The Night of Deliverance
1142 Words
Chapter Three
The Night of Deliverance
The first bell rang before dawn.
Its low, mournful toll drifted over Ashmoor like mist, stirring the village long before the sun climbed above the eastern ridge.
Rowan had always hated that sound.
It was not the bright peal of weddings or the joyful chorus that welcomed the spring harvest. It was slower. Heavier.
A bell meant to remind the living that someone had died so they could continue breathing.
Today, every bell carried her father's name.
Not because anyone spoke it.
Because no one did.
She sat on the edge of her narrow bed for several moments after waking, listening as the seventh bell faded into silence. Frost had crept across the corners of her window during the night, tracing delicate white branches over the glass. Beyond them, Ashmoor was already awake.
Voices drifted up from the streets.
Laughter.
The rumble of wagon wheels.
Children chasing one another through the snow.
By evening those same streets would glow with hundreds of lanterns, every doorway dressed in evergreen garlands and crimson ribbons.
The Night of Deliverance.
The village's favorite celebration.
Her least.
She reached for the cloak hanging beside the door.
It was the only thing she had left of her mother.
The crimson wool had faded in places where years of use had softened the dye, yet it remained impossibly warm even in winter. Rowan brushed a hand over the embroidery stitched along the hem—tiny silver vines twisting around crescent moons.
Strange.
Every other red cloak was embroidered with the crest of Saint Alaric.
Only hers carried moons.
She had asked Father Aldren about it once.
He had changed the subject.
By the time Rowan reached the village square, Ashmoor had transformed.
Long wooden tables stretched from one end of the marketplace to the other beneath strings of lanterns waiting for nightfall. Bakers stacked warm loaves into towering baskets while butchers roasted whole boars over open fires. Musicians tuned fiddles beside the fountain, and children darted through the crowd wearing little red capes fashioned from scraps of cloth.
They laughed as they chased one boy with a carved wooden wolf mask.
"Monster!" a girl squealed, brandishing a stick like a sword.
"You'll never catch me!" the boy cried, weaving between the stalls.
He let out an exaggerated howl.
The other children shrieked with delighted terror.
Rowan stopped walking.
For a heartbeat, she saw herself among them.
Six years old.
Tiny boots slipping through fresh snow.
Her father lifted her onto his shoulders so she could watch the lanterns being hung.
"Again!" she laughed.
"Higher!"
His deep laugh had answered hers.
"One day you'll be taller than me, little sparrow."
"Never!"
"You'll see."
The memory shattered as someone brushed past her shoulder.
"I'm sorry!"
A young woman carrying an armful of winter roses offered an apologetic smile.
Rowan blinked, realizing she had drifted to the middle of the road.
"It's all right."
She forced a smile in return.
The past had an irritating habit of finding her in happy places.
"Rowan!"
The familiar voice cut through the crowd.
A girl about her age hurried toward her, skirts gathered in both hands to keep them from dragging through the slush.
Elena.
If Rowan was winter, Elena was spring.
Golden curls escaped beneath a knitted bonnet, freckles dusted her cheeks, and she smiled so easily it was difficult not to smile back.
"You disappeared yesterday."
"I was working."
"You are always working."
"I like working."
"No." Elena looped an arm through hers.
"You like avoiding people."
Rowan sighed.
"Everyone says that."
"Because everyone is right."
Before Rowan could answer, Elena pressed a warm honey pastry into her hands.
"You skipped breakfast."
"How do you know?"
"You forget breakfast every festival."
Rowan laughed softly.
"I hate that you notice things."
"I know."
"I make it my life's work."
For a while they wandered together through the market.
Elena greeted nearly everyone by name.
Rowan nodded politely when spoken to, though conversations rarely lasted long.
Some villagers smiled warmly.
Others looked at her with sympathy.
A few looked away altogether.
Traitor's daughter.
They never said it aloud anymore.
They didn't need to.
Near the church steps, Captain Garrick barked orders to a line of young hunters.
"Bows higher."
"If your shoulders ache, hold them longer."
"A tired hunter is still alive."
"A careless one is dead."
The recruits obeyed instantly.
Among them stood Adrian Thorne.
He couldn't have been older than twenty-three.
Broad shouldered.
Dark-haired.
Confident in the effortless way only people raised to expect greatness ever were.
He noticed Rowan watching.
His mouth lifted into a crooked smile.
"Lady Red."
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
"I've told you not to call me that."
"And I've ignored you every time."
He crossed the training yard, carrying his bow across one shoulder.
"I hear you're helping Father Aldren tonight."
"I always do."
"You could join the hunters instead."
She laughed.
"I think Captain Garrick would rather wrestle a bear."
"He wouldn't."
Adrian lowered his voice.
"You're still the best tracker I've ever met."
A compliment.
An honest one.
Rowan had spent years wandering the hills surrounding Blackwood.
She could read broken branches like sentences.
Identify birds by their songs.
Follow a trail through fresh snow after everyone else has lost it.
Captain Garrick himself had once admitted she possessed instincts no hunter could teach.
Perhaps that was why she had never been invited to join them.
Some bloodlines carried honor.
Others carried suspicion.
That afternoon, Rowan returned to the little cottage she had inherited after Father Aldren became her guardian.
She climbed the narrow ladder into the attic.
Dust swirled through shafts of pale sunlight as she knelt before an old cedar chest.
It had belonged to her mother.
She had searched for it dozens of times over the years.
Clothes.
Letters from neighbors.
A broken music box.
Nothing unusual.
Today...
Something caught her eye.
The bottom of the chest sat unevenly.
Frowning, Rowan ran her fingers along the wooden boards.
A hollow sound answered.
Her pulse quickened.
There was a false bottom.
She wedged the tip of a butter knife beneath the seam and gently pried upward.
The panel lifted.
Inside rested a bundle wrapped in oilskin.
No jewelry.
No gold.
Only papers.
Her father's handwriting covered the first page.
Rowan froze.
She had not seen those neat, familiar letters since she was six years old.
The ink had faded slightly with age, but the first sentence remained perfectly clear.
If you are reading this, it means I failed.
Her breath caught.
Outside, the church bells began ringing again, calling the village to the evening procession.
But Rowan heard nothing except the frantic pounding of her own heart.
For thirteen years she had believed the dead had nothing left to say.
She had been wrong.
- Writer
