The Syphon's Daughter

M. E. Batt

Description

Half of Ellendria is entranced by Raylyn; the other half wants her dead.

After discovering she possesses an ancient magic, eighteen-year-old Raylyn Ashton is forced from her home to the mysterious Court in the capital city of Ellendria. There she must attend their Academy to learn how to control her newfound power, but secrets of royalty run deep and soon Raylyn is ensnared in a web of treachery, betrayal, and intoxicating romance.

While she attempts to decipher centuries old prophecies and the desires of two young princes, her life slips into chaos. Her best friend goes missing, political tensions swell in the city, and Raylyn is somehow caught in the center of it all. Stuck in the center of a love triangle, facing potential war, and accused of high treason, can the young sorceress learn how to protect her country, her best friend, and her heart?

Sujets

• Fantastique
• Romance fantastique
• Romance
• Romance Fantasy
• New Adult Romance
• Univers ado
• Imaginaire
• Fantasy
• Young Adult Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: 4 Horsemen Publications, Inc.
• Date de parution: 16 décembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9798823200011
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Table o f Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Book Club Questions
About the Author





The Syphon’s Daughter
Copyright © 2022 M. E. Batt. All rights r eserved.

4 Horsemen Publicatio ns, Inc.
1497 Main St. S uite 169
Dunedin, FL 34698
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Cover and Typeset by S . Wilder
Editor Shirle y Austin
All rights to the work within are reserved to the author and publisher. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 International Copyright Act, without prior written permission except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please contact either the Publisher or Author to gain per mission.
All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All brands, quotes, and cited work respectfully belongs to the original rights holders and bear no affiliation to the authors or pu blisher.
Library of Congress Control Number: 20 22943326
Print ISBN: 979-8-823 2-0000-4
Hardcover ISBN: 979-8-823 2-0012-7
Ebook ISBN: 979-8-823 2-0001-1
Audio ISBN: 979-8-823 2-0008-0


Dedication
F irst, to my children: Arya, Eric, and Isla. May you always chase your dreams, no matter how fantastical they are.
Second, to my husband. You never once doubted me. Without your support and unconditional love, I never would’ve believed in myself enough to pursue my passions.
Third, to my family. Mom, you fostered my love of reading and writing from the beginning. You always knew I’d end up here. Dad, you supported my dreams, whichever way they took me. My mother-in-law Rosann, you’ve always had unwavering confidence in everyt hing I do.
Fourth, to my beta readers, child caretakers, and friends. You all were vital in thi s success.
Fifth, to my coworkers. Athena, you don’t know this, but you inspired the main plot of this story. Roseanne and Linda, thank you for the immediate faith in this project and for bouncing ideas around with me. Mark, though you’ll likely never see this, thank you for taking a chance on me and allowing me the work—life balance which made this writing possible.
Finally, to all the assholes along the way. To the ones who made high school and college Hell… here’s to you. To the bad bosses, catty coworkers, and everyone who sucked the joy from my spirit, thank you. Thank you for inspiring my villains. Thank you for making me choose books over people, time and time again. If it wasn’t for all of you, I wouldn’t have ever made it this fa r. Cheers!


