Thirteenth Tower

C Snider Sara

Description

". . . grows more addicting with each chapter." -Kirkus Reviews In adversity lies strength beyond imagining.Abandoned as a baby, young Emelyn's life as a housemaid in the quiet village of Fallow is unremarkable-and empty. That is, until a host of magical creatures arrives and inflicts terrible misdeeds on the townsfolk. Inexplicably immune to their enchantments, Emelyn joins a pair of Magi intent on stopping the cause of the trouble-and who claim to know of her parents, promising Emelyn answers to a lifetime of questions.But the answers Emelyn seeks prove to be more elusive than she hoped, and the world outside Fallow more perilous than she imagined. Magical creatures roam the land over, attacking yet another town before coming after Emelyn. The key to her survival-and finding her family-lies deep within her, if only she can conquer her doubts and believe she is more powerful than she ever dreamed.In a journey that explores facing one's fears amidst the uncertainties of an unknown world, The Thirteenth Tower is a magical tale of discovery, growth, and of love's enduring strength.

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Double Beast Publishing
• Date de parution: 20 mars 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9789187657016
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Thirteenth Tower


Sara C. Snider
Contents


Also by Sara C. Snider
Copyright
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
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23

Acknowledgments
About the Author
Up next…

A Shadowed Spirit
Also by Sara C. Snider

T he Tree and Tower Series
The Thirteenth Tower
A Shadowed Spirit
O ther Publications
The Forgotten Web
Hazel and Holly
T his book is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and locales, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real.
The Thirteenth Tower Copyright © Sara C. Snider 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Published by Double Beast Publishing. First Edition.
Cover art by Ferdinand D. Ladera
Cover design by Ray Rhamey
2
ISBN: 978-91-87657-01-6
For my family
Chapter 1



