WeatherMaker Hearts Desire Prologue

‘Ahhh…’

She sat up gingerly, immediately placing a hand upon her head. Her body was stiff from lying awkwardly on the ground for perhaps a long time, and as she looked about her, she saw that she lay in a forest.

The light from the sun shone between the columns of the trees, and the forest floor was layered with a carpet of long brown needles.

‘I’m in a pine forest’ she said. She stiffened when she suddenly noticed a male figure sitting cross legged next to her.

‘Who are you?’

The male figure smiled at her. But it was a sad smile.

‘My name is White Feather’ he said to her.

‘What’s my name?’

‘Amaia’ he replied.

She furrowed her brow, lowering her head and groaning.

‘I can’t remember anything’ she said. ‘Why can’t I remember anything?’ she looked up again. ‘Where is this place?’

White Feather glanced about him then, taking in his surroundings.

‘I’m not sure really’ he said. ‘It’s just a wood somewhere.’

‘Why is my hair green?’ Amaia said, noticing as her long thick hair fell around her shoulders.

‘Magic’ White Feather replied simply. ‘From when you fell in the thorn bush.’

‘How did I get here?’ Amaia asked him. ‘And why don’t I remember anything?’

White Feather gave a heavy sigh.

‘There is a lot to explain’ he said. ‘I will tell you everything later, but now, I think you should eat.’

He picked up a bundle that had been sitting beside him, a modest amount wrapped in cloth. Inside was food, cheese, salted port, dried fruit and a skein of water.

‘Here’ he said handing it to her. ‘Take it.’

‘What about you?’

‘I’ve already eaten.’

She took the bundle from him. ‘Were did you get this?’

‘I stole it’ White Feather said. ‘There is a small town nearby called Blackrain. I stole the food from an inn.’

‘I hope the innkeeper doesn’t mind too much’ Amaia said picking up a piece of dried fruit and beginning to eat.

‘It’s ok’ White Feather replied. ‘He won’t even notice.’

‘Maybe we should go to this town’ Amaia suggested. ‘Maybe someone there knows who I am.’

‘I don’t think that would be very likely’ White Feather said.

‘Why not?’

‘Because…’ he went silent in thought. ‘You were born in another town a long way from here; a town called Kett’s where you spent your childhood. But you were taken to another place, where you spent the majority of your life behind walls. It would be very unlikely that anyone in Blackrain knows you.’

’Then how do you know me?’

‘Because I knew you before you lost your memory.’

‘Why have I lost my memory?’

White Feather sighed again. ‘I will explain later’ he said wearily. ‘I am very tired.’

‘Why don’t we go to this town then? We could rest at the inn.’

‘Because’ White Feather said. ‘The town in a long way away, and it’s in the opposite direction to Kett’s, which is where we’re going.’

‘You were able to get there’ she argued.

‘Yes’ White Feather said. ‘But I can travel a lot faster than you.’

She hugged her knees to her chest then.

‘It will be getting dark soon’ White Feather told her. ‘In the morning, we will start our journey back to your home. The home where you were born, and you will see your father again.’

‘What about my mother?’

‘She died…’ White Feather said gently. ‘A long time ago.’

Amaia’s eyes widened.

‘When you’ve finished eating’ White Feather went on. ‘I will explain everything to you. Then you must rest. We’ve got a lot of walking to do in the morning.’

That night, Amaia lay on her side, resting with the fairy lying behind her, his body close to hers. He rested his wings across her body, using his magic to keep her warm.

Throughout the night, Amaia slept peacefully.

The next morning, White Feather was exhausted before the day began. He had spent so much energy keeping Amaia warm during the night, but he did not complain, and refused to tell her what was wrong when she asked. Instead he insisted over and over again that he was fine.

‘So we are trying to escape from the prince called Tristan. The one who claims to be my father.’

‘Yes’ White Feather replied to Amaia. ‘But he is nothing but a liar.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I told you last night’ White Feather said. ‘I just have a gut feeling. Farrell is your father. I am sure of it.’

‘But what if he’s not?’

