Siena: The Forestfolk Series, #1

By Zoe Blessing

Siena can heal wounds with a touch of her hands. A captive since birth, she is used as a tool of war by a Plainsmen tribe. A chance escape into the forest proves successful… and deadly. Rescued by the Forestfolk—a group of people she always thought were nothing more than bedtime stories—Siena remains on edge. Trust does not come easily when persecution is all she’s ever known.

Keeping her abilities a secret seems like the right thing to do, until a tragic accident renders two Forestfolk spiraling toward death. If she chooses to reveal her abilities, she risks being subjugated again. Treated as no longer human. Maybe even sent back to the Plainsmen. But keeping her talent to herself means ignoring the injured around her, even allowing them to die. The choice seems obvious to Siena, but living with the repercussions of that choice is another matter altogether.

A journey of self-discovery, a bit of adventure, and a splash of romance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pennydragon Press
• Release date: Apr 5, 2017
• ISBN: 9780998861418

Zoe Blessing

Zoe is a web designer by day, and superhero by night. Novelist. She meant to say novelist by night. She lives in San Diego, California, where she enjoys ice cream, practicing acts of kindness, writing Young Adult fiction, and fending off two little dogs from said ice cream.

Book preview

Chapter 1

When the warrior loomed in the doorway of my hut, I exhaled with resignation.

Here we go.

Siena! You are needed, he muttered, dragging me out without any concern for the well-being of my not quite fifteen-year-old arm. His own arm bulged with muscle, peppered with dark hair and blood spatter. I had trouble keeping up with his urgent stride as he yanked me along.

We approached the compound’s perimeter, where a line of groaning, injured men lay just inside. They had head wounds, deep gashes, bloody punctures—all the usual signs of a pitched battle between tribes.

The warrior tossed me toward them and grunted, Heal them.

I fell, skinning the scraggy knees that poked out from beneath my worn, deer hide dress. Wincing, I glared at his boots, too timid to openly meet his eyes. My nose wrinkled at the smell of unwashed fighters, but I had no choice but to begin my task. I cupped one man’s head in my hands. His long hair was dark brown and wild, like all the other tribe-born. I concentrated the healing energy, willing it to flow into my hands, watching as the blood stopped gushing and the laceration slowly knitted together. I shifted to the next man and eased the bleeding from his leg. On the next I soothed away a burn. On and on I went down the line, my energy steadily draining away, blinking rapidly as my vision dimmed.

By the time I reached the last man, I was dizzy, unable to even stand. He clutched his stomach and shouted obscenities at enemies far away.

Hurry up and fix me, whelp! he bellowed.

I placed my hands on his wound, but had trouble summoning any more strength.

What’s taking so long? I swear you’re slower than a two-legged toad!

I tried harder, but blackness crowded the edges of my sight. Only a tiny trickle of energy murmured within me.

You’re useless! He pushed me aside, sending me sprawling. I must have healed him enough, though, for he sprang to his feet and ran headlong into battle once again. I lay there, breath shallow, slowly slipping away. Someone hauled me onto a shoulder and carried me away as the darkness descended.

* * *

When I was four, I learned about life and death, and then life again. It was my mother’s turn to go out and gather herbs, and I wanted to go with her. I had insisted that I was too big for the nursery and even went to pick up the gathering basket, which was almost as large as I was. She finally relented and showed me how she tied her pale hair back so it wouldn’t get caught by branches. I tagged along, hanging onto the woven grass skirt she wore. I had the very important task of basket carrier while she picked medicinal herbs, and I did it well until I saw the bird.

It wasn’t a very large bird, but its long claws and curved beak revealed that it was a hunter. I watched as it swooped at a passing sparrow and captured it in its claws. A hawk saw the kill and dove at the smaller one, trying to steal its meal. The sparrow was released in mid-air and dropped into the thick grasses below.

No! I cried and dropped the basket to run toward the fallen bird.

Siena! my mother called, and started chasing me.

I managed to find the bird amid the grass. Its body was bloody and broken, but still struggling for breath. I cupped the poor creature in my hands, bottom lip protruding as sorrow flooded me, the ache in my chest a gaping chasm. I couldn’t bear its suffering. If only I could do something. Make it better somehow.

My mother caught up to me, pale brows drawn into a tight scowl. Then she saw my stricken face and the bleeding little sparrow in my hands. She put an arm around my shoulder instead of scolding me, and we watched in reverent silence as the bird seemed to shudder in its death throes.

Then something miraculous happened. Its wings quivered and it sat upright onto its feet. After turning its head this way and that, it fluttered away. I gaped as the bird flew to a nearby tree, chirping with newfound life.

