Free The Chosen (The Compendium of Raath, Book 1) by Michael Mood Page A

before you were born,
Wren.”
    Her father rarely spoke of his past. And the
time period around her mother's death was very off-limits. Wren
didn't remember her mother, so naturally she had been curious. She
had started asking questions when she was six years old, but her
father had dismissed them very quickly and had let her know with a
whupping that that time in his life was not to be talked about.
    “If he loved it back then, I'm not so sure
he still will,” Wren said.
    “Sure he will,” Jon said. “I know your
father's hard on you Wren, but he loves you in his way. There's a
lot you don't know about him.” Jon started ladling soup into
individual wooden bowls and setting them on the table. “For
example,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “did you know that Cole
used to be a champion rider?”
    Wren was shocked. “I
didn't.” But it doesn't change how I feel
about him . . . does it? “We only have
plow horses now . . . I've never seen him up on one.”
    “It's true,” Jon said. “When your mother
died, he gave up so much of what he had been. I always tried to
cheer him through it, you know? But another thing about Cole was
that he was always so stubborn, ya know. And he always . . . liked
the drink.”
    Wren hadn't known how
deeply Jon Hatfeld's relationship with her father had gone. Jon was
always around during harvest, but . . . they were friends .
    The house smelled of soup and cornbread when
the other men came tromping in from the fields.
    “Take your boots off before you come in
here,” Wren said, immediately falling into the appropriate role. It
was a fine thing to hide behind.
    “Yes ma'am,” they each replied.
    The respect felt good.
    But her heart still ached because she hadn't
been able to kill that mouse.
     
-3-
     
    T hat night, as Jon had predicted, Wren found herself sitting
in a wagon drawn by two large brown horses. Her father drove the
horses with Jon next to him. Wren sat in the back. It was a rough
ride, but the wagon had served them faithfully for many years
despite the fact that its wood was marred and broken in places.
They had also had to replace the axle a few times.
    Marshanti was at least a
good day and a half ride from their farm. Plenty of time for something to go horribly wrong. Wren had seen her father grab a jug of something
and stash it under a blanket up next to him. She couldn't be
completely sure it was booze, but she had learned to be realistic
the hard way. To not get her hopes up.
    Wren was only along for two reasons. One was
because Jon Hatfeld was going. The nervousness she felt around her
father was balanced out by Jon's calming presence. Besides, she
doubted her father would try anything with Jon around. At least,
that was how it was supposed to work, wasn't it? All sorts of
disgusting images flashed through her head but she quickly banished
them. If she continued down that path her chest would tighten up
and panic would set in. She couldn’t afford that.
    The other reason she had come along was to
see the animals at the carnival. She was interested from a more
innocent perspective, of course, but this could also lead her to
the release she would need: hurting a Graybeast. She smiled at the
grim prospect of her quest. This wasn't what heroes in stories did
– go on journeys to hurt animals – but that's what she felt like. A
hero, surviving against all odds to accomplish her goal.
    The wagon wheels sloshed through puddles as
they rolled along on the vague road that would lead them to
Marshanti, and Wren's destiny.
     
-4-
     
    S leep was non-existent for Wren that night.
    The trio had found a good spot and built a
fire. Jon and her father were sitting on blankets talking and
laughing while Wren pouted on the other side of the blaze in her
shoddy sleeping bag. Was her father really two different people?
Looking at him like this, under the stars beside a fire, joking
with Jon Hatfeld, he almost looked human. How could he have done
the things he had? Was it the