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  Birthright

  Wendy L. Koenig

  Published: 2017

  ISBN: 978-1-62210-443-7

  Published by Blue Swan Publishing. Copyright © 2017, Wendy L. Koenig.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Manufactured in the USA

  Email [email protected] with questions, or inquiries about Blue Swan Publishing or Ten West Publishing.

  Blurb

  Fiera, a witch, has stayed hidden all her life. When her parents die from a famine in early Medieval England, she decides to begin a new life elsewhere, first meeting Captain, a horse she can speak with, and then rescuing a witch child, Marie. Efar, a griffin, is tired of his life as a lady's man and wants to settle down. Just as he realizes Fiera's not what he first believed, a vicious band of highwaymen attacks, stealing Captain and mortally injuring Marie. As Fiera rushes to the nearby city of Chester to save Marie and Efar races after the stolen Captain, a dragon shifter prince, Bartheleme, plots to ruin their happiness.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my editors, my critique partners, and to Barb and Katja, my beta readers. Without you, this book would not be a reality. You're all awesome!

  Chapter 1

  Fiera watched the body of her mother slowly disappear. One-by-one, the villagers placed their stones on the woman that had borne her and, until that morning, had brushed her hair every day. Her father lay nearby, under his own pile, settled from rains that had come too late for her parents. Now Fiera was alone. With her parents’ death just days from each other, it was as if she had died, too.

  She bore her grief in every pore of her body. Yet, she stood by and did nothing. Leery villagers filed past, offering condolences. The neighbor woman, who sometimes entertained soldiers, took her gingerly by the waist and guided her home to a table filled with meager offerings of food.

  The bereaved eagerly ate and mostly left her alone, sneaking quick looks when they thought she didn’t see, then turning back to their friends, shaking their heads sadly.

  For hours this lasted, and would have gone all night, but Fiera rose to her feet, stumbled out the door, and back to the graves of her family. The sun had given way to night and it had started raining again. A fine shower hugged her as she lowered herself to huddle between her parents. The water slipped into the ground and disappeared, leaving the soil as hard and cracked as before, not enough to erase the hunger of either the land or its people. Tomorrow, there would still be dust.

  The neighbor woman followed with a lard-thickened blanket that was meant to lie beneath a traveler as they slept in the open night. She drew it tightly around Fiera and left, muttering, “We’ll probably be at her funeral within a few days’ time.”

  Nineteen and Fiera was alone. If she’d married like others much younger, then she’d have had a husband and his family to help her through. Then again, they might have died from the famine as well.

  Slowly, the understanding of her sudden freedom crept over her. Rising, and with no plans or sense of her direction, she stumbled across the broken land in the rain, her blanket as her only shelter. Through the night she walked on hunger weakened muscles, at times falling to lie in a crumpled heap until the awful ache within her heart drove her on. The rain ceased, leaving the ground dry and choking, as if water had never touched it. At long last, she came to a road and the struggle of whether to turn east or west sapped the remains of her energy. She slumped to the ground, waiting for fate to decide her death.

  Finally, in the dawn hour, Fiera heard the clack of hooves on stone, the creak of braces, and the low toneless hum of a merchant coming from the east.

  She struggled to her feet and tugged the blanket to cover her tangled fawn-red hair. The effort to hide herself had a cost and she tipped toward the ground. In what she supposed could be considered a miracle, she managed to stay on her feet by flailing her arms and stumbling a few steps.

  A giant single-horse cart appeared from around a bend. It was loaded with rattling pots and pans, bolts of fabric, herbs, jars of assorted nails, and other items. A huge dappled gray horse slowly pulled at the traces while an ancient man with a long white drooping moustache hunched on a seat with thick springs and an even thicker pad.

  “Whoa!” The aged merchant heavily leaned back on the reins, sawing at the horse’s mouth. He peered at her in the awakening light. “What do we have here?”