‘Farrell is your father’ White Feather insisted. ‘He raised you and loved you, and now, he is searching for you.’

‘Why did it take him so long to start looking for me?’

‘His brother was killed a long time ago’ White Feather said. ‘He was so wrapped up in his grief, that for a moment he lost himself, and when you were taken, he assumed you were dead.’

‘How do you know all of this?’

‘You told me’ White Feather answered simply.

‘Oh that’s right’ Amaia said flatly. ‘I lost my memory……when I died…’

‘Come on’ White Feather ushered her towards him. ‘We should get going. I’m going to return you to your father Farrell.’

They walked side by side through the woods. The morning was still young, and the air around them was cool, the chill of the night clung around them before diminishing little by little with every passing minute.

A short time later White Feather spoke.

‘I’m not a warrior’ White Feather said to her, ‘but I will protect you as best I can. I will do everything in my power to keep you safe.’

‘I know you will’ Amaia replied. ‘I don’t know why, but I feel that I can trust you.’

‘Your kind and my kind share a bond that dates to times long past’ White Feather told her. ‘I would give my life for you if need be.’

‘Thank you’ Amaia breathed. ‘Thank you for everything. I’m still so confused, but I feel more at ease with you by my side.’

White Feather placed his arm around her shoulders silently, and together they walked.

For hours they travelled, walking slowly onwards, never leaving the woods. Even though their pace was gentle, White Feather was becoming exhausted. The journey was clearly taking its toll on him.

‘Maybe we should rest’ Amaia suggested, unable to keep quiet any longer, seeing clearly he was in great discomfort.

White Feather fell to his knees, arms hanging limply at his sides and head hung.

‘My feet are agony…’ he cried. ‘Oh…I’m not used to so much walking.’

‘Perhaps we should rest’ Amaia suggested again, this time more urgently. ‘Please. It pains me to see you like this.’

‘Alright’ White Feather gasped, ‘maybe we can rest, just for a little while.’

‘Why don’t you fly alongside me?’ Amaia asked him.

‘No’ White Feather shook his head stubbornly. ‘I must share your burden, if you are to walk this distance, then so will I.’

‘Can I’ Amaia asked tentatively, ’see your wings? Please?’

White Feather’s expression lit up at that.

‘Of course’ he gleamed. ‘I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours.’

‘Mine?’ Amaia asked uncertainly.

‘Your powers’ White Feather prompted.

‘Let me see your wings first.’

‘Alright’ White Feather smirked, obeying her wish.

Amaia gasped slightly at the sight as he revealed his wings. She lifted a hand towards them, running her fingers along one of White Feather’s four glass-like wings.

‘They are beautiful’ Amaia breathed. ‘They are like dragonfly wings.’

She leant back, sitting upon the trunk of a fallen tree. Above her the canopy of leaves was thick, and nearby through the trees could be seen the orange sky, growing redder.

‘Could you tell me more’ she asked White Feather, ‘about my death. You said I fell. Why did I wake here in these woods?’

‘Weather Makers have a certain number of lives’ White Feather explained. ‘It varies from one individual to the next, often just a random number. The last Weather Maker I served had four lives.’

‘How many do I have?’ Amaia asked him.

White Feather shrugged. ‘Only you know that.’

Amaia lowered her eyes. ‘Can you tell me about my parents?’ she asked. ‘The ones I grew up with?’

White Feather smiled kindly at her, and began to recite the story she herself had told to him, only a few days ago, but what felt now like a lifetime. To both of them.

‘Your mother was a happy soul. She took pleasure in the simplest things in life, the early morning birds which would sit on their high perches singing to one another like a chorus, the way the leaves would rustle and dance in the winds. The way the sun would shine off the surface of the ponds in the forest she used to walk in, the forest she met your uncle, Arlen. Shortly after which, she married your father Farrell. Then you came along.’

White Feather spoke for hours about Amaia’s early life, telling her of everything that had happened to her before that terrible day when her life changed forever. The day that her mother was killed, and the prince Tristan had taken her into isolation until she matured.

