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  “In WITCH SONG, Amber Argyle makes a riveting debut, creating a fresh new world full of wonder, peril and splendor. I found WITCH SONG to be positively engrossing from the first page to the last. I’m convinced that this is just the first book in what will be a long and prosperous career!”

  David Farland, New York Times Bestselling Author of the Runelords Series

  WITCH SONG

  BY AMBER ARGYLE

  Rhemalda Publishing

  Rhemalda Publishing

  Rhemalda Publishing, Inc. (USA)

  P.O. Box 2912, Wenatchee, WA 98807, USA

  www.rhemalda.com

  First American Paperback Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  Copyright ©2011 by Amber Argyle

  Editing by Kara Klotz

  Text design by Rhemalda Publishing

  Author photo by ShaunaLee Johnson

  Cover art by Eve Ventrue. Contact Eve by visiting her Web site at www.eve-ventrue.darkfolio.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-936850-16-7

  ePUB ISBN: 978-1-936850-17-4

  ePDF ISBN: 978-1-936850-18-1

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011920942

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standards of Information Services - Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ASNI Z39.48-1992.

  Visit Amber Argyle at her author Web site www.amberargyle.com

  DEDICATION

  For Kent and Alice Argyle

  Because you loved me first, best and always.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  There are many people who had a hand in not only creating the books I write but also the author I have become. To acknowledge them all would be nearly impossible. So I’ll attempt a brief overview.

  Thanks to those who told me how amazing my writing was—even when it wasn’t. Especially Kent, Alice, Ellen, Gordon, Gayle and all the members of my book club.

  Thanks to my critique groups for telling me my writing needed work—because it did. Especially JoLynne Lyon (for listening to me whine), Cami Checketts (for saying my books are as good as Hunger Games), Janet Jensen, Marion Jensen (for making me laugh), Chris Loke, Michelle Argyle and Kathy Beutler.

  Thanks to my educators—true philanthropists who endeavor to pull themselves up with one hand while pulling up everyone else with the other. Especially Jeff Savage, David Farland, James Dashner, a host of librarians and my own teachers (Lonnie Kay, Reed Eborn and Ralph Johnson).

  Thanks to the team at Rhemalda. Especially Rhett and Emmaline Hoffmeister, Kara Klotz and Eve Ventrue (for the awesome cover).

  And most of all, thank you to those who love me—Derek, Corbin, Connor and Lily. Because without you, none of it matters anyway.

  WITCH SONG

  BY AMBER ARGYLE

  Rhemalda Publishing

  1. WITCHBORN

  Brusenna’s straw-colored hair felt as hot as a sun-baked rock. She was sticky with sweat that trickled down her spine and made her simple dress cling to her. Her every instinct urged her to run from the glares that stung like angry wasps. She had already put off her trip to the market for too long.

  The merchant finished wrapping the spools of thread in crinkling brown paper. “Twelve upice,” Bommer said sourly.

  A ridiculous price, no doubt made worse by the drought. Had Brusenna been anyone else, she could have bartered it down to half that. Even though the villagers only suspected, it was enough. Careful not to touch her, the man’s hand swallowed the coins she dropped in it. She wondered what marvelous things he ate to flesh out his skin that way. Things like the honey-sweetened cakes she could still smell in her clothes long after she’d left the marketplace.

  As Bommer mumbled and counted his money, Brusenna gathered the packages tightly to her chest and hurried away. She hadn’t gone five steps when a heavy hand clamped down on her shoulder. Fear shot through her veins like a thousand nettles. Here, no one ever touched her.

  With a wince, she craned her neck back to see the merchant looming over her. “You tryin’ to cheat me, chanter?”

  This close, the smell of his stale body odor hit her hard. She swallowed the urge to gag. Her mind worked furiously. She’d counted twice. “I gave you twelve,” she managed.

  He yanked her around, grabbing her other arm and bringing her face next to his. She cringed as his large paunch pressed against her. Somewhere, a baby squalled. “You think I can’t count?”

  Brusenna tried to answer, but her mouth locked up. She should have been more careful. She should have stayed until he had finished counting her coins, but she had been too eager to escape. He shook her, his dirty nails digging into her skin. Her packages tumbled from her hands and hit the ground.

  Taking shallow breaths and arching away from him, she squirmed, desperate to be free. “Please,” she said, finally finding her voice. “Let me go!”

  He laughed, his eyes gleaming with pleasure. “No. I don’t think so. Not this time. You know what the punishment is for stealing?”

  The stocks. Brusenna swallowed hard. Trapped for an entire day with the whole village taunting her. They’d throw things. Rotten food. And worse. She looked for help in the crowd that had eagerly gathered around them. Satisfaction shone plain on every face. She was suddenly angry with her mother for letting her face this alone. For refusing to come because someone might recognize her.

  “I didn’t steal,” she whispered, already knowing no one would listen.

  “You callin’ me a liar?” Tobacco spit splattered her face. He backhanded her. Her vision flashed white, then black with stars, then red. She tasted blood. Her eyes burned with tears. She clamped her teeth shut against the pain, refusing to cry out.

