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  FIREBRAND

  Mary Walz

  RCN Media Publishing

  Copyright Page

  Firebrand by Mary Walz © 2022 by RCN Media

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  First Edition: April 2022

  RCN Media was founded in 2015 by Colton Nelson. It is a publishing company for adult, young adult and children's books. The RCN Media logo is © 2015 by Colton Nelson & RCN Media. If you require bulk orders of an issue with an RCN Media contact, feel free to contact them with the info below. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the email address below.

  Artwork created and adapted by Rowan Smith & Colton Nelson.

  Map image © 2022 by RCN Media, all rights reserved. Map created by Rowan Smith.

  Colton Nelson is the promoter for this book. For any comments or to contact the author, you can reach them through him (contact below), or you can contact RCN Media.

  Contact:

  www.rcn.media

  (250) 206 0356

  [email protected] (subject: “Firebrand”)

  Also available as an eBook & Audiobook

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  ISBN Paperback: 978-1-989898-84-0

  RCN Media Logo ©, ™ 2022 by RCN Media Inc. All rights reserved.

  Dedication

  In loving memory of my grandfather, Ted Powell, who loved reading my stories but passed on before he could finish this one. Thank you for teaching me to love big words. I miss you.

  Table of Contents

  FIREBRAND

  Mary Walz

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  BANISHING DAY WAS my least favourite day of the year.

  I might have liked it more if I was living at home with my family—if I had a family, that is. Growing up, I'd always heard stories of families spending their Banishing Day visiting the country or the seaside, holding extravagant tea parties at their homes, or exchanging gifts at large get-togethers. And those things sounded nice to me.

  Here at Sylvenburgh Academy, though, Banishing Day traditions followed a certain sequence of events, most of which I hated. That morning, as always, I'd been sorted into a team of kids who didn't like me, and as always, we'd spent the day engaged in silly physical competitions—tug of war and ball toss and archery and three-legged races. And as always, I'd been the weak link on my team, my gangly limbs and clumsy feet slowing us down, and the others in my group resented me even more than usual by the time the activities were done.

  The one good thing about Banishing Day was the food, and now I sat in the dining hall at one end of a long table, dressed in clean, though uncomfortable, clothes. My dress was too small; the sleeves rode partway up my wrists, and folds of the stiff blue fabric pressed into my armpits and waist, as if demanding that I shrink back to my younger self. But Banishing Day dinner traditions demanded my best clothing, so I would wear the dress for the remainder of the day. Neither Trina nor I had taken the time to style our hair or put on makeup, though; Trina was unable to, and I couldn’t be bothered to preen and fuss like most of the girls my age. So we’d beaten the rest of the students to the dining hall and secured some of the best seats at our table.

  Trina shifted next to me, leaning her head back and inhaling the aroma of cooking food, her hair falling in perfect black waves around her shoulders. “Tell me about the colours, Saray,” she said.

  I looked around our enormous, high-ceilinged dining hall, which would later tonight become a dance hall. “Well, there’s paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling; most of them are red this year, same as the tablecloths. And they’ve hung purple and gold fabric on the walls.”

  “Mmm,” she said wistfully. “I miss purple. It was my favourite.”

  “You tell me that every time I mention it.”

  “Because it's true.” She sighed. “The decorations sound lovely. I'm sure the dancing will be splendid too. I wish I could go.”

  “No one’s stopping you,” I replied, knowing exactly what her response would be.

  “No one would want to dance with the blind girl,” she answered. “I’d fall all over the place and make a fool of myself. It’d be a disaster.” Her shoulders drooped, a faint blush colouring her tawny skin. Then she straightened up and grinned at me. “You could go to the dance, though. You should go to the dance. You shouldn’t be spending all your time with a thirteen-year-old kid.” Her voice had a bossy tone to it.

  I snorted. “You know I’m not welcome. And I don't think the clumsy orphaned bookworm is any more likely to get dances than the blind girl.”

  She shrugged. “The others might be friendly to you if you spent more time with them, you know. They were nice enough to Carrie, and she was an orphan like us.”

  “They were only nice to Carrie because she was pretty,” I argued. “I mean, the girl could walk into class five minutes after getting out of bed and still look like a princess. You should have seen her at her graduation last year; I swear the boys’ eyes were falling out of their heads. Whereas me…” I grimaced and tugged at a strand of unruly red hair. “Sometimes I think the only reason you stick with me is because you can’t see me.”

  “That’s not true, and you know it,” she huffed. “I’m sure you’re lovely. At least you can look in a mirror and decide to do something about how you look.”

  “I can only do so much,” I argued. “But it doesn’t matter; I don’t want to go to the dance anyway. I’d rather stay in our room and read.” I glanced down at the book in my lap. “Books are better than people. Well, most people.”

