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Revealed One

Book I: Yavlinka

Even the darkest evil has a bright past.

Prologue

A small wooden boat glided silently along the shore, cutting through the black, impenetrable water. The night sky was veiled with heavy clouds, plunging the tiny settlement in the bay into darkness. Around the village, like scattered fireflies, small bonfires burned where the night watchmen warmed themselves. Not one of the sharp-eyed fishermen noticed a stranger’s boat slip ashore beneath the shadow of an overhanging cliff. A tall man in a long black cloak stepped carefully onto the sand, his face hidden deep within a hood. He turned toward the village and narrowed his eyes. Some unseen force drifted between the shabby huts, drawing him deeper into the settlement, toward the central square — a trampled circle, several dozen meters wide. In its center, on a mound of coastal boulders, loomed a crudely hewn stone cross.

A rustle sounded behind him, and a huge bear slowly emerged from the darkness. The man nodded in greeting; the beast shook its shaggy head, as if in acknowledgment, then suddenly broke into a run. Paws pounding against the sand, it raced along the shore and, after a hundred meters, let out a thunderous roar that tore through the stillness of the night.

Shouts rose from every corner. The watchmen leapt from their fires, seized pitchforks, axes, and jagged clubs and rushed toward the noise. The bear bounded on, prancing along the water’s edge like a stallion at play. While all eyes were fixed on the beast, the cloaked man slipped like a shadow between the wooden huts. Within minutes he reached his goal.

At the foot of the stone cross stood a long wooden platform. Upon it lay a crucified girl, her wrists and shins weighed down with piles of stones. What once had been a dress now hung in filthy rags. Her body was bruised, cut, and battered. Doused for days with slops and filth, she reeked of a foul stench. Her features were swollen into one dark bruise, and on her forehead fresh blood oozed from a word carved into her skin:

W I T C H

The man darted forward and began casting the stones aside. Her limbs beneath them were in dreadful shape; one leg bone was clearly shattered. That she still lived was a miracle. He pulled another cloak from within his own, wrapped her frail body with care, and vanished into the night.

At the far end of the village, the bear’s roar still mingled with the cries of alarm. Candles flared in windows as frightened villagers peered out, none noticing the dark figure gliding through their shadows. Moments later the man was pushing off from the shore in his small boat, where the half-conscious girl lay swathed in his cloak.

All the next day they drifted with the current. The boat slid swiftly along as the cliffs gave way to deserted beaches of golden sand. The cloaked man listened constantly to the girl’s faint breath, letting drops from his flask moisten her lips, wiping blood and grime from her skin with a damp cloth. Toward evening, her body began to tremble. He cast anxious looks at the sinking sun, and as soon as the last rays vanished beyond the horizon, he seized the oars.

The boat answered eagerly, gliding toward a distant bank where trees pressed close to the water’s edge. Landing there, the man carried both girl and travel bag ashore. With one final push he sent the boat drifting out toward the open sea. Slinging the bag across his back and lifting the girl onto his shoulder, he turned without hesitation and disappeared into the forest.

PART I

Chapter 1

Iviri straightened her stiff back and brushed a strand of fiery hair from her forehead. The sun was sinking, and her work would last until late into the night—if luck was on her side and the fishermen didn’t return that evening.

She flexed her pale, numb fingers and bent again over the massive knot of tangled, coarse threads in the fishing net, fighting to pull them apart. Each loop caught another, each thread was stiff with salt, and she knew that if she didn’t finish, the net would be useless at dawn. The work was endless, thankless, and yet she toiled on, because it was her lot.

Something sharp struck the back of her head.

“Ninny! Ninny-ninny!”

Neighboring boys peered from behind the nearest boulders, their grimy faces twisted into toothless grins. One of them, the master’s son—ten-year-old Lucan—jumped up and down gleefully, shouting:

“Got her! Got Ivi-the-Ninny!”

Warm liquid trickled down her neck. Her head throbbed, and when she touched her hair she felt the sticky trace of blood—Lucan had hit her with a stone. A moment later a hail of pebbles clattered against her back.

“Ivi-the-Ninny is the witch’s brat!”

“Got her, got her, Ivi-the-daftie!”

“Witch’s whelp and plaguey crafty!”

“Rot-rat! Hell’s lass!”

“Devil’s maid with hair like brass!”

The girl rose to her full height and turned toward the shrieking pack. Laughter and cries fell silent at once; a dozen eyes, feverish with cruel excitement, fixed on her.

“I’ll cast a spell… drag you behind the rocks… feed you to the birds!” she murmured in a low, insinuating voice. For effect she crooked her fingers into claws and took a single step forward.

Like startled geese, the children scattered in wild panic, shrieking and howling. Within seconds the shore was empty again.

Exhausted, Iviri sank onto the warm pebbles and wiped the blood from her neck. Foolish little fledglings. She stared blankly out to sea, humming her own tune under her breath as her hands worked automatically, tugging at the endless knots in the dirty fishing net.