  Bommer half-dragged her toward the center of the square, where two thin blocks of wood were connected with a hinge. Three holes, one for her neck and two for her wrists. Remnants of rotten food, manure and rocks littered the base.

  The sight of the stocks shocked Brusenna into action. She squirmed and struggled.

  His hand on the back of her neck, Bommer shoved her throat into the largest, center hole. She tried to rear back. He pushed harder. The wood cut into her windpipe. She couldn’t breathe.

  “You let that child go, or you’ll sorely miss your brain, my friend,” said a feminine voice that was somehow soft and commanding at the same time.

  Brusenna felt Bommer freeze, his arm still pinning her neck.

  She strained against Bommer to see who had spoken. In front of her, sitting astride a glossy black horse, a woman glared at the merchant down the barrel of an expensive-looking musket. The wind picked up and her gleaming hair shifted like a field of ripe wheat. The woman’s cobalt eyes met Brusenna’s golden ones.

  Brusenna gaped. She’d hoped for help, but never imagined it would come from someone both rich and powerful.

  “What’d you say to me?” he asked the stranger.

  The woman cocked back the hammer. “You heard what I said.” Bommer didn’t respond. Brusenna felt him shift uncertainly. When no one moved to support him, he growled deep in his t
hroat. He pushed once more on Brusenna’s neck, hard. But then she was free. She collapsed, clutching her throat and coughing violently.

  When the spots stopped dancing before her eyes, she glanced up. The woman was watching Brusenna, fury burning in her eyes. The stranger let the barrel drop. “Where I come from, merchants ask for the missing coin before they accuse their customers of stealing. Especially a child.”

  A child? Brusenna bristled as she rose to her feet. She was nearly fifteen. Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw Sheriff Tomack pushing through the crowd. All thoughts of defiance flew out of her head. She tried to slip through an opening, but the press of bodies tightened into an impregnable wall. Arms roughly shoved her back to Bommer.

  She shuddered as his hand clamped down on her shoulder again. “Sheriff, this girl stole from me and this,” he worked his tongue like he had a bad taste in his mouth, “woman is interfering.”

  “I already heard it, Bommer.” Sheriff Tomack studied Brusenna with an unreadable expression. “You trying to cause trouble, girl?”

  Digging her toenails into the packed dirt, she shook her head adamantly.

  He grunted. “Well then, give Bommer his upice or spend your day in the stocks.”

  Anger flared in her chest and died like a candle flame in a windstorm. It didn’t matter that she’d already given Bommer twelve upice. It didn’t matter that he was lying. She couldn’t prove it and her word meant nothing to the villagers. Scrabbling in her money bag, she found an upice and held it out for Bommer.

  The merchant slowly shook his head. “I don’t want her money. I want her time in the stocks.”

  Brusenna’s hand automatically moved to her bruised throat. Tears stung her eyes. She quickly blinked them back.

  “Why?” Sheriff Tomack asked.

  Bommer snorted. “You know why.”

  “You got proof?”

  Bommer spit in the dirt. “None of us needs it. We all know what she is.”

  No one said it, but the word echoed in Brusenna’s head, Witch.

  “Has the girl ever stolen from you before?” Sheriff Tomack asked cautiously.

  Bommer took a deep breath. “Her punishment is my choice.”

  With a click, the woman on the horse released the hammer on her musket. Dismounting, she strode forward. The crowd parted, half in fear and half in awe. She threw a handful of coins at Bommer’s chest. The gleaming silver bits bounced off and scattered across the ground. Brusenna’s eyes widened in disbelief. The woman hadn’t tossed a few dirty upices; the coins were silvers.

  Looking both beautiful and terrible, the woman straightened her shoulders. “Take your money, merchant. If you give this girl more trouble, I’ll see that no one ever buys from you again.”

  Bommer spit a stream of tobacco juice dangerously close to the woman’s foot. “Who’re you to make threats?”

  She smiled, a mere baring of her teeth. “Would you like to find out?”

  Glaring, Bommer rolled his chaw around his mouth. Finally, his glower shifted to Brusenna. “You ain’t worth it, chanter.” He scooped up the coins and stomped back to his booth.

  Hate filled Brusenna. She hated that Bommer’s lies allowed him to abuse her without cause—had earned him ten times his due. She hated the crowd for hating her. Still, it could have been much worse. She could be in the stocks. Grim relief washed through her, cooling her anger. It was past time to be heading home. She twisted to disappear in the crowd. But the strange woman gripped the back of her dress with an iron fist. Knowing better than to fight, Brusenna stifled a groan. Not again, she thought.

  Sheriff Tomack gave the woman a small nod before moving away.

  Brusenna turned a pain-filled glance to the marketplace. Though the crowd had grudgingly moved on, people still shot suspicious, hateful glances her way. Their tolerance of her had taken a dive since the drought had worsened. They blamed her and her mother for their dying crops, simply because they were Witches.

  She forced herself to unclench her fists. The breeze felt cool against her sweaty palms. She turned toward the woman, though she dared not look at her face. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  The woman cocked her head to the side. “Why do you buy from him?”

  Brusenna shrugged. “The others won’t sell to me. And Bommer needs the money.”