‘How come I don’t remember any of this?’ Amaia asked him after a time. ‘How come I’ve forgotten my entire life before I woke up in these woods? It feels like the first time I’ve ever seen the light of day. And remind me again why my hair turned green.’

‘When a Weather Maker dies’ White Feather explained, ‘it’s as if they are born again. Their spirit rises and goes away from the place where they died, and to another place, somewhere quiet and isolated, ready to rise again. When they wake, they remember nothing of their past, and that is what we fairies are for. To help the Weather Makers remember.’

‘And my hair?’

‘The spirit of the Weather Maker that dies, before it rises again, sometimes takes a little piece of the environment with it. You fell into an ivy bush, and became tangled in the thorns. When you woke in your new body, your hair was green, like the leaves of the bush that caught you.’

‘Oh…’

‘So’ White Feather said clapping his hands upon his knees, ‘yesterday I told you everything about the prince Tristan and his ghastly wife, and today I’ve told you everything I know about your past with your parents, Ramana and Farrell. I have told you everything I can think of now.’

‘There is something I don’t understand though’ Amaia said. ‘Why do Weather Makers exist? And why do they hold such powers?’

‘They were originally created to protect the realm.’

‘From what?’

‘It’s been forgotten.’

‘Then who created them?’

‘It was so long ago, even my kind cannot remember.’

Amaia frowned at him unconvinced.

‘Weather Makers have many different powers’ White Feather went on. ‘Some are stronger than others. Each Weather Maker has an affinity for a particular element, one they feel most comfortable with.’ He shot her a sideways glance, smirking at her. ‘Yours is frost’ he said.

‘And you think I’m supposed to protect the realm?’ Amaia asked sceptically, raising an eyebrow.

‘Well’ White Feather shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Not so much anymore. Those days have past.’

‘You’re making that up.’

‘Here’ White Feather offered, leaning towards her. ‘I will show you.’

He touched her temple, and Amaia closed her eyes, seeing a vision in her head of a great battle.

Thousands of women marching in formation across a large expanse of land, where the grass had been blackened to a dust by great heat. Using their collective force they raised the worst kind of storm that was imaginable. A great monsoon, where huge waves drawn up from rivers and seas lashed around them, protecting them from outside forces. Snow swirled above their heads in a howling gale. Thunder and lightning raged, lighting up the sky in flashes above the great arches of pure fire that swirled and roared above heads of the marching army. Wearing no armour, the elements were all they needed for protection. And together, they faced their foe before them. A great shadow which shrouded the land. Together, they could wreak havoc upon the earth, with their powers collected in mass, they were formidable.

White Feather drew his hand back, and the vision faded. Amaia opened her eyes.

‘That’s absurd’ Amaia scoffed at the dramatic depiction he had shown her. ‘There’s no way that story could possibly be true. Armies of Weather Makers? Please. Our histories would have recorded such an event.’

White Feather smiled, humouring her with his silence.

‘I think’ Amaia began, ‘that whether or not Weather Makers were created, they exist to bring peace, not to create war.’

‘I suppose you must be right’ White Feather submitted. ‘In any case’ he went on changing the subject. ‘You said you would show me yours, once I showed you mine. I let you touch my wings, now you show me your magic.’

And so, for the second time, he prompted her, encouraging her to release her magic. And for the second time, she complied.

Amaia knelt on the ground, placing her hands splayed upon the earth, and from her fingertips, a frost began to spread. Covering the entire ground around where they sat and growing up the trees, to the very tips of each branch and to every leaf. Even the air around them began to grow cold, and as White Feather exhaled deeply, his breath came out as a fog.

Amaia looked up at him, drawing her hands back to her. The air gradually began to warm again, and the frost very slowly began to melt away.

White Feather smiled at her tenderly.

‘I want you to know’ he said, ‘that I will always be here for you. If there is need of me, if there is danger, I will be by your side, to help you in any way I can……always.’

Amaia stared at him hard, feeling warmth in her heart.