  The students were beginning to trickle into the dining hall now, disturbing our quiet. The girls moved in packs, giggling, their hair done up in curls and jewels sparkling on their throats and ears. Several boys marched into the room, yelling and cheering, and I recognized them as members of Team Kirstein, this year's winners of the Banishing Day Games. Our table filled up slowly with the rest of Team Flavalan; like Team Kirstein, we were named after one of Breoch’s major ports. The teachers randomly picked the teams every Banishing Day, we were told, but somehow each team always had an equal assortment of ages represented, from the giggly, pimple-faced kids a year below Trina to eighteen-year-old boys who already shaved. Our team captain, Jack, was one of those boys, and he met everyone at the table with a wide, obviously forced smile. No one was thrilled to be part of Team Flavalan today. A few of the kids threw glares in my direction, no doubt recalling my fall on the obstacle cour
se and the fact that I hadn't been able to figure out how to nock an arrow during the archery competition. The two seats next to me were taken by girls in my grade, Lizzie and Becky. They sneered at me; I returned the gesture.

  On the large stage that overlooked the dining hall, Miss Cockle, the school principal, was arranging her papers. I glanced at her and then leaned over to Trina. “Miss Cockle is wearing a really ugly brown dress, with a matching ugly brown hat,” I whispered. “She looks like a giant mushroom.” We both giggled at my description, and Lizzie and Becky rolled their eyes at us. I clamped my mouth shut just as Miss Cockle straightened up, giving Trina a nudge with my elbow to signify she should do the same. The dining hall fell silent; we all knew that in order to partake in the coming feast, we first needed to sit through the annual Banishing Day Storytelling. Miss Cockle looked over the tables of students with her sharp grey eyes and began to speak.

  “Students and staff of Sylvenburgh Academy,” she said in her shrill voice, “welcome to the annual Banishing Day feast! Before we eat and exchange gifts, we will pause to remember the events of the first Banishing Day forty-eight years ago, when our great nation of Breoch was freed from the tyranny of magic.”

  She began to talk at length about the significance of the holiday and how lucky we children were to be living in the current day and age. I squirmed in my seat and toyed with the fabric of my dress, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in my stomach and the tantalizing aroma of roasting meat and garlic. I sighed with relief when she finished her monologue by saying that this year, our vice principal Mr. Jeffries would be telling the story of the Banishing. Mr. Jeffries would make it concise, I knew, instead of turning it into one of the long-winded diatribes that Miss Cockle was renowned for.

  I watched as Mr. Jeffries made his way up to the podium. Unlike Miss Cockle, he was dressed simply, in his classic black top hat and crisp white shirt. His brown mustache was impeccably waxed, and as he took the podium, he surveyed the room with a pair of keen, deep-set brown eyes. Mr. Jeffries was my history teacher as well as the school's vice principal, and even though he was just as strict as Miss Cockle, everyone knew he was one of the better storytellers at Sylvenburgh Academy. A group of girls at the Kirstein table began giggling; Mr. Jeffries silenced them with an all-too-familiar glare before beginning to speak.

  I felt my mind begin to wander as Mr. Jeffries started telling us the familiar story of the events leading up to the Banishing, the punishment for those who did not comply, and its outcome. Everyone knows this story; I don’t see why they feel the need to retell it every year. My stomach was beginning to rumble audibly as Miss Cockle took the podium once again to make a few closing remarks. I noticed that her mushroom-cap hat had gone slightly askew, and I giggled and informed Trina of what I saw.

  It felt like another hour before she stepped off the stage to polite, forced applause from the student body, and the kitchen workers began to circulate the room with carts of food. Team Kirstein was served first, followed by the second- and third-placed teams. We would be served second last, in accordance with our placement in the games. We would also be second-to-last when it came to picking our first dance partners later that evening; I'm fairly certain this was the reason Lizzie and Becky had been throwing disgusted looks my way ever since we'd sat down.

  The food finally arrived, and I dug in eagerly, securing plates for Trina and me before the rest of the team could devour everything. I filled our plates with roast beef, potato pancakes, meat pies, and vegetables in a spicy bean sauce. Then I handed Trina her plate and began to eat as the others served themselves. I grinned as I noticed a chubby blond boy from the year below me stuffing rolls into the pockets of his trousers.

  “Hey! Where’d all the bread go?” a boy demanded as the blond boy pocketed another roll.

  “Fredrick’s taking them!” another boy said, pointing at him.

  Frederick blushed, planting his arms firmly against his sides to cover his bulging pockets. “Am not.”

  “Well then maybe you’re making them disappear by magic,” the first boy suggested. “Are you a witch, Freddie? Do we need to turn you into a krossemage?” He grabbed his dinner knife and brandished it, grinning. “Seems like a fitting thing to do on Banishing Day.” I glanced around nervously, looking for a teacher to come end the teasing.

  “Do it, Mickey!” the second boy chimed in, his mouth full of potatoes.

