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  Destiny’s Gem

  The Risen Lands Series

  A Novella by J. Cain McKrell

  Copyright 2017 J. Cain McKrell

  License Notes:

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. This ebook is consented to be re-sold or given away to other people by the author. This ebook is free and always will be. Please feel free to share with friends and family! If you enjoy this novella, don’t forget to check out other books in the Risen Lands series.

  Dedicated to my wife Tami Crowley.

  Whom without my destiny is unfulfilled, forever seeking my gem.

  Every character has a tale, a history all their own. Each plays a part in the story of the gems, a role however large or small, for good or evil. This is the story of Sevra, most decidedly evil - though she was not always this way.

  Twice Born

  The aging midwife pressed a cool, damp rag onto the poor girl’s forehead, attempting to give her some comfort during the difficult childbirth. She had delivered hundreds of babies during her many years as the healer for the small farming village and sadly, she had seen this same situation unfold a few times, each ending with a stillborn baby. She shifted her focus to making the mother as comfortable as possible; there was also a serious risk of her dying as well.

  The baby was not only breeched, with feet coming out first from the womb, but it was also face down, increasing the chances of the umbilical cord wrapping around the child’s neck and strangling it as it moved through the birth canal.

  The girl writhed on the bed as yet another contraction wracked her already exhausted body. The midwife was amazed at the strength of her will, she barely even made a noise when other women much older than her screamed as though they were being tortured by the Gods themselves during routine childbirth. Speaking softly to the young woman, who was not much more than a child herself, the midwife instructed her to push with every bit of strength she had left. She prayed that with this contraction the baby, likely dead already, would be out so she could tend to the severe bleeding which followed this type of traumatic delivery.

  The midwife’s prayers were answered and the baby slipped out onto the soft linen cloth that covered the foot of the bed. Tragically the midwife’s fears were also realized as the baby, a girl, lay motionless on the cloth with a slightly blue tint to her skin. Quickly cutting the cord, the midwife tenderly wrapped up the baby she assumed to be dead and placed it into the large basket she brought with her for times such as this, when the Gods took a babe at birth. Unable to revive it, she turned her attention back to the woman on the bed. She packed more clean linen between her legs and gently massaged her stomach, going through the normal steps following birth, except this time the newborn would not be at its mother’s breast for her first feeding.

  Motioning for the nervous father to come into the room, the midwife sat on a stool next to the bed. She pushed the girl’s hair back from her sweat and tear streaked face. She reached over and took her hand preparing herself for the awful moment when she had to tell this woman that she would not have a baby to nurse. The midwife felt the grip tighten as the young mother struggled to bear the physical pain she was still experiencing from the prolonged labor.

  The father, not much older than his wife, looked around the room before he turned to face the midwife. The question on his lips went unasked but the answer was in his eyes as his gaze landed on the basket with a corner of the bloody cloth hanging over the side. She watched heartbroken as his face then body crumpled, collapsing him to his knees next to the bedside. Averting her eyes the best she could to give them as much privacy as was possible, she saw his head drop to the pillow near the girl’s face.

  Finally opening her eyes, she turned, releasing the midwife’s hand. She reached over to bury her fingers in her husband’s hair, their foreheads touching while they cried silently. The healer stood and quietly began gathering her things. She placed another clean blanket over the basket before lifting the woeful bundle and moving towards the door.

  With a last look back she gently pushed the door open, prompting the father to look her way. “Come out, when you are ready,” she whispered softly. The father nodded absently before burying his head again next to the girl’s. It would be a while yet before he met her outside.

  The midwife left the shack, exhaling heavily. No matter how many times, it never gets easier, she lamented. The wails of the grieving mother continued from inside, adding pangs of guilt onto her feelings of remorse. Part of her knew there was no more she could have done for this baby, but she couldn’t help to blame herself, no matter how irrational. Perhaps tonight she would reflect on what she might have done differently, if there could have been a better outcome. She was one of the best midwives in the area, only losing roughly one in twenty babes. Most lost twice as many. With the presentation of this particular birth however, it was doomed from the start. She reminded herself that the Gods had their own plan, but at moments like this it provided little comfort.

  Sometimes, the world was simply cruel.

