The West Wind

Published by Andromeda Press Copyright © 2023 Alexandria Warwick All rights reserved. No part of this book may be sold, reproduced, or distributed in any form without written permission from the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. For the frightened and the fearless Table of Contents Part 1 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 Part 2 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Part 3 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Epilogue Author’s Note Also by Alexandria Warwick Acknowledgements About the Author Part 1 the pious Chapter 1 A man lies prone on the ground at my feet, and if I am not mistaken, he is dead. Dead, or close to it. The skew of his limbs reminds me of a broken branch, the pieces scattered. His back is still. There is no rise and fall, no moving air within the lungs. A mess of gold-streaked hair clumps the curve of his skull, insects slithering among the tightly coiled curls. Setting aside my basket of foraged pearl blossom, I step closer. A gust rattles the ancient wood where the mountain stands alone, its snow-capped peak thrusting through the canopy swamping the surrounding lowlands. Carterhaugh, this vast tract of moss and fern, is so dense that as soon as the wind dies, the world quiets. Sound does not travel far here. No birdsong. Not even screams. I nudge the man’s leg with the toe of my boot. No response. The man obviously strayed from the trail—his last mistake. If he is dead, the abbey must be informed. At the very least, he will receive a proper burial. I kneel. The earth, moist and spongy from frequent rain, softens beneath my weight. After settling the skirt of my ankle-length dress around my legs, I reach forward to check his pulse, yet hesitate. Right. I had nearly forgotten. Quickly, I don my slim leather gloves, and only then do I allow that brief touch. Warm. Even through the leather, the heat of his skin bleeds through. With a great heave, I shove the man onto his back. A gasp slips free. I was mistaken. The man is not dead, but he does not appear particularly alive either. I swallow down a surge of distress. Two blackened eyes bulge grotesquely above a horribly broken nose. Thin, chapped lips surround a glint of white teeth. Then there is his sun-kissed skin, barely discernible beneath the abrasions, the bruises edged in yellow-green. Dried blood clots his hairline. As for his attire, it has seen better days. A heavy green cloak fans beneath the mud-spattered tunic. Trousers, torn at the knee, encase a pair of strong legs ending in battered, calf-high boots. I perch on my heels with a frown. Smoke clings to my dress, reminding me of the blades awaiting completion in the forge. “Judge what you know,” I murmur. “Not what you perceive.” I do not know this man’s story. He could be a traveler. Maybe the darkness disoriented him and he lost his way to Thornbrook. Kilmany lies only ten miles southwest—half a day’s trek by wagon. But it appears as though someone dumped his body and left him for dead. Where does this man hail from? More importantly, who hurt him, and why? A great resonance rings off the mountain peak. Seven tolls mark the sacred hour, and I am already late, having wandered too far to collect the medicinal herb. Another glance at the man’s motionless form. My hands curl into fists atop my thighs. The echoes begin to die, rippling far and wide, brushing the shivering leaves of this evergreen place. A shaft of brightest light arches westward. The day wanes. Who can say whether this man encountered the fair folk? It is not uncommon to hear of mortals dragged beneath the earth, held captive by those who dwell within Under, a realm choked by rot and deceit. Mother Mabel insists our doors remain open for those in need, but there’s a problem: he is a man. Thornbrook acts as a religious sanctuary for women great and small. As such, no man may enter the grounds. I cannot risk my safety, nor the safety of my peers, to help him. After a time, I rise, belly cold with the understanding that my departure will leave this man alone, vulnerable. But it must be done. Snatching my basket, I fly across the sloped earth, navigating the winding footpath leading back to the abbey. And there are the gates, the church spire, the moss-eaten walls. Thornbrook is a climbing triumph of pale stone. Iron points jut upward like blackest teeth along the top of the wall, which encompasses the spreading grounds. According to the Text, the Father’s most devout acolytes built this wall themselves, dragging the massive stone up the mountain, stacking it three stories high. Ferns cloak its base and crawl through cracks. The gatehouse offers two methods of entry: a wide archway for carts and horses, and a narrow doorway for those traveling on foot. I wave to the porter, and she promptly lifts the gate. The open-aired cloister comes into view as I dash across the grassy yard. Slipping through a side door, I hurry down the south passage, then turn left to enter the dormitory, climbing the staircase to the third floor. Once inside my bedroom, I exchange my gray, everyday dress for my alb—the long white robe worn during Mass—and