN AMAIA!’

Ramana released her daughter’s wrist, halting on the spot and turning to face the danger, not even glancing to make sure her daughter had listened.

She watched as the mighty stallion galloped towards her, waiting for the opportune moment. Only when the black beast was nearly upon her, towering over her, did a great rift appear in the road between them. A loud crack and a sharp upwards gust of wind caused the horse to panic and rear up, though the stallion didn’t run away. The soldier slid sideways off the saddle, landing hard on the ground.

He rolled swiftly and came to his knees, drawing his sword from his scabbard in one rapid movement. Before Ramana had time to think, before she had time to act and move to protect herself, he thrust the blade forwards, driving it right through her breastbone and into her heart.

She gasped in shock as the soldier rose to his feet, still holding the handle of the sword. When he was standing, he jerked the blade sharply back. Red blossomed from the wound in her chest. Ramana stumbled, and fell back, hitting the forest floor and gazing up into the sky behind the branches swaying above her.

And that was the last things she saw, before she died.

The soldier wiped his sword clean; turning to glance at the riding coming up from behind him. Cantering past, the rider urged his stallion onwards, heading for the young girl still running away.

Amaia screamed as the colossal horse ran around her and blocked her path, tossing its head and whinnying. She edge back away from it, terrified of such a beast that towered over her.

She was grabbed from behind by one of the men, and held tightly. Amaia screamed again, and tried to struggle against the beefy muscular arm that held her. But her efforts were futile. She could barely move at all.

‘Quick’ came a voice. ‘Get her on a horse and let’s get out of here.’

‘But what about Ulfrid?’ said the man who held her.

‘He’s dead. Now let’s hurry and get back to the king before anything else happens.’

Amaia was put in the saddle atop one of the horses. Immediately fearing tumbling to the ground far below her she held tightly into the horse’s mane, tears of fear welling up in her eyes as she began to shake uncontrollably. The soldier who had held her climbed into the saddle behind, placing an arm around her so she had nowhere to go. Amaia felt frightened in the power of this man, this stranger. This soldier.

With his other hand the man held the reins of the black stallion, tapping his heels into the horse’s flank. The horse obeyed his command, quickly increasing speed into a gallop. Water streamed down Amaia’s cheeks as the wind stung her eyes, mixed with tears of fear and confusion. Amaia was gripped by a sudden sense of unreality, and for a moment, she didn’t know where she was.

Amaia held on, and waited for what her fate might bring, all the while she thought of her mother, and wondered where she was and what had happened. She had kept running as her mother had told, and did not look back.

She had not seen her die.

A group of men, doubling in number those that had kidnapped Amaia, lay in wait some distance down the road.

‘They’re heading this way’ one of the scouts said to their leader who was named Tristan. ‘They’ll be here in minutes.’

Tristan rubbed his palms together nervously, signalling behind him to indicate the other men to keep silent. The horses that had carried them stood further back, hidden from view from the road. They shifted, ears twitching and nickering to each other. The men were lying in wait upon the lip of the hill, a spot Tristan had chosen that overlooked the road. A fine place for an ambush.

Tristan glanced up to the small hill opposite him on the other side of the road, seeing more of his men crouched low. Their dark green and brown mottled clothes they wore broke up their silhouettes and deemed them near enough invisible in the forest.

‘Excellent’ Tristan muttered to himself. He took a deep breath, speaking to the archer beside him.

‘Now listen very carefully.’

The archer’s eyes instantly glazed over.

’You are to aim for the rider who has her. Aim to kill him. But do not hit the girl. I repeat, do not hit her.’

‘Understood your highness.’

‘They should be here within seconds’ Tristan went on; glancing down to the road in the direction the riders were expected to arrive from. ‘Keep a sharp eye, and do not hit the girl.’

‘Understood your highness’ the archer repeated.

Tristan tensed suddenly, crouching low as he heard the sound of horses approaching.

‘Here they come’ he whispered to the archer beside him who crouched low as Tristan had done. ‘Are you ready?’ Tristan asked as the archer pulled an arrow from his quiver.

The archer nocked the arrow, drawing back the string with a muscular arm and perfect position.

‘Be careful’ Tristan reminded. ‘And don’t hit the girl.’

The riders were drawing closer, coming into view and travelling fast.

The archer narrowed his eyes, searching for the rider who had Amaia.

Spotted.

The riders approached the ambush, and ran past. The archer rose from his position swiftly, waiting a split second before releasing the arrow.