  A boy in my grade named Albert let out a nervous laugh. “Keep it down you two, or you’ll end up bringing the wrath of The Mustache down on our table.” A group of younger kids snickered at his nickname for Mr. Jeffries.

  “Oh, I’m sure The Mustache would want to know if we had a hildakin at our table,” Mickey’s friend retorted.

  Beside me, Becky gasped. “A what?” asked one of the younger kids.

  “A hildakin. An elfieblood. A witch.” Mickey’s friend smirked. “All the things that Fredrick is.” He turned back to Frederick. “Once Mickey’s done with you, you can go clean the school with Walter! You'd like that, wouldn't you?” Next to me, Becky and Lizzie began to laugh, clearly enjoying the show. I glanced at Jack; he rolled his eyes at the younger boys and ignored their theatrics, turning instead to flirt with the blond girl on his right.

  “Hey, stop it!” I exclaimed, jumping to my feet. “This isn’t funny anymore!”

  Everyone ignored me. I watched in horror as the first boy—Mickey—stood up and moved towards Frederick. Grabbing Frederick’s right hand, he pinned it to the table and let his knife hover over his wrist. I spotted Mr. Jeffries standing up a few tables away, but before I could call him over, Frederick let out a panicked screech that made the dining room go quiet. Mr. Jeffries whirled around; his dark eyes set on our table.

  “What exactly is happening over here?” he demanded, striding over.

  Mickey let go of Frederick, whose eyes were brimming with tears. “They…they were saying I’m a witch,” Frederick told Mr. Jeffries, emptying his pockets of several squished rolls as he spoke. “He was going to turn me into a krossemage.”

  “I was joking!” Mickey protested. “You can’t actually cut off someone’s hand—or cut out their tongue for that matter—with a knife like this.” He gestured to his dinner knife.

  Mr. Jeffries’ eyes narrowed. “Even so, you’ll be coming with me,” he said sternly. “You know better than to joke about such things.”

  The other boy who’d been bullying Frederick stuck out his tongue at him as Mickey was led away. “We should’ve cut your tongue out first so you couldn’t tattle.”

  Dinner continued without any more incidents, and when dessert was served, it was accompanied by a basket for each child containing brightly wrapped gifts. The students at my table hollered and cheered as they opened up their packages to find expensive toys and goodies from their parents. Trina’s and my baskets were provided by Lacey, our dorm mother, who was getting quite good at buying us presents. My basket contained new boots—which I was sorely in need of—as well as a fiction book and some candy. Trina’s also had clothing and candy, along with a small pipe flute. On my other side, Lizzie examined the pair of designer earrings in her basket. “These are lovely,” she exclaimed to Becky. “It’s so nice of our parents to send us these things, don’t you think?” I didn’t miss the glance she threw at Trina and me.

  “Oh, yes,” Becky agreed, grinning wickedly. “Did you know that my parents are taking me to the seaside next week? We’re so lucky to have such generous families! Don’t you think, Trina?”

  “Don’t you bring her into this!” I snapped, my face flushing hot.

  Lizzie turned to face me. “All right then, Saray. Don’t you think our parents are lovely for giving us these gifts?”

  I glared at her. “I doubt your parents would even get you presents if they knew what a snobby little brat you can be,” I muttered.

  Lizzie’s eyes popped at my choice of words. “Did you hear what she just called me?” she said, looki
ng around the table. The boys, minus Frederick, all nodded gleefully. “I could get you detention for talking to me that way.”

  “Go ahead, tell a teacher,” I challenged her. “Tell all the teachers. Tell them that you were picking on the orphans over things they can’t control!” My voice rose, and students at several nearby tables were watching us. I felt familiar heat on my hands, and I balled them into fists and shoved them under my legs, my anger suddenly mingled with fear. No. Not now.

  “Saray.” Trina put her hand on my arm. “It’s all right. Let’s just get our things and leave.”

  I stood up in a huff, fists still balled. “This,” I said to Trina, “is why books are better than people.” I tossed the table full of students one last glare and then gathered my gifts and stormed out of the dining room, Trina in tow.

  As soon as I cleared the doors, I broke away from Trina and began to run. I flew down the long, high-ceilinged halls, hot tears brimming in my eyes. By the time I reached the grand entry hall, with its curved staircases and massive chandelier, I could barely see through my tears. And perhaps that's why I collided with Walter.

  I hit him head-on and then stumbled backwards, my books and boots and candy flying from my basket and landing all over the polished wood floor. I stared at the mess, momentarily dazed, and then looked at Walter.

  Walter had dropped his broom when I ran into him, but he was ignoring it in favour of picking up my fallen books, placing them in the crook of his maimed arm, his sleeve hanging loosely where the stump of his right forearm ended. I grabbed my basket and began scrambling around on the floor, collecting pieces of candy, my cheeks burning.

  “What happened?” Trina had just arrived in the foyer; her pace somewhat slowed by having to navigate the halls using only her cane. Now she was standing in the doorway, head cocked.