  As she waited, she was surprised to find the sun already beginning to set. Seeing how much time had passed during the difficult birth made her realize how tired she felt. The glow across the fields did little to brighten her spirit; it’s beauty only serving to mock the hellish experience of the last twenty hours. Golden fields stretched across the horizon, the fertile ground providing life to all those who dwelled here. She looked down to the basket, another pang of sadness welling up from deep inside. If she didn’t find something to keep her mind occupied, the tears forming in her eyes were going to become an opened floodgate. Off a ways some wildflowers bloomed sporadically; she would pick a few as she waited for the husband to assist her with the burial.

  Dusk began to fall in earnest by the time she heard the young farmer rustling outside of his home, through the soft grass. The fine hairs on the back of her next stood as she viewed his silhouette approach. The unmistakable form of his wife was draped under a sheet in his arms. “We’re going to need to dig two graves,” he said somberly.

  She wanted to berate him for not coming to get her. His wife wasn’t in very good shape after her ordeal, but was stable. She had seen to that. Upon looking at him, her words fell short. He was devastated, just yesterday he had a wife and was looking forward to a child. Tonight, he would be burying his family. “Get my shovel from around the corner of the house and follow me,” he told her.

  She walked with him in silence towards the end of the property, nearly tripping as the last of the day’s light began to fade. They stopped in front of a small clearing, a few piles of stones spaced evenly apart. “My family’s gravemarkers,” he said, “all the way back to my great-great grandfather. I didn’t expect to be putting my wife…” Unable to finish the sentence, he broke into tears before regaining his composure. He took the shovel and began to dig in silence.

  “You don’t have to do this tonight,” she said to him softly.

  “Yes, I do,” he answered, and continued to dig.

  “Why do the Gods punish me so?” he said after a time, his pace becoming more agitated.

  “You should take a break, go back inside and rest. You’re in shock,” she told him.

  Continuing to dig, it seemed as though he didn’t even hear her. He grunted with effort with each strike of shovel to dirt, going faster and faster. “It was that babe’s fault my Ellie is dead,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “No, there isn’t fault in things like this,” she answered him softly, “go inside and rest, we can have the neighbors help us in the morning.”

  Again he appeared not to hear her, shoveling frantically. “It is,” he argued, “that fel-touched
thing was sent here to take everything from me.”

  “Be careful where you throw that…” she began, seeing some of the dirt hit the basket.

  A stuttered choke came from the bundle, followed by the wail of a babe that pierced the night air and sent a shiver along the midwife’s spine. The digging stopped. The wind seemed to stop. She thought her heart might stop. It was impossible.

  She rushed to the little girl’s side, reaching into the basket. With a practiced hand she instinctually found a pulse along the baby’s neck, as if she needed to confirm she wasn’t hallucinating.

  “She’s alive,” the midwife gasped, looking up to the father in disbelief. “It’s a miracle!”

  Laughing she gently cradled the child, standing to present her to her parent. A cold feeling in the pit of her stomach made her withdraw; even in the darkness, she could see the look of horror on his face.

  “Get off my farm, and never come back,” he said with a terrible calmness. It was a superficial calm that had the promise of violence underneath it.

  “But…” she stammered.

  “I said begone!”

  She backed away as he raised the shovel threateningly. “Even though it was against my better judgment, we brought you here because everyone said you were the best. You’re nothing more than a witch from the woods! Now take that little demon with you and never come back here!”

  She stumbled backwards, cradling the baby in her arms. “No, please,” she begged, “this is your daughter!”

  “No child breathes life after being dead for hours! You killed my wife with this…thing,” he shouted, advancing.

  “There’s no need for any of that, I’m leaving,” she said, suddenly standing tall and confident. Her voice was cold, and she met his eyes with her own steel-eyed glare.

  He paused, and she could sense a single moment of doubt in him. “You know where to find us when you come to your senses,” she spat. Satisfied, she turned and calmly walked away.

  Once out of eyeshot, she let out a deep breath and hurried as fast as she could in the twilight. She had never been more terrified in her life, and thanked the Gods her bluff worked. It was time to return to Shady Vale, her home in the woods. She needed to sort through everything that happened tonight, try to make sense of it. The leader would help her; he was wise and caring. He always said there was nothing so valuable as a place to call home. In a way they were all outcasts and found kinship with each other, and now this baby would need a home and probably a family.