‘I know’ she breathed. ‘If there is anyone in this world I can trust the most, it is you.’

‘No! Please don’t hurt her again!’

The fairy pulled in vain at the chains that bound him, calling desperately. He watched as his Weather Maker was tortured, and killed, over and over again, and was utterly helpless to stop it.

Once again, the Weather Maker died, her body collapsed and broken on the floor. The king watched as her spirit lifted out of her body, rising up towards the ceiling of the large dark hall. And once again, as it had done the times before, the spirit dropped down, returning to the ground. The magical barrier placed upon the room, had once again not failed the king, the magical barrier that had been created by those strange figures in crows masks.

The spirit drew closer to the ground, and the dead body of the Weather Maker faded away, as the spirit created another. The king waited, and many minutes later, the Weather Maker opened her eyes again, this time in a new and undamaged body.

The fairy, her loyal friend lifted his head as she sat gingerly up, her hair was dark and grey like the stone of the hall she lay in, as were her eyes.

‘Where am I?’ she asked. The trauma she had suffered earlier, the great pain and distress she had endured, had been totally forgotten to her, and she was once again lost.

Her eyes drifted past the king and his soldier who stood nearby, and towards the being whose name she had forgotten, the fairy, which at this time looked like a normal man.

‘Why is he chained up?’ she asked, looking to the king. ‘And who are you?’

The king knelt very slowly, coming down to her level.

‘This is your last life’ he told her. ‘Do you see that woman there?’

The Weather Maker turned, seeing at the very far end of the hall a great stone slab draped in thick and soft fabric, upon which lay a woman, who was utterly motionless. It looked almost as if she were dead, if it were not for the light colour in her cheeks; the Weather Maker would have believed that the woman had already passed.

‘Who is that?’ she asked. ‘Is she alright?’

‘She has been in a deep sleep for a long time now’ the king replied calmly. ‘I want you to wake her.’

‘Me?’ she glanced back towards the woman. Her hair was unnaturally bright, and grew as long as her body. Her nails also were very long. ‘I wouldn’t know how to wake her’ the Weather Maker said. ‘I don’t even know what’s wrong with her.’

The king made an indication to the silent soldier beside him. The soldier stepped forward and took her hand, lifting a metal device that looked like a small square box.

‘What are you doing?’ the Weather Maker asked in alarm, suddenly beginning to panic.

‘You will make her better, or I will make you suffer’ the king said behind the soldier.

The soldier forced her hand inside the box, turning a peg on the outside of the contraption, and the Weather Maker’s hand inside the box was trapped. She was unable to help herself as the bones in her hand were crushed.

Feeling no remorse, the king watched. The silent soldier took the box off her, and made to grab her other hand.

‘No please!’ the nameless Weather Maker begged in agony. ‘I don’t know how to save her!’

‘Then you will die’ the king told her simply. His dark eyes shot to the silent soldier. ‘Continue.’

Behind them, the fairy had cried out so much that his voice was hoarse.

When the Weather Maker was dead for the last time, the king turned his attention back to the fairy that was chained. ‘Finish him off’ he spoke shortly.

The soldier marched up to him.

The fairy looked up, too exhausted to even feel hate or anger. The soldier lifted a long blade concealed on his person. The fairy could only raise a single arm, a feeble attempt to protect himself.

The soldier thrust the knife swiftly between his ribs, puncturing his lung and heart. The fairy fell back as the soldier jerked the knife away, falling to his side on the cold, hard stone floor, he died within seconds.

The soldier wiped his blade clean, hiding it again beneath his cloak. Behind him the king went over to the tall doors that were the only entrance or exit to the large hall. He opened one of the great doors, and spoke to the soldier that waited on the other side.

‘Take them away.’

Swiftly and with eyes averted, a small group of men hurried into the hall, lifting the dead bodies of the Weather Maker and the fairy, and very quickly mopping up the blood.

The silent soldier looked on.

Within minutes the hall had been cleaned and was emptied of all besides the king himself, and his soldier who stood nearby. The king’s next order came short and sharp.

‘Send the next one in.’