  Too weary to speak, Fiera waited for the merchant to decide what to do about her, swaying on her feet like a leaf on one of the dying trees around her.

  After a long slow consideration, the old man pursed his lips. “Well, come on, then. You can climb up by yourself, can’t you?”

  Dumbly, she shuffled toward the cart. The giant draft horse looked her in the eye, its thoughts in her head. Witch, beware of this man. He steals from other merchants and the poor. He only feeds me when he steals.

  Fiera paused at the horse’s muscled neck, giving it long strokes, in part to buy time while she spoke with the horse, but also to steady herself. Animals always knew the truth. She wasn’t surprised this one had seen her identity, but horses rarely cared about the affairs of men until it affected them, such as this horse’s hunger. She would be wise to consider its words. If the animal was to be believed, the merchant wasn’t to be trusted. Will you carry me?

  The horse bobbed its head. Anywhere.

  With shaking fingers, she smoothed her hands over the brace buckles, feeling them disappear beneath her fingers. You will need to lower yourself so I can mount.

  “What’s going on?” The old man rose from his seat, the springs squawking from lack of grease, and he peered down at her. “Stop! What are you doing?”

  He tied off the reins. As he climbed down from the cart, the braces dropped to the ground and the horse lowered to its knees. Fiera slid across its wide back and wound one hand through its thick mane, her other hand tightly clutching the blanket around her. She clamped her legs around the horse’s ribs. Even still, the horse nearly unseated her as it lunged to its feet and they took off, two steps ahead of the cursing merchant. She only hoped she had enough strength to stay mounted for the journey.

  Hunkered low over the horse’s muscled shoulders, they flew past thinly foliaged trees and brush that was nothing more than sticks, leaves long dried and blown away. Watching the landscape blow past dizzied her, so she concentrated on the road instead. The horse’s hooves burst the dust off the ground like small explosions. Boom-boom…boom. Boom-boom…boom.

  She asked, What’s your name?

  I’m called Captain. I was first a soldier’s horse.

  I’m Fiera.

  Fire! Like your hair?

  Yes. Like my hair. The brown of bare trees ripped past as the clouds above dissipated. Beneath her, the boom-boom…boom took her further away from her only home. She turned and looked behind them at the dust trail that became a wall between her and the past. There would be no more hiding, no more shame. Despite the ache in her heart over the loss of her parents, she smiled. It was time for a new beginning.

  Her traveling companion seemed to enjoy the journey. He stretched his long neck forward and tossed his head. Where are we going?

  Anywhere there was life. Her heart hurt for her parents, yes, but it also ached for the friendship of her own kind: witches. And it ac
hed for something else, something she couldn’t quite define. As far away as we can.

  * * * *

  Efar stood on the doorstep of the little cottage that had been his home for the last four months. He reached up and placed his hands inside the doorway, not so much as to stretch, but more to keep himself in place. The beast within him surged, reminding him that he was not one person, but sometimes two. His fingers beat a staccato rhythm on the ancient wood as he let his gaze rove the valley.

  Lush green trees, thick grass, and flowers of nearly every hue and fragrance were interspersed with bold swaths of golden grain and vegetable plants heavy with produce. The pigs were fat, cows and goats swung pendulous udders, and the horses frolicked in the field.

  Behind him, in the cabin, worked a beautiful woman, Gabriella, with long black hair, honey-colored skin, full lips, and patience in her eyes. The exact opposite of him. He was fair-skinned, blond, blue-eyed, and impatient with most things, but trying to learn to be different.

  He had a reputation as being fond of the ladies. Of never being able to settle down. His mother, out of desperation, had turned to her brother, the King of the Griffins, who had set him up to run this small holding.

  Gabriella was the wife of a fallen soldier. Not of his choosing. Yet, he’d been quite taken by her when they’d met.

  He had everything any man could want. So, why was he thinking of leaving?