The finest archer in the kingdom did not often miss his target. The man fell dead from his horse, and for the first time, the girl he carried could be seen clearly.

Tristan’s heart froze as he saw her, and for a moment words were lost to him as the riders below them began to panic and scatter in confusion and alarm. And then Tristan remembered himself. Rising and standing tall he lifted his sword, crying out the signal to attack.

A great swarm of men descended upon the unsuspecting riders and slaughtered them. Most were killed by the archers before swords clashed, and by the time it was over, Tristan had not lost a single man.

He panted heavily, brow beaded with sweat as he looking about him, realising it was all over.

‘Good work men’ he called. ‘And good work Cyan.’

The archer who had shot the first man gave a nod mutely to Tristan.

Tristan held his breath again, growing evermore nervous as his sights rested upon the frightened girl, sitting upon the giant black stallion.

He wanted to rush up to her, and sweep her up in his arms, and tell her everything was alright. But he dared not scare her further.

‘Poor child’ he whispered as she trembled. ‘We did not intend for you to see such violence. But it was the only way.’

He had planned ahead of time however, for a friendly presence to greet her and make her feel safe and at ease. A woman.

‘Beatrice!’ he called. ‘Beatrice?’

‘I’m coming my lord’ came a female voice.

A plump woman came plodding over the lip of the hill, struggling down to the road below she made her way laboriously towards the horse Amaia sat. Stepping over the dead bodies with distain in her expression, she moved holding the bottom of her skirt up so that it wouldn’t get brushed in blood. She stopped beside the stallion, smiling widely up at Amaia as the beast stood still.

‘Hello child. There’s no need to be afraid, we are not here to hurt you. We are your friends.’

‘Where’s mother?’ Amaia sobbed, her voice breaking.

‘Shhh’ Beatrice cooed. ‘Poor baby. Come down from that horse. I’ll look after you.’

Amaia did not have time to protest however, as Beatrice stood on her tip toes to lift Amaia off the horse, holding her under her arms.

Amaia was placed on the ground, staring up uncertainly at the fat smiling face of this stranger.

Tristan approached from behind Beatrice, staring intently down at Amaia in a way she didn’t like.

‘Gods you look just like your mother’ he breathed. ‘Amaia…’

‘Do not worry child’ Beatrice told her, taking her hand and leading her away. ‘You will be taken somewhere safe and looked after.’

‘I want to go home’ Amaia pleaded. ‘Where is father?’

‘No dear’ Beatrice said to her. ‘I’m afraid you can’t go back home. It’s not safe for you.’

Tristan watched as Beatrice led Amaia away, escorted silently by several of his men, armed with swords and bows. They mounted their own horses, chestnut mares.

‘Be careful’ he told all of them. ‘Get there quickly and safely, and don’t stop for anything.’

‘Don’t worry my lord’ Beatrice said back to him, sitting atop a horse with Amaia in the saddle before her. ‘She’s in safe hands now.’

Tristan watched the small band ride away, feeling a sense of longing, and a strong desire to follow them. But he had other concerns.

‘Your highness.’

The voice snapped Tristan out of his thoughts.

‘Yes?’ he replied to one of his scouts.

‘There is something you might want to see further down the road, in the direction the riders came from.’

Tristan mounted his pure white mare, setting off down the road he followed the scout. When he reached the place, there was sorrow in his heart. A dead soldier lay there, his face covered by a helmet, and further down the road, a woman who had been murdered.

Tristan shook his head, dismounting to examine the dead soldier briefly. He had no injuries on him, and nothing to indicate what might have killed him.

‘How do you think he died?’ a scout, one of several that examined the body asked.

‘I’ve seen this before’ Tristan replied solemnly, ‘people dropping dead for no obvious reason.’ He stared down at the man. ‘My mother has done this to people herself, before she…’ he broke off.

‘What happened to him?’ the scout asked.

‘His heart’ Tristan went on, ‘has frozen.’

‘Frozen?’ the scout exclaimed. ‘How could such a thing happen?’

Tristan glanced sadly at the woman lying further down the road.

‘They must have thought Amaia did this.’

He approached the woman lying on her back, sorrow overflowing within him.

‘Tragic’ he said. ‘It’s so tragic; to see one so innocent, suffer such a cruel end.’

The wound in her chest had stopped bleeding, and the blood was beginning to crust.

‘She’s so beautiful’ Tristan sighed gloomily.

He bowed his head, sending over her a quick prayer, so that her soul might reach the afterlife with ease.

‘Come’ he said abruptly to his men when he was done. ‘We should leave.’