  By the time she reached the woods, her anxiety began to dissipate and she was certain she hadn’t been followed. Completely breathless, she slowed to a walk and began to catch her wind. The baby began to cry, so as she walked she gently shushed it, bobbing it in her arms. It would be hours more of walking before reaching their tiny, secluded village. To pass the time she hummed softly for a while, some songs she knew and others were just notes that sounded nice; the baby seemed to like it so she continued as long as she could.

  When she tired of her serenade, the midwife began to think aloud, if only to hear any voice in the oppressive darkness. “Well you certainly had an interesting first day of life, didn’t you?” she said sweetly. It was one of the more eventful days of her life, to be sure. Because of some of the people she lived near, she was accustomed to the unexpected. It did not, however, lessen her surprise or delight at this baby miraculously kicking to life.

  The baby made a few small noises, holding up its part of the conversation in its own way.

  The midwife giggled, “Of course, that’s the first time one of my patients tried to kill me. I guess it’s been an interesting day for me too.”

  A few yards ahead the path forked, and had she not known these woods so well she certainly would have missed it. Her fearfulness vanished, knowing she neared home.

  “And just what am I going to do with you now?” she mused, “I doubt your father will be showing up to claim you. I’ll watch over you as long as I need to, such a special little thing you are.”

  She continued to bob the baby up and down a few times affectionately. “Yes, I’ll have to call you something…what to name you?”

  It came to her almost instantly, a word in the old tongue with many meanings, one of which to be removed and later returned. “I will call you Sevra.”

  Essentially the girl was born twice, taken away and then brought back, so it seemed fitting. “My name is Lorna, Lorna Vitano. I look forward to seeing what you become, little one.”

  Four Years Later

  “Sevra! Come inside it’s almost time for dinner!”

  Children played outside in the center of town, a mazework of dirt paths coming together in front of a statue under construction. The artisan carefully chiseled away at the inscription on the base, while the kids ran around just far enough away to not get yelled at. Lorna watched him as she waited, not seeing Sevra among the gaggle of children. He worked with extreme focus, seemingly oblivious to the occasional shriek of joy and excitement that escaped from the jubilant youths. He was very good, commissioned all the way from a town to the north.

  More calls drifted across the village, summoning children one by one to their respective homes until the crowd dispersed. Kneeling by herself against a stone wall, with her back turned to everything else, Sevra carefully arranged a few rocks and sticks. She stood, daintily dusting off her wool dress and walked slowly home. When she saw Lorna she smiled, a small upturn at the corners of her lips. Where the other children were a chaotic heap of laughter and exuberance, Sevra was always calm and organized. Every action she ever made from the time she was able to walk seemed so purposeful; she carried herself with focused intent whether outside playing or helping with chores. Sometimes it was almost to the point of being disconcerting, like watching a grownup trapped in the body of a little girl.

  She was a tiny thing, with light skin and the darkest hair, like a pale moon lonely in the night sky. And those eyes; they were far too introspective to belong to a four-year old.

  “Come inside and help set the table,” she told her. There was no point in telling her to change out of dirty play-clothes. They were never dirty.

  Lorna began to ladle her stew into the two bowls set at the table. They ate in silence for a time; though the girl wasn’t overly talkative it was unusual for her not to say anything at all. Something was bothering Sevra; she could tell by the way she ran her hands over her dress, smoothing and fussing over it.

  “Why weren’t you playing with the other children, angel?” she asked Sevra, guessing that to be the cause of her sullenness. It was a frequent talk she gave the girl, trying to get her to play well with the others.

  She sat for several seconds before answering, “How come Yulan gets a statue, Momma Lorna?”

  “Because, he is an important man.”

  “Is that like being special?” Sevra asked. “You always tell me I’m special.”

  Lorna laughed and sighed lightly, “Yes, it is. But it takes more than just being born with a gift. Everyone, in their own way has something to offer the world. Most never find what it is. Even if they do, sometimes they choose not to apply it or themselves.”

  Sevra nodded as if she understood, those deep introspective eyes reflecting the candle light. Such a clever girl.

  “Yulan has done great work for people like us, and we honor him for it,” Lorna told her. “Now clean up and get ready for bed, I’ll read you a story.”

  Sevra didn’t know what Yulan did to be so great, she only knew she wanted to be just as great when she grew up. Maybe people would build a statue for her one day, too.