E melyn awoke , as always, in darkness. She lay still, savoring the quiet solitude. She felt hidden, protected, and, for just a moment, like she existed someplace else entirely. The house above her would fade away, and in that heartbeat she could imagine that she had a family, that she was loved.
But it was only a moment.
Fearing the inevitable rebuke if she was found loitering in bed, Emelyn cast off her blanket and put her feet to the hard earthen floor. Her room had no windows, only a pallet, a table large enough for a candle and cup, and a chest containing her few possessions.
She walked to the chest and pulled out a change of clothes. Her fingers brushed against the fabric of her fine muslin dress that she wore for special occasions. Tonight was the Harvest Festival; she might get to wear it, provided she finished all her chores. Her heart felt heavy at the thought of missing yet another one. Fallow’s yearly festivals were rare occasions where she almost felt happy.
She smiled at the thought of all the dancing and food and people that the festival would bring. Derron would probably be there, too, and she smiled all the more as she pictured his quirky grin—
A cold shiver struck the image from her mind. She drew a long, shaking breath and, suddenly eager to leave the darkened room, Emelyn wriggled out of her nightdress and pulled on a working dress. She slipped on a pair of stockings and reached into the darkness to where she knew her boots to be. She tied an apron around her waist and, using her fingers as a comb, tied her hair back with a ribbon as she walked through the door.
She made her way across the sprawling darkened basement. High on the wall, cracks of light peeked through shuttered windows. Emelyn pulled back the wooden slats, allowing dim morning light to fall into the room.
The Mansell residence was one of the grandest houses in Fallow. Emelyn reminded herself that she ought to feel grateful for living there. She knew of servants who would have been eager to trade positions with her. Such knowledge ought to bring her comfort, but it never did.
She knelt in front of the hearth and scooped out the previous day’s ashes into a metal pail. Restocking the fireplace with wood and kindling from a nearby box, she set it aflame with the help of a tinderbox. She had managed to get the fire burning when a bell near the staircase rang. Emelyn started at the sound. It would be Miss Cook—the master and mistress rang either Miss Cook or Tilly when they needed something. But why would she ring? Wiping her hands on a corner of her apron, Emelyn hurried up the stairs.
Pale light streamed through the leaded windows along the outer wall of the kitchen. Miss Cook stood at a table in the middle of the room, kneading a ball of dough. She was a sturdy woman with a thick oxen-like neck and hands like mallets. Her formidable frame always made the dresses she wore look out of place, bordering on ridiculous.
“You took your time,” Miss Cook said as she worked. She picked up the dough and cast it back onto the floured tabletop.
“Yes, Miss Cook.”
“I need you to run over to Mr. Hibberly’s and fetch some eggs. There were none to be had in the henhouse and the mistress requires onion custard with breakfast.”
“What about the water?” Emelyn had not yet put the morning washing water on to boil.
“Tilly will see to it. Mr. Hibberly won’t have opened shop yet, so be sure to knock loudly and tell him it is a matter of emergency.”
“Yes, Miss Cook.”
“And no dillydallying.” Miss Cook stopped kneading long enough to point a thick, doughy finger at Emelyn. “You head straight there and back again. We’ve a lot of work to do and I’ll not have you idling about.”
Miss Cook needn’t have told her, especially today of all days. “Yes, Miss Cook.” Emelyn fetched a woven hand basket hanging from a shelf, then walked to the door and hung her apron on a peg in the wall. From another peg she took a knitted woolen shawl that she wrapped around her shoulders.
The morning was sharp and dewy, and the chill air bit at Emelyn’s skin like pinpricks. She drew the shawl around her as she hurried down the path leading to the road. They lived on the outskirts of town, and Fallow was about fifteen minutes away by foot.
Emelyn walked by prim clapboard houses and painted fences. Smoke drifted from chimneys, spicing the chill autumn air. She passed farmland and fields, some dotted with newly harvested grain that had been bundled and left to dry. In the distance, the tall shadow of the Magister Tower spiraled out of the surrounding forest like the tail of a great serpent.
Fallow was constructed in a globular fashion, with cobblestone roads that led like spokes in a wheel to the town square, which in this case was distinctly circular. Shops and businesses lined the streets, the most prominent among them found near the center—Mr. Hibberly’s store among them.
Rounding a corner, Emelyn came upon a little girl peeking in the window of Mr. Wainwright’s carpentry shop. The girl had long, dark hair and wore a dress of rough leather with colorful little beads that clicked when she moved. On bare feet, she stretched to her tiptoes as she peered through the glass.
“Hello, there,” Emelyn said.
The girl turned and looked at her but gave no reply. Her eyes were grey like the clouds overhead, much like Emelyn’s own. They looked striking against her dun-colored skin. Emelyn had thought her own skin dark, but now felt fair by comparison. The girl regarded her, unfazed and unblinking. It was… unsettling.
“Are you all right?”
The little girl said nothing. Then she turned and ran down the street, her dark hair trailing behind her like wild shadows.
Emelyn watched her run, listening to the click-clack of the beads as they faded into silence. She lingered a moment, staring at the empty road before she continued walking. The girl must be a traveler here for the festival. Yet Emelyn still worried for the lone child in the cold with no shoes.
She made her way to Mr. Hibberly’s shop and rapped on the door. When no answer came, she rapped again as hard as she dared, her cold hand stinging from the effort. After a few moments, a pale face appeared in a window in the door, distorted by the thick, cloudy glass. The door cracked open and Mrs. Hibberly poked her head out, her long nose and protruding mouth reminding Emelyn of a large rodent venturing out of a hole in a wall.
“Yes? What do you want? We’re closed, you know. Come back later.” Giving Emelyn no time to respond, she shut the door.
Emelyn knocked again. The door reopened to reveal Mrs. Hibberly’s withering, weaselly glare.
Emelyn curtsied in hopes of lightening that scowl. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but Miss Cook sent me over from the Mansell residence. It seems we’re out of eggs, and Mistress Mansell was expecting onion custard this morning. Would you happen to have any on hand?”
Mrs. Hibberly said nothing, peering at Emelyn through the crack in the door with her dark, beady eyes. After a lengthy moment of uncomfortable silence, the door swung open and Mrs. Hibberly motioned for Emelyn to come inside.
The morning light streaming through the front window of the shop was too weak to illuminate the vast room. The pigeonhole shelves that lined the walls disappeared into darkness as they stretched towards the ceiling. Sacks and barrels cluttered the floor in shadowed heaps while a wrought iron ladder clung to the wall like some great skeletal beast. The air was heavy with the aroma of leather and spices, oil and dust. A familiar smell, one that brought Emelyn comfort.
Mrs. Hibberly picked up an oil lamp burning on the counter near the door. She held it to Emelyn’s face, peering at her with narrowed eyes. “You’re the little whelp that got left on Torrence Mansell’s doorstep all those years ago.”
That Emelyn had been abandoned as a baby hurt her more than she ever let on. The notion that she was somehow abnormal, unworthy of the love of her own parents haunted her. It was a thought she struggled to keep buried, but it was always there, deep down. A nagging fear that she was, and always would be, inadequate. Love could never be anything more than an unattainable idea, a fanciful feeling of which the likes of her would never know.
But she kept dreaming. Emelyn still hoped she would one day find her parents. It was a day in which all her questions would be answered; a day in which her heart would feel whole.
“Yes, ma’am.” Emelyn shifted her feet, uncomfortable under Mrs. Hibberly’s critical gaze.
“Raised by Merridan, of all people. Hmph. I knew her before she had a last name. I shouldn’t have thought her capable of rai