I asked my mother what happened.

She told me to swear never to tell anyone about it.

So I didn’t.

It didn’t matter, though, because a few years later, someone else did.

* * *

It wasn’t until the following day that I discovered what the battle was even about. I was heading toward the river to refill my water pot. A guard trailed at a distance behind me, as one always did, to ensure their precious commodity didn’t run away.

The compound sat on higher ground, some distance away from the slow-moving river. It was a cluster of structures, some temporary like tents, and some permanent like mud huts, surrounded by a wooden fence. This fence, comprised of roughly hewn wooden poles planted into the ground about two hand-widths apart, made it easier to protect the perimeter against animals and invaders. Mostly other tribes. Nearly all the Plainsmen lived in tribal compounds like this. My mother used to tell me stories of nomadic tribes who lived in harmony with nature, moving to various locations to follow food sources or weather patterns. It made me wonder what happened to them.

From the break in the perimeter, I shaded my eyes and followed the river’s meandering line across the plain. The sun glinted off its surface like a sparkling snake slithering through the grasslands. The plains stretched all the way to the horizon in some places, dotted only by an occasional shade tree.

As I proceeded to the river, another man fell into step with the guard behind me, his footsteps heavy. Guard duty again? His voice was deep and gruff, which I recognized as belonging to Grash. Are you really that useless and soft?

The guard attempted a manly scoff, though at sixteen, he was barely older than I was. I do more around here than you so-called warriors. Who attacked us, anyway?

It was those flea-infested Krat. I’m recommending to Chief Magar that we counter-attack at once. While they’re still wounded. Make them think twice about challenging the Zurbo tribe.

Why would they attack us?

Who cares? Grash spat. By the time we’re done with them, they won’t know why they attacked us either.

I heard they have a new chieftain, and he’s killing all Aberrations. You think that’s why they attacked us? Because we have some living with us?

My stomach dropped. Aberrations. Like me. I turned around to look at them and was immediately met with a glare from Grash.

Do you forget your place, girl? he snarled.

I immediately whipped my head around and fastened my gaze on the ground, my straw-colored hair hiding my frown.

If it were up to me, Grash said, projecting his voice to make sure I heard him. I’d kill them all. Unnatural and treacherous, all of them. But Chief Magar insists they have use, so we keep them alive.

I guess, said the young guard. But . . . it wouldn’t be so bad to be like Stobon, right? I mean, he never misses a target, ever.

Listen, boy, Grash rasped. Feet scuffled, and with a stolen glance I saw he had grabbed the young guard’s arm. "If I was an Aberration, I’d kill myself! Chief Magar may tolerate the useful ones, but we both agree they can’t be trusted."

I gritted my teeth. As far as I was concerned, Grash and Chief Magar could both suck a toad.

I reached the river’s edge, grateful to give my jittery hands something to do. If there was one person who made my skin crawl on a regular basis, it was Grash.

He wandered away, probably to go ogle some women bathing in the river, and I rinsed out my clay pot. Child-like war cries sounded in the distance. I watched Pimo, my nine-year-old half brother, running after his friends along the shore, waving a stick overhead like an axe. He ran anywhere he pleased because he was the son of a Plainsman, and also not an Aberration. We shared a mother, but that was about all we had in common.

When he reached me, he stood at the water’s edge, stance wide like a small warrior squaring off. His little friends gathered around where I crouched in the water, filling my pot. I sighed. Not again.

He pointed his stick at me. Your eyes are weird because you’re evil inside, and it’s seeping out.

Evil is blue? one of his friends asked.

Shut up! You don’t know anything. Pimo turned back to me. Aberrations stink like boar poop.

His friends all laughed.

Encouraged, he began singing, Aberrations are boar poop! Siena smells like boar poop!

His friends joined in, and I gripped the pot until my fingers ached. It didn’t matter how much I wanted to dunk every one of them into the water, I wasn’t allowed to touch them. Not unless they needed healing.

I began fantasizing about beating them to a breath away from death, and then healing them afterward, only to beat them again.

Who knew vermin had such beautiful singing voices? someone said.

Meresh! The singing stopped and the children crowded around the chieftain’s son.

I have a task for the most useful one here, he said. Which of you is that?

I am! they all chimed at once.

All of you, huh? Okay, let’s have a contest. I want to see who can bring me the most reeds. Don’t pick the scrawny ones! They have to be thick enough to make baskets. Understood? Okay, go!

The boys scattered and began shoving each other as they ran.

