Drift: River of Falcons Book 1

Prologue: The Year Before

A green valley with small farms separated by patches of forest. A silver river winding southward toward the distant blue sea. And a dark stain in the foothills to the north where sorcerers make their base and train their apprentices—those apprentices who survive long enough to advance, that is.

All across that once-joyful valley, girls of a certain age live with the fear that they might be discovered and taken by the sorcerers so that the Old One's deathbed prophecy would not come true.

Because the prophecy says that, should a princess receive her true names, she will overthrow the sorcerers and set the valley free once again. And even the sorcerers have a certain respect for the Fena witches and the prophecy of their Old One. And so the sorcerers are determined that not a single girl the right age to be the princess can live long enough to make it to their naming ceremony.

Meanwhile the sorcerers continue to raid farms for livestock and apprentices and the valley shivers under their cold shadow.

Let's look more closely at one such farm where, at this very moment, fear is tightening its grip.

*

Thunder rocked the old farmhouse so hard that mortar dust was shaken out of the stone walls, clouding the dimly lit room. The residents huddled around their rain-spattered hearth. They did not yet know that the storm was targeting them in particular, and that it was a fair spring day everywhere else in the valley.

A hawk tucked its wings and sliced into the storm, flapping to a windy landing in the cold rain. Its hooked bill and hooded eyes were silhouetted by a flash of lightning.

The next flash illuminated a broad-shouldered man in a dark cloak, standing where the hawk had been. He strode to the house, raised his staff, and banged on the door. When no one answered, he cupped his hand over the iron lock.

The lock exploded under the man's hand and the door slapped open. As he entered, an elderly woman rushed forward. "I'm so sorry, Sir, but we're not prepared for visitors," she said. "My deepest apologies."

"A boy and a girl," he growled, pushing past her. "In their teens."

"They've gone out," the woman called, hurrying into the main room after him.

"Have they?" He planted his staff in front of him with a thump and examined the room's inhabitants. A woman with long black hair sat tensely by the stone fireplace, a baby sleeping on her lap. An old man sat stiffly in a rocking chair, a corncob pipe gripped in the corner of his mouth. As the residents met the intruder's gaze, their eyebrows lowered and their lips tightened with anger, but neither spoke.

The old woman hurried in. "I'm sorry, but since they've gone, so there's no point in—"

The intruder held up a hand. "I sent the storm for good reason. No one goes out in weather like this."

"So clever of you," the old woman agreed, "so very clever, but I'm afraid they went anyway, and—"

"Where did they go?"

"See here," the old man said, his pipe dipping with each gruff word. "That's none of your business."

"Please, Dear," the old woman said, darting a stern look at the old man. "Let me handle this." She turned back to the intruder. "None of us knows where they went. My granddaughter ran off without saying a word and my grandson is trying to find her. However," she added, "you needn't concern yourself with them. The girl's too old to be the one you seek. She's no more a princess than I am. As for my grandson, he has little talent." She shook her head to emphasize the point. "He'd make a poor apprentice at best. You are a sorcerer, I presume?"