From behind a rocky outcrop that jutted a hundred meters into the water, a small, oddly shaped boat slipped into view. A dark figure sat motionless inside. He was not rowing; the craft drifted as if carried by unseen force. Cloaked in black, he offered his back to the dying rays of the sun. Both the boat and the stranger were out of place. Iviri frowned and glanced toward the village. Fires already flared along the shore where wives cooked supper, waiting for their men. Children shrieked and ran circles around the flames. When she looked back at the boat, her breath caught. The face beneath the wide hood was hidden, yet she felt his gaze fixed on her.

A warm, strange current of air touched her cheek, caressing her skin. Iviri started in surprise. Not a hair on her head stirred, but her body prickled as if ants were crawling over her. There was something in that wind… a question? Her heart pounded wildly. Clutching the heavy net to her chest, she bolted toward the village. She stumbled on a boulder, sprawling painfully onto the stones, managing to scramble up again and ran on. Reaching the house at the edge of the village, she risked a glance back. The boat was gone. Only gulls wheeled serenely over the water.

On the threshold, her mistress already waited, thick arms planted on wide hips. From behind the dirty folds of her skirt peeked Lucan’s smug, filthy face. Nearby, little Lila and Yamash played with pebbles.

“Where’ve ye been, ye cursed wretch?!” Mother Gata hissed, her brows knitted into a scowl.

Iviri’s hands shook: not from fear of the woman’s rage, but from something deeper. She took a few steps forward and dropped the heavy lump of net at the woman’s feet with a weary sigh.

“I’m askin’ ye, girl! Fish’s turnin’ to muck while ye’re dancin’ on them bloody rocks! I’ll flog ye to the traders, filthy whelp! Frightenin’ Lucan, are ye? Think ye’re some high witch, eh? I’ll tear yer tongue out! See if ye still hex!”

Her voice rose to a shriek. She snatched the leather whip from her belt and lunged. Iviri dropped to her knees, covering her head. Several lashes cut across her back and shoulders. Yamash wailed. Lila’s sobs joined his, their cries piercing Iviri’s ears.

“Spawn o’ the Devil! Filthy beast! Lay so much as a finger on me bairn, an’ I’ll see ye cursed, ye witch-born hag! I’ll hex ye meself, I will! Ye’ll rot in the ditches afore dawn!”

After several more blows, the woman seemed satisfied. She spat beside the girl, then stormed back into the house, hurling curses over her shoulder.

“Ye’ll kiss his feet, hear me?! Every blessed morn an’ every bloody night! Wash ’em, aye — then kiss ’em! Lick the dirt off ’em like the kennel bitch ye are!”

Lucan snickered nearby.

“Done witchin’, Ivi-wench?”

Iviri ignored him. Straightening her burning back, she staggered to the sobbing children. Lila hobbled toward her; Yamash, still unable to walk, stretched out his chubby hands, smearing tears across his pale face. Iviri sank to the grass and gathered them close.

In a few years, these little ones would forget their tenderness and grow as ruthless as Lucan. Once, she had nursed him, loved him, adored him—just as she now adored them.

The children calmed instantly in her arms. Lila stroked her hair, Yamash buried his face in her neck, cooing softly. Iviri breathed in the sweet, familiar scent of babies. With it came strength and peace, flowing into her as surely as milk and sunlight.

In the village of Kiran, people disliked her. She was too strange, too bold. She danced on the seashore during storms, her hair wet and red as blood against her pale skin. While sun and salt darkened every villager from birth, her skin remained pearly white. She spoke to animals—and they obeyed.

Her only companion was old healer Maim. He spoke little, and so did she, but he possessed something that enthralled her: books. Her hunger for reading gave the villagers yet another reason to despise her. While other girls danced and flirted by the fires; Iviri spent her hours tracing faded letters on crumbling pages. Odd, they called her. A fool. She never took offense.

Over the years her fear of the mantar Roukh, had faded. A short, bloated man in a maroon robe, forever stained with grease, he was nonetheless revered as the most important figure in Kiran. He blessed marriages, oversaw funerals, preached each Sunday in honor of Varrok’s rulers. Once a year, he rode his ancient donkey to Rukrin to deliver reports to the city of Ilinar.

Iviri loathed him. She felt his hatred like a sting; his sharp eyes followed her, and he whispered often with Mother Gata when the master was at sea. They whispered about her—she knew it.

A year ago, just after she had turned sixteen, a neighbor’s cow lay dying. Its mistress wept, dreading her husband’s wrath when he returned to find their milk-giver gone. Women gathered to comfort her, and Roukh stood over the moaning beast, declaring with pomp that mountain spirits claimed it for her sins.

Iviri could not bear its suffering. She laid her hand on its head and felt the pain burning in its mouth. “Brew her some blackwort tea,” she told the woman, surprising even herself.

Roukh’s eyes flashed with hatred. Later she overheard him muttering about “witch’s roots.” Yet the woman obeyed, and the cow recovered within days. From then on, Roukh’s piggish eyes followed Iviri more than ever.

