Heart of Farellah: Book 1 Read online

  Heart of Farellah: Book 1

  By Brindi Quinn

  ~

  Copyright 2011 B.E.L.

  Cover Art by Ene Karels

  Smashwords Edition

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Also By Brindi Quinn:

  Heart of Farellah: Book 2

  Heart of Farellah: Book 3

  Seconds: The Shared Soul Chronicles

  Sil in a Dark World: A Paranormal Love-Hate Story

  The World Remains

  The Atto’s Tale Miniseries

  EverDare (Book 1 of the Eternity Duet)

  NeverSleep (Book 2 of the Eternity Duet)

  The Death and Romancing of Marley Craw

  The Ongoing Pursuit of Zillow Stone

  This work is dedicated to so many people, not the least of these being my grandparents, for the many shared storytimes that fueled my love for reading.

  Lots of love.

  “What can I say of Heart of Farellah, my oldest work?

  As a new author, it was my plaything. It was mine to craft with unsteady hands. Though I am now seasoned, I still hold the series quite dear, for it did something I couldn’t have lived without – it helped me find my voice.”

  ~ Author Brindi Quinn, 2014

  Chapter 1: The Rite

  “Wake up, sleeping head!” yelled Kantú suddenly.

  Startled, I bolted up, slamming my forehead into her shoulder.

  “Argh! Kantú!” I groaned and rubbed the soon-to-be red bump on my forehead. “People don’t say ‘sleeping head’, you batty squirrel. It’s sleepyhead. Haven’t you learned anything since coming to live with us Sapes?”

  Her laughter came out in a high-pitched chitter.

  Though she was only part-squirrel, a fourth to be exact, Kantú’s eccentric mannerisms, let alone her fluffy tail and furry ears, were enough to constantly remind me that she was of a race far different than my own. It was only one of the things that made her so endearing.

  “Geesh, someone’s crabby. Haven’t eaten lunch yet, hmm?” she said.

  Before I could respond, my stomach answered on its own with a loud, unflattering gurgle. I rolled my eyes, and Kantú laughed even harder.

  “Right as usual.” I grinned as she handed me a citronge. “Thanks.”

  I ate the fruit in silence and allowed myself to wake up. I’d been napping in the middle of the small meadow just outside of town. Warm wind swayed the meadow’s grass and played with my hair, delicately tossing the long silver strands about my back. The breeze carried with it the fragrance of nearby, newly-budded cherry blossoms, a scent that I always found comforting on lazy afternoons such as this.

  I stared off across the noon-lit field and tried to remember what I’d been dreaming. Something about a cavern full of mirrors and a bright red light.

  It was unsettling, wasn’t it? I could remember that much at least. Really unsettling.

  While I tried to discover just what these ‘unsettling’ aspects had been, I absentmindedly let the citronge fall idle in my hand, having slowly devoted all mental activity to the dream’s interpretation; but it was no use. The harder I tried to grasp the dream, the fuzzier it grew.

  What was it . . . ?

  I stayed that way in avid doting for just a moment before Kantú, never one for times of quiet reflection, suddenly poked me in the cheek and too loudly yelled,

  “Aura!”

  “Huh?!” I jumped up for the second time that day.

  “You’re not nervous, are you?” She twisted the end of her bushy tail between her fingers and kept her ears perked forward as if awaiting some frenzied outburst from me. I tried to keep it together. If I wasn’t careful, said outburst just might occur.

  “Nervous? No, not at all!” I shook my hands in front of my face to deflect the question.

  “Really?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

  “I’m completely fine!” I insisted.

  But though I’d only been trying to convince myself, the denial was an absolute lie. As Kantú suspected, my nerves were, in fact, the sole reason I’d escaped to the meadow for quiet meditation before being lulled to sleep by the flirtatious kissing of the southward wind.

  I grimaced under her gaze of scrutiny, once again forced to acknowledge that tonight was my coming-of-age ceremony, during which I’d be deemed a full-fledged songstress upon completion of an ancient test, known as the Rite of Discovery. The truth was, I felt extremely nervous.

  Kantú, of course, saw through my lie.

  “Yeah right!” she said, rolling onto her back. “Why wouldn’t you be nervous? Tonight’s the big night. You’ll finally get your song, and the whole village will be waiting to hear it. I’m sure you’ll do fine, but you better not screw up because remember what happened to Laria Lynn? Boy, was that a mess! A bat flew up her skirt, and she came running out and had to do the whole Rite over again. I mean, how embarrassing! Now everyone just thinks of her as that failure of a-”

  “Kantú!” Her ramblings did little to comfort me.

  “Oops, sorry, didn’t mean to freak you out.”

  “It’s okay.” I sighed and stared off into the surrounding cherry wood. “You’re right, though; I am nervous. Mainly because . . . why does it have to be in a cave? Caves are entirely sinister! They’re cold . . . and wet . . . and dark . . . and I have to wear a purification gown. How the heck am I supposed to climb around in that? And then there’s . . .”