Chapter 1
T he canter of horse hooves was not uncommon on the main road; however, this was not the main road. Dubbed “Nettles Lane,” it was hardly a trail, squirrels visiting more frequently than man. Sunlight trickled through the canopy of branches and dotted the forest floor, highlighting patches of dark green moss and scattered piles of crisp, dead leaves. Raylyn halted, cocking her head and straining her ears. “Surely, not a rider here?” she asked, glancing at h er mother.
The older of the two women hoisted a woven basket—half—filled with various herbs and mushrooms—higher onto her arm and wiped the sweat off her forehead. Squinting, she peered into the thicket of greenery, the snapping bracken and pounding hooves growing louder by th e second.
“Come here,” Eva urged, pulling her daughter into a shallow hollow behind a rotting log spotted with white fungus. They crouched low, baskets discarded near their feet. Reaching into a leather boot, her mother withdrew a short knife, the dappled sunlight glinting off the blade. She crouched on the balls of her feet, poised to strike if needed. The music of chittering birds and chirping insects silenced as the thundering hooves gre w closer.
A high—pitched whinny cut through the air as the mare crashed into view in a bloody frenzy. The horse’s spotted white coat was hard to see through thick, dripping blood. Eva appeared at the horse’s side, catching its free reins in one hand while the other stroked its muzzle. “Hurry,” she commanded, moving to the horse’s flank. The man draped across its back was limp and lifeless. They struggled under his weight, sliding him with an ungraceful thud to the ground, their hands staining a tacky red from his blood—dampened clothes. He didn’t make a noise as he landed, and Raylyn’s heart raced as her mother checked for signs of life, her ear pressed to his chest. “Alive! Get the baskets. Quickly, now! He doesn’t have m uch time.”
Raylyn rushed, grabbing the baskets, and returned to her mother’s side. Eva, still crouched on the forest floor, searched his body, her hands running the length of his torso. His silken shirt clung to him—saturated with blood—and she pulled at it. The fabric resisted, caught on a long laceration running the length of his torso. Fresh blo od gushed.
Scanning her options, Raylyn grabbed the cloth liner from her mother’s basket. She shook off the herbs and pressed it to the wound, both hands applying pressure to slow the bleeding. Her training kicked in. If the bleeding could not be stopped, he would die. Even so , if his intestines are lacerated as well, he will die regardless … just more slowly. Her mother’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
“Where is the yarrow?” she asked, her voice urgent as she rummaged through the scattered pile of herbs.
“Here, in my basket.” Raylyn nodded toward it, not daring to remove her hands from the wound. Already, blood soaked through the cloth, dripping onto her hands.
Her mother grabbed the cluster of small white flowers and shoved it in her mouth, chewed intensely, then spit the wad back into her hands. On cue, Raylyn removed her hands. Eva applied the paste to the wound bed, holding her hands slightly above the wound. Closing her eyes, she chanted, “Heal and make whole. Goddess, help the bleeding slow. Heal and make whole. Needless be this woe.” Golden light shone from her palms, illuminating the man’s torso and the severity of the injury; it cut across his body from the right rib to the left hip. She repeated this process three times until paste lined the entire length of the la ceration.
The golden light faded as Eva removed her hands. She knelt back, her face pale and exhausted. The man’s bleeding had slowed incrementally but still streamed down his stomach and dripped onto the forest floor. The earth gulped it almost greedily, and the surrounding soil dampened to a rich, da rk brown.
“We cannot save him.” Eva’s voice shook and her tunic was drenched with sweat. She remained on the ground next to the dying man, whose only sign of life was his faintly risi ng chest.
“No…” Raylyn began, gravitating toward him as if magnetized. “There must be more that can be done!” Desperation overwhelmed her, coursing through her veins as inexplicable as the Goddess herself. Leaning forward, she pressed her fingers to his flesh, replacing the position her mother had just vacated.
“You are not strong enough. This is beyond us.” She grasped Raylyn’s shoulder, shaking her head. “It is our first and most important rule, Raylyn.”
“He will not die today,” she snapped, shrugging her mother off. Heat coursed through her body as her own palms radiated. Though a practiced apprentice, she had never felt such a primal need to heal someone engulf her. She needed to save this man as much as she needed air to breathe.
The golden light tied her to him, and they were no longer two separate people, but one. Through that connection, she poured herself into him, willing him to survive.
As suddenly as her desperation to save him began, it rapidly ended and was replaced by an icy realization: her energy was draining. Mother’s right. Of course I’m not strong enough , she thought, the crushing weight of panic tightening her chest. With hands still glowing, her head slumped, and her knees buckled. Her body crumpled atop his, the golden light at her palms flickering as they dimmed. An echo of desperation again filled her mind and—not thinking, not knowing how she did it—she reached out with her mind a nd pulled .
The power which flowed into her started as a trickle, breathing life into her limbs and strengthening her muscles. Pulling herself up, she drank it in like a starving man would a goblet of wine. Soon, waves of energy and euphoria crashed over her, and the light from her palms—dimming just moments ago—blasted with a blinding force, filling the thicket with a brightness greater than the sun. Fire coursed through her veins, and she channeled it, directing it to the man in front of her. She stitched his torn intestines and knitted the muscles and skin as instinctively as breathing. Once he was whole, she closed the channels with difficulty, like shutting a door against the winds of a hurricane. Her heart pounded with exhilaration as she pulled her hands off the man’s abdomen, the only remnants of his injury his dryi ng blood.
Hundreds of soft thuds filled the air, and she whipped her head up, disoriented. The noises soon stopped, the source of the sound clear. Swallowing back bile, she stood, examining the countless bodies of dead birds scattered on the ground. The vegetation, touched by the beginnings of autumn, was now completely dead, leaves curled and dried. She spun, eyes wide with horror. Even the