Behind her, cries of joy swept along the shore. The fishermen were returning. Mother Gata rushed out onto the threshold, peering into the sea.

“Be they comin’, eh?”

“They’re comin’! They’re comin’!” Lucan squealed, racing toward the beach where the boats were already visible.

The mistress turned her scowl on Iviri, who sat with the children.
“What’re ye loiterin’ for, eh? Get ye inside—gut the fish! The master’ll be wantin’ his meal!”

Hours later dinner was finished. The sun had vanished, and smoke from the fires curled into the darkening sky. Families gathered close around the flames. Iviri washed dishes in a great basin, glancing often at the horizon. The strange fisherman was gone, yet he would not leave her thoughts. She stacked the clean dishes inside, then dragged the heavy basin toward the shore.

Uncle Runt, home from the sea, sat with Lila and Yamash on his lap. Lucan perched nearby, while Rida poked idly at the coals. Mother Gata, back to Iviri, whispered gossip to her husband. Rida narrowed her eyes at Iviri’s burden, but before she could speak a cry rang out:

“Iviri! Let us give ye a hand!”

Gray, the eldest son, and his friend Timar splashed toward her barefoot through the surf. She straightened, forcing a smile despite her aching back.

“Hallo, Iviri!” Timar beamed. But when he came closer, his face darkened. “They’ve thrashed ye again, haven’t they?”

“Gray! Timar! I’m glad to see you safe. How was the catch?” she replied brightly, shaking her hair to hide the lash marks.

The young men exchanged grim looks.

“Gray, ye ought to speak wi’ your mam,” Timar urged.

Gray met her eyes, then looked away.

“Aye… I will,” he muttered.

“Don’t you dare!” Iviri burst out. “It’s the master’s right to choose the punishment. If I can’t bear it any longer, I’ll choose myself what to do with my life.”

Her own words startled her, and her eyes lifted briefly to the peaks of Ashrum[1], dark against the sky.

The young men stared at her in disbelief.

“What’re ye sayin’, girl?” Timar demanded.

Realizing she had gone too far, Iviri forced a quiet laugh.

“And which of you promised to help, hmm?”

They seized the basin together, filling and emptying it several times before hauling it back. Iviri caught Rida’s jealous glare. Once they had played together as children, but as they grew, Rida—urged on by Mother Gata—turned against her. When the boys of Kiran began to notice Iviri’s beauty, resentment festered in Rida, especially as Timar’s smiles always seemed meant for the red-haired servant. With that, Iviri’s life grew harsher—less bread, more blows.

Twilight cloaked the village. Moonlight shimmered on the sea like silver scales. Suddenly a woman’s shriek pierced the quiet, joined by others. They pointed toward the rocks, where a massive shadow moved. Men snatched up tools but held back.

Again that warm wind touched Iviri’s face.

It had come for her—she knew it at once.

The firelight revealed a huge black bear, its round head swaying. Iviri felt no fear, only a sharp, burning curiosity. She stepped forward, crossing the yard until she faced it at close distance. For a moment, their eyes met. She longed to touch its thick fur.

“Iviri!” Timar shouted, terror in his eyes. Gray clutched a pitchfork. “Don’t ye move!”

They thought the beast dangerous. But she knew better.

Timar waved his arms, shouting to the bear.

“Oi, over here, ye brute! Look at me! Come on then — chase me if ye dare!”

“No!” A woman cried out, collapsing beside the fire. An old man caught her—Timar’s mother.

The bear glanced briefly at the boy, then turned back to Iviri. She stepped closer, reaching out.

“Don’t ye dare, ye daft fool!” Gray hissed. “It’ll take yer arm clean off! Run, we’ll cover ye!”

“Gray!” Mother Gata shrieked.

Uncle Runt silenced her with a heavy hand on her shoulder.

“Quiet, woman. Take the young’uns inside. Gray — come here. Slow now.”

But Gray ignored him, hissing at Iviri:

“Run!”

They wanted to kill it. But the bear knew no malice— it was as clear as honey is sweet, or water wet.

How foolish.

She laid her hand on its head between the ears. It growled softly. A ripple passed through the villagers. Some gasped, others cursed. Women rushed their children inside. The men stood frozen.

The bear rose to its hind legs, towering nearly twice her height, and loosed a roar—as though proclaiming something. Joy, she thought. It was glad.

Iviri smiled, even laughed lightly. The beast dropped back down, snorting in what could only be a chuckle, and shook its head as if inviting her along.

“Where shall we go?” she asked eagerly.

Turning its back on the armed men, the bear lumbered toward the water. Iviri walked at its side.

“A witch…” someone whispered.

“Aye, the mantar spoke true…”

“Call Roukh!”

Bathed in moonlight, the girl and the bear walked on. Timar stood at the water’s edge, fists clenched, as the waves lapped around his bare feet.

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[1] Ashrum — the mountain range of northeastern Varrok.

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