  “So he resents you for it.” She released her grip on Brusenna’s dress. “What’s your name, child?” Her voice was as sweet and lingering as the smell of the honeycakes.

  “I’m not a child. My name is Brusenna.”

  The woman sighed in relief. “Ah, Sacra’s daughter. I thought so.”

  How could this woman know Brusenna’s name? Her mother’s name? Her ears buzzed. She managed to bob her head once. She began gathering her scattered packages. The paper scraped loudly against the packed dirt.

  The woman crouched beside her. Picking up the last package, she brushed it off and handed it to Brusenna. “My name is Coyel. Will you take me to your mother?”

  Brusenna’s stomach clenched. There were two iron-clad rules—one: never let them hear your song; two: never lead them home. She swallowed hard. “Thank you, Coyel, for helping me. But I’m not … I mean, I shouldn’t … I mean—”

  Coyel cocked an eyebrow and pitched her voice so no one else would hear, “I’m the eldest Keeper of the Four Sisters.”

  Brusenna blinked in confusion. Coyel’s statement seemed to hold a deeper meaning, but for all her searching, she couldn’t understand it. “I … I’m an only child. My sister died before I was born.”

  A look of disbelief crossed Coyel’s face and Brusenna knew she had missed the mark entirely. “Take me to your home. I must speak with your mother.”

  She bit her bottom lip. Coyel had saved her from the stocks, so if she wanted to speak with her mother … well, Brusenna owed her that much. With a nervous glance at the townspeople, she nodded then scurried through the streets. Almost as soon as the village thinned behind them, they crossed into fields flanked by deep forests that grew over the gentle hills like a furry blanket over sleeping giants. Usually, those forests were deep green, but the drought had caused weaker patches to give up the season, trimming themselves in golds and reds.

  Brusenna’s shoulders itched for the cool, comforting shadows of the trees. She felt naked out in the open like this, where hateful villagers could scrutinize her. She felt even more vulnerable with the echoing clop of the horse’s hooves to remind her of the woman and her cobalt eyes.

  Nearly a league from the marketplace, Brusenna waited while Coyel tied her horse to a nearby tree. The path wound through thickets as dense and tangled as matted cat fur. She and her mother made it this way to keep strangers out.

  Just as she moved to enter the forest, Coyel placed a hand on her shoulder. “This is your home. You should be the one to sing the song.”

  Brusenna’s eyes widened in disbelief. Another Witch? It couldn’t be.

  Coyel lifted an eyebrow. “Unless you’d prefer me to sing?”

  Brusenna didn’t understand. Coyel was beautiful and powerful. Not skittish and weak. How could she be a Witch? “At the marketplace, you knew what I was. How?”

  Coyel shot a glare in the direction of the village. “I heard someone saying the Witch was finally going to the stocks.”

  Brusenna folded her arms across her stomach. It made sense. Who else but another Witch would have helped her?

  Coyel must have sensed her hesitation. “Are you unable?” There was simple curiosity in her gaze. As if she wanted to see if Brusenna could do it.

  Of course she could sing the pathway clear. She’d been doing it for years. But Brusenna hesitated. It went against years of training to sing in front of a stranger. She was nervous to perform in front of another Witch who was everything Brusenna wasn’t.

  Before she could change her mind, she squared her shoulders and started singing.

  Plants of the forest make a path for me,

  For through this forest I must f
lee.

  After I pass hide my trail,

  For an enemy I must quell.

  The underbrush shivered and then untangled like it had been raked through by a wooden comb. As they walked, Brusenna continued her song. As soon as their feet lifted, the plants wove behind them, tangling and knotting themselves into a formidable barrier nearly as tall as a man’s chest.

  What was nearly impossible without the song was fairly easy with it. In no time, they left behind the last of the forest. Brusenna stepped aside, giving the woman a full view of her home. Drought left the whole countryside brittle. And yet here, their lush gardens thrived. The house and barn were neat and well tended. The milk cow lazily munched her cud under the shade of a tree. With a fierce kind of pride, she watched for Coyel’s reaction.

  Coyel took in the prolific gardens with a sweep of her gaze. But the woman didn’t seem impressed. As if she’d expected no less. And maybe she had.

  Brusenna wanted to ask why Coyel had come, but her tongue dried in her mouth. Her mind shouted it instead, What do you want with us?

  Bruke, Brusenna’s enormous wolfhound, noticed them from his position in the shade of the house and bounded forward, the scruff on the back of his neck stiff with distrust. They’d purchased him as a guard dog after someone had shot their old plow horse. His wary eyes shifted to Brusenna in question.

  Brusenna blinked rapidly. She suddenly wanted to explain why she’d broken the rule before the stranger breezed into their house. She darted past Coyel and up the worn path. “Bruke, heel.”

  With a glare at the stranger, Bruke glued himself to Brusenna’s side.

  She pushed open the door to the house. “Mother!” she called, pulling some clinging hair off her sweaty forehead.

  Sacra’s head popped up from the floor cellar. “What is it, Brusenna?”

  “A woman named—”

  “Coyel,” the woman finished as she stepped up behind her.