  But I let my voice trail off, leaving the most worrisome factor unspoken since it was the one that, if uttered, was certain to spark the outburst Kantú had been anticipating. It wasn’t the dripping cave, the dark trek, or even the supernaturalism of the event itself; the thing I dreaded more than anything was that tonight I would be the center of everyone’s attention. The thought alone made me queasy. What would happen if my Rite turned out to be like poor Laria Lynn’s? Would I be able to survive that level of embarrassment? I wasn’t so sure I would.

  “So, what actually happens in the cave?” asked Kantú. “You just wander around in the dark? Then what?”

  “Huh? Oh.” Once again I’d been lost in silent brooding. “I don’t know; they won’t tell me. They just keep saying that I’ll understand when I get there. And the song shall arise out of the maiden-”

  “And a bat shall descend from the heavens!”

  “Kantú!”

  The Squirrelean’s only response was a new wave of chitters.

  “Psh. And just when I’d confided in you too.” I pretended to sigh in disappointment.

  “Hey, it’s not my fault they’re sending you into a bat-infested cave.”

  “I-infested?!”

  She fluttered her lashes in faux innocence.

  I narrowed my eyes. What was that about ‘didn’t mean to freak you out’?

  “Great,” I said. “Now I have one more thing to worry about. Thanks for that. Say, why don’t you go find some squirrels to play with? I’m certain I’ll be quite fine on my own without your ‘words of encouragement’.”

  She stuck out her lip. “Stupid squirrels, all they care about are nuts.”

  “Oh?” I raised a brow. “That’s funny because as I recall, you’re pretty fond of spring nuts yourself, isn’t that right?”

  “That’s different!” She wrinkled her nose at me
. “Anyway, don’t be nervous. The chances of there actually being a bat are really slim, and even if there was one, I would come running in and swat it away with my tail!” She swatted at an overflying trundlebee to prove her point.

  Again the nauseating image of everyone’s eyes upon me flashed to the forefront of my mind.

  “Alright, it’s a deal, bat-swatter.” I forced a grin, not wanting to betray the greater source of my knotted stomach.

  “Aaaalright!” Kantú threw a triumphant fist into the air.

  It had been nearly a half-decade since Kantú had left her homeland behind and come to live in Farellah, the city of songstresses. In Squirrelean culture, one’s maturity level was not based on age, but rather by the size of one’s tail. Kantú had an unusually large tail for her age; thus, she’d been sent out into the world while still a child. She’d stumbled upon Farellah, found it a suitable place to live, and decided to stay. Marbeck Berfield, the town librarian, had taken her in as an assistant and given her a place to live in exchange for work. We’d been friends ever since, and while her recent intrusion into my meadow-induced slumber had only served to resurface my previous anxiety, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel better knowing she’d be at the Rite to cheer me on.

  “You’d better hurry,” said Kantú, once again breaking me away from my thoughts.

  “What? Hurry?” The Rite wasn’t until dusk.

  “Oopsie! Did I forget to tell you? Miss Danice sent me to retrieve you. She wants to go over some last minute songstress-ish stuff.”

  I groaned. “Do I have to?” It wasn’t that I didn’t want to meet with Miss Danice, the songstress under whom I was apprenticed; she was, after all, an important person to me. It was more so that the light from the mid-afternoon sun felt too peaceful as it rested on my face, and that leaving would only bring me closer to . . . to . . .

  I shuddered and longed to stay a few more minutes.

  But Kantú would have none of that.

  “Yup!” she said, shaking her finger. “You have to go! I can’t fail my mission of sending you back, so scoot along.” She pushed at the back of my shoulders.

  “Oh, fine.” I sighed and stood up. “You probably won’t see me again until tonight, though, so wish me luck.”

  She bounced to her feet and wrapped her arms around me. “Good luck, Aura! You’re gonna do great, I just know it!”

  I started to head towards town but turned back to take one last look at my beloved meadow before fully committing. For some reason I felt sad. I’d only be gone until tomorrow, and yet . . .

  Wait for me until I return.

  A large waft of cherry blossom infused air surrounded me, seeming to answer my plea. Satisfied, I cut through the long grass to the dirt path that led to the town square.

  I dragged my feet as I walked, causing the dried dirt of the ground to make a lovely scraping sound beneath my braided sandals. It wasn’t usual habit for me to behave so sluggishly, but I was still under the meadow’s spell, and it felt good to let my body be lax. I owed it to myself to be lagging now anyway since I was sure to only grow tenser as the day wore on and the Rite’s traditions ensued.

  I made my way to Miss Danice’s house on the edge of town, relieved I wouldn’t have to pass through the main village on the way there. That’s good. I don’t think I can take it right now. These days, Farellah’s been too much.

  But that’s not really fair, is it? A small voice in my head reprimanded. To blame Farellah for everything? Isn’t it really because of that?

  The reprimanding voice had a point. Though in that moment I’d faulted Farellah for my uneasiness, the real relief found in avoidance came not from the town herself, but from a certain flaw of her townspeople.

  Technically, it was that bothersome curiosity.

  Farellah was a simple village of log cottages, street merchants and dusty roads, widely cut off from the rest of the world, its culture ruled by song and legend. The mayor welcomed in a traveling trader only once every year or so, and by most accounts, Kantú was the most exotic thing that the town had ever encountered, though most of the inhabitants were happy to keep it that way. While Farellah and her people were incredibly dear to me, that one irksome flaw remained, for it is said that oftentimes the nosiest of people live in the smallest of towns, and Farellah was smaller than the smallest of towns.