Saved you again, didn’t I? Meresh approached me and I stood, knee-deep in water. Of all the Plainsmen in this tribe, he was by far the nicest. Even if he was a little full of himself.

Thank you, Meresh. I looked down at the water as it swirled past my shins, unsure what else to say.

Here, let me take that. He waded in and hoisted the water pot into his sturdy arms.

There’s no need. I can—

I know. I just want to.

As we walked back to my hut, I wondered aloud, Why?

Why what?

Why are you nice to me? You know I’m an Aberration, right?

He laughed easily. Maybe some are dangerous, but I’ve seen you. You don’t even swat flies. I don’t think you’d harm anyone.

So you talk to me because you know you can take me in a fight, is that it? I wondered what he’d think if he could have seen the inside of my head a few moments ago.

He raised an eyebrow at me and puffed out his chest a little. I can take a lot of people in a fight. But I talk to you because I like you.

Won’t your father be angry?

His lips twisted and he shifted the water pot in his arms. Maybe. But I’m a man now. I do what I want.

Two brown-haired women who had been talking and heading toward the river abruptly altered course, walking a wide circle around us and shaking their heads, muttering things to each other. I noticed his eyes following them uneasily.

You’re my age. Are you sure about that? I took the pot from his arms. Thanks for your help. I’ll take it from here.

He gave me a tight smile and nodded his farewell before loping off in another direction.

I had just set the pot down inside my hut when Shandy loomed in the doorway, his great shaggy head swiveling around until he saw me. He staggered in, limping, and fell into a nearby chair. I was surprised it held together.

I have an injury, girl! He was completely unaware how loud he was. The stench of ale filled the room.

I sighed—inwardly, because any sign of non-compliance is a punishable offense—and trudged to the large man. His feet were filthy and bare, and one of them had a large bloody hole in it. I didn’t bother wondering what happened to him. Shandy was no stranger to drunken stumbling. I imagined he probably staggered around the grounds until he stepped on a wooden spike or tree branch. It probably took him a full minute to even notice it. But he was well liked because everyone admired his intimidating size. It was one of the most valued traits in a Zurbo tribesman.

I placed my hands around the injury and concentrated. My energy flowed into the wound, and it soon closed up. He peered over his belly at the foot and smiled. One of his teeth was missing.

You’re a good kid, he said gruffly and patted my head with more force than I think he intended, jarring my skull against my neck. Then he pushed himself up from the chair and clomped out without another word.

This was my life. My sole purpose in this tribe. They got injured, and I healed them. I suppose it could be worse.

I could be dead.

Chapter 2

Although I had my own hut, I could never really call it my own.

A screech outside startled me from my nap. "I don’t want to go in there! She’s an Aberration!" A child’s voice.

Then remember that the next time you decide to split your head on a rock, scolded his mother. Who said it was a good idea to jump from that tree?

I couldn’t hear what he grumbled next, but she soon dragged him through the doorway, stopping just inside.

I smoothed my dress—I’m pretty sure my hair was hopeless—and stepped forward. How can I help you?

The boy, whom I recognized as a member of Pimo’s poop-singing chorus, hid behind her skirt. She dragged him out, his planted feet sliding across the ground, and then I saw why they were here. Blood streamed from the cuts all over one side of his head, matting his dark hair and staining his bare shoulder.

I stepped toward him, and he shuffled behind his mother again. With a small sigh, I sat in the chair to make myself less hostile to this boy. She pushed him toward me, close enough for me to reach him, and I extended my hands.

Ow! he said before I even made contact.

I jerked my hands away, casting a nervous glance at his mother.

She frowned at me.

The sooner you let me heal you, I whispered, the sooner you can leave.

With an impatient huff, he remained still, and I laid my hands on his head. When I finished, he scampered away, tugging his mother toward the entrance. The woman tossed me a curt thank you before exiting.

How come she gets a whole hut to herself, and we have to share? the boy whined once they were outside.

Hush, she said. What she can do is unnatural. You can’t trust someone like that. Who knows what else she can do?

My cheeks flushed with shame, and I was glad no one was around to see it.

I stared at my hands. Hands that helped people and made them distrust me at the same time. It wasn’t my fault that I had these aberrant abilities, but according to them, I was born a bad person. Unworthy.

Stop.

A few years after my mother died, I told myself I would not indulge in self-pity. My mother wanted me to stay strong, and so I would.

I dropped my hands to my sides and stood, lifting my chin. A weaving project would give me something else to think about. Yes, perhaps a new grass mat.

I headed to the firewood tent, where the tribe also kept reeds and other plant material for weaving and similar projects. If it weren’t for crafting, I might go insane here.