  His fingers stopped drumming. He knew the reason: he wasn’t in love. He and Gabriella had tried to be. It just wasn’t working. And she, with the long-enduring patience of a saint, would never tell him to leave. Though he knew she wanted him to go.

  He barked a laugh and shook his head. Such was the story of his life. Why couldn’t he be like most men: stay, work the farm, raise babies, love or not? Gabriella would keep him comfortable.

  He dropped his arms. Because, he wanted more than comfort. He wanted passion. Somewhere, a woman with fire in her eyes and bravery in her heart waited for him. His woman. He couldn’t rest until he found her.

  He turned back toward the dim light of the cottage, but he couldn’t make himself step all the way inside. He raised his gaze and met Gabriella’s patient eyes. She knew he had to find his own way. Be his own man.

  Without saying a word, he pivoted and walked into the bank of trees. He wasn’t going to worry about her. She wouldn’t be working the farm alone for very long. During the time he’d been with her, he’d chased off three would-be lovers. It wouldn’t take her long to find a new “husband”, probably someone more suited to her. She’d be fine.

  As soon as he was out of sight, he undressed and loosed the creature within him. It grew and stretched, his bones aching with each inch they lengthened. He could change in the blink of an eye, but there was a price to pay if he did. The pain would be excruciating, nearly blinding.

  So, he kept it slow, taking long minutes to become the creature. His arms thickened heavily until they touched the ground with fingers that sharpened into talons. His back broadened and wings sprouted on his shoulder blades, spreading to a span of nearly fifteen feet. A fine coating of golden brown fur coated his skin from his feet until just below his wings where it changed to feathers that covered all the rest of his upper body, including his face. His already large nose increased, becoming an eagle’s beak and his hips and legs changed to that of a giant cat’s, complete with lion’s tail.

  When he finished shifting, he stood a little over nine feet tall, small for a griffin. He clacked his beak. He may be small, but he was fast. More than once he’d taught his taunting brethren to respect that. There were no other creatures in the sky that could catch him.

  Efar launched into the air, thrusting hard with all the strength of his wings. The giddiness of freedom filled him, and he greeted the sky with a deep, piercing cry. He hadn’t realized how miserable he’d been, trying to live the life of a man, denying his truest nature. Never again.

  With another full-throated cry, he turned and picked up a western tailwind.

  Chapter 2

  As the day grew and warmed, white sweat from the horse built beneath Fiera’s thighs. She’d slid the blanket down to her waist, but it still held the heat against her. She’d thought once or twice about dropping it, but her sticky thighs proved that she would need it. Her clothes were soaked and plastered to her body, like a second skin.

  Captain kept a tireless rhythm, alternating between a walk and his deep drumming gallop, always traveling north. He’d tried a trot once, but had slowed when she’d nearly bounced off him.

  The scenery around them changed little. Dry sparse trees and shrubs crowded the cracked earth of the road. And always that dust cloud followed Captain’s hooves. The forest was silent, songbirds long moving on in search of water. The air was tight and dry and the only things that moved within it were crows and other carrion birds and the insects that drew liquids from the bodies they found. With the famine, they’d all gotten quite fat.

  Early afternoon found Fiera and Captain approaching the outskirts of a small village called Midden. Trees and brush along the road fell away to rock enclosed flat cracked dirt that had recently been fields. The whole of the settlement circled a dried center fountain on baked earth. There were five or six houses, a mercantile, and an inn, all caked with a thick layer of dust.

  Captain stopped. Do we go around?

  We need food and rest. Let me down.

  The horse obediently lowered to his knees, and she slid off his back. Her legs buckled with her weight and she fell heavily against the horse. Even riding had sapped energy from her hunger-weakened body. What she had to do now, this little bit of magic, would take almost everything she had left.