  People had been asking me about my Rite all week, and I was thoroughly sick of all of their questions. I’d have been happy to answer them, had I any answers to give, but seeing as I had many unanswered questions of my own, it was a frustrating cycle of dodging around said questions and growing more and more nervous with each ‘good luck’ thrown at me. It wasn’t hard to imagine how exciting a ceremony like mine was to a village of Farellah’s makeup.

  The natives had been in a tizzy all morning – no, all month! I’d be more than glad when this was all over.

  I knocked on the door of Miss Danice’s peach-colored cottage. She was the only person in town with a colorful one, having concocted a paste-like stain out of mud and morningberry juice. While hers stood out amidst the uniform wood-tones of the other cottages, the peach-color looked sort of sickly, and I suspected she’d been shooting for pink, though it was something she’d never admit.

  I saw her peek through her rose colored drapes before coming to answer.

  “Why, Aura, you kept me waiting for ages!” Her voice rang with over-exaggeration as she let me in. “Look at your hair, peach, it’s all wind-tossed! We can’t have you looking like that for the rite. But we’ll get to that later. First, we must do one final review!”

  She was the sort of person that felt the need to accompany each word with wild hand gestures, nearly always appearing as though she were performing some strange and wild interpretive dance. Today was no exception.

  She exuberantly pointed to a worn wicker chair as if welcoming some foreign royalty to their throne.

  “Seat yourself, peach. Now then, are you nervous? Excited? Ready to discover your song?” But before I could answer, she continued to ramble. “No matter, it’s not like there’s any changing the inevitable. I just can’t believe you’re already coming of age. My pupil’s all grown up!”

  “I’m just-” I opened my mouth to speak, but again she cut me off before I could get the words out.

  “How about we start with a warm-up scale? Recite the six regions of the Westerlands as you go.”

  Again? But if I did any differently, she was sure to scold me with a tongue-click. I took a deep, reluctant breath. “Carouth, Rendalt, Elenque, Abardo, Farrowel, Nor . . . Carouth, Rendalt . . .”

  I sang the words, as I had a thousand times before, but in actuality knew very little about the region names that passed my lips. Farellah’s record tomes had only bits and pieces of legend about each of them, and the hand-drawn maps we’d received from travelers over the years were too inconsistent to be of much use. No one in Farellah could say for certain what the true layout of the Westerlands was, though many had tried to decipher the Songs of Old, forming various opinions on the matter. The most extreme of these theories also told of an Easterlands lying across the ocean, but such a thing had never been proven to exist.

  “Flawless!” sang Miss Danice. “Next, let’s hear the Song of Juniper’s Cry. You do remember it, don’t you?”

  “Well . . . eh-heh . . .” I chuckled nervously as I tried to remember. Miss Danice clicked her tongue.

  Several more clicks would follow, for the drilling would go on well into the late afternoon. My throat felt rough and dry by the time Miss Danice was satisfied, and I worried that I’d be the first songstress-in-training to attend her own Rite with a hoarse voice.

  That’d give the townspeople something to talk about. The harrowing thought crossed my mind just as the final click sounded.

  By this time, I was fully ready to return to the tallest grass of the meadow, but Miss Danice was still full of energy and seemingly not at all affected by the vigorous hours of training.
r />   “Let’s get you ready!” she said, leaping across the floor at me before I could run and hide. “When I’m done with you, you’ll look positively radiant!”

  “R-ready?” I asked. But I knew it wasn’t worth the struggle. I prepared myself for the dreaded fawning that was sure to come.

  True to her nature, Miss Danice picked up a brush and pulled it through my hair in overly- elongated swooping motions.

  “You know something, Aura?” she said almost automatically.

  “What’s that?” I asked, even though I knew what was coming.

  “I’ll never get used to this peculiar hair of yours! It’s so lustrous!” “Er- is it?” was all I could say.

  No matter how much I hated to admit it, I knew it was true.

  My ‘peculiarly lustrous’ hair was often a topic of discussion among the women in town. No one had ever seen a silver-haired girl before, and the trait had certainly not come from either of my parents. Mother always said that the most successful songstresses were those that had a ‘mysterious’ look about them, and that my hair was something to be proud of, but to me it was just one more thing that drew in unwanted attention.

  I shivered as I once again thought of the impending Rite, and for a moment I wondered if Miss Danice’s peach-colored paste would also work on hair.

  If only.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. If I dwelled on the subject any more, I knew it would only make things worse. So while she brushed out all of the tangles, I resolved to block out all thoughts of the Rite completely, pretending that my hair was some neutral color, maybe tan or mud-brown; but it didn’t work in the least because Miss Danice continued to coo comments about how interesting and unique it was while she ran the brush through its strands.

  Tan. Brown. Tan. Brown.

  I kept my eyes squeezed tight and endured it until my hair hung sleek and straight and she was finally finished.

  “There. Now you look just like stardust! Let’s start trying on gowns!”