  She reached around her waist for the blanket that clung there. Folding it neatly, she laid it on Captain’s broad back, closed her eyes and concentrated, the finger of her right hand splayed across the cloth, her other hand resting on the side of his jaw. The magic moved slower than ever before because of her weakened condition, but she eventually felt the blanket smooth and stiffen. A straight flat piece of leather formed on Captain’s face.

  Fiera opened her eyes and viewed her work. Instead of the blanket, a faded and scratched brown soldier’s saddle sat strapped on Captain’s back and a scuffed bridle circled his magnificent head.

  She still had more magic to do. Turning her attention to the hard-packed road, she scuffed where she leaned against the horse until she uncovered a small stone the size to fit in the palm of her hand. She picked it up and pulled herself into the saddle; if she didn’t mount now, she doubted she’d be able to afterward.

  As Captain heaved to his feet, she began a slow slide to the left that she was powerless to stop. Try as she might, she hadn’t the strength to pull herself upright.

  Captain!

  He swung his massive head against her hip, pushing until she was safely ensconced where she belonged. He began to walk toward Midden. You need rest.

  I have to finish this first. Fiera again closed her eyes, concentrating on the stone. Time lengthened as she waited for her magic to begin its work. Slowly, a tickling that began deep within her reached to her palm where the rock took on a gold hue. It flattened into a shiny gold coin. Tucking it into her waistband, she tangled one hand in Captain’s mane, reaching through to his silky neck. With her other hand, she grabbed a lock of her own hair and concentrated.

  Nothing happened. There was no familiar drawing on her, no pulling of energy; what she had left was so little to give.

  She pushed her magic as hard as she could. Sweat beaded across her face and trickled down her skin. Blackness crowded the edge of her mind. She bit her lip hard. Pain spread through her like a fire and her magic surged, changing both her hair and Captain to a sudden mousey brown.

  She slumped against the pommel of the saddle. That was it. She was completely played out now. There was no more to be done, no more that she could do. Her hand was still tangled in her mount’s mane. At least, this
way she’d stay in her seat.

  Captain shook his head. I don’t like this color.

  It’s only until we get away from here. Then, I’ll change you back.

  If you can change my color, make a saddle from cloth and a coin from stone, why do you not make food?

  Because, my friend, a stone that looks like an apple is still a stone and dirt that tastes like roast mutton is still just mud. And neither one of us can live on stones, sticks, and mud.

  Captain bobbed his head toward the stones lining the road. You could make a whole treasury of gold.

  While we travel, it will work, but it will be just a matter of time before someone figures out that coin isn’t as soft as real gold.

  He fell into silence, waggling his ears back and forth while he seemed to consider her words. Fiera closed her eyes, fighting the black dizziness that crowded her. It pulled at her, even as the magic had, but it felt as if it had a tone of finality to it. Fear crawled across her. If she gave in to her desire to sleep, would she wake again?

  She heard her horse’s hoofbeats change from that of a flat dull thud on the dirt road, to a hollow clomp on wood planking. Then the world darkened outside her closed eyelids and she heard voices raised in a great and loud commotion.

  When she opened her eyes, the movement around her was too busy, the light too faint for her to focus. A face came into view, really just two steady blue eyes, accompanied by an overpowering waft of perfume. Fiera drew her coin out of her waistband and held it in front of those eyes.

  “Help me.” Fiera’s words came out so soft, she wondered for a moment if the woman had heard her.

  Then the coin was snatched from her hand and a shrill voice ordered, “Get her down. My Lord, she’s just a twig. Get that horse out of here! You there, clear that table. Fetch her some soup!”

  * * * *

  For hours, Efar had flown high above the ground, his wingtips brushing against the clouds. No need to scare people. With the eagle’s eyesight, he’d watched fields, cottages, wagons, and farmers go by in their daily life. At first, he hadn’t noticed the drought over the land below him; the change in the green of the vegetation was so gradual. It wasn’t until he came across the first tree hosting dried, brown leaves that he’d taken notice. He’d carved a large arc in the sky, comparing the landscape in every direction.