Touch of Power. Maria Snyder V.Читать онлайн книгу.

      For Jenna.

       I hope you enjoy your story!

      Acknowledgments

      Novel number nine has a nice ring to it. Don’t you think? For the longest time, this book was either called the healer story, by my publisher/editor, or novel number nine by me. And yes, that’s why the mountain chain is called the Nine Mountains. I can also think of nine people who I need to thank for helping turn this idea I had into a story.

      My daughter, Jenna, for asking every night, “What’s next?”

      My agent, Bob Mecoy, for his help in sharpening the idea and selling it to MIRA.

      My editor, Mary-Theresa Hussey, for her feedback and for the title of this and the next two books.

      Assistant editor, Elizabeth Mazer, for all she does in getting the manuscript ready.

      To my critique partner, Kim J. Howe, for all the comments and suggestions to improve this story.

      My assistant, Becky Greenly, for helping with organizing the increasing number of reader emails and for getting the mail out so I have more time to write.

      My niece and researcher, Amy Snyder, for finding cool little-known facts about the Black Death.

      My husband, Rodney, for holding down the fort while I’m out and about promoting books and for finding those misplaced commas and gaps in logic.

      My son, Luke, for learning how to juggle and inspiring the character Flea.

      Thanks so much!

      I also need to thank the following nine groups of people who also work hard on my books and who have supported me and my books.

      The art department for, once again, creating the perfect cover.

      The public relations, marketing and sales departments for continuing to get the word out about my books.

      Those who worked on the copy edits and line edits.

      The digital team for ensuring all my books are available as ebooks and audio books.

      Dianne Moggy and Reka Rubin for coordinating and selling my foreign rights.

      To my local community for all the support and kudos.

      To Seton Hill University’s MFA program students and staff for the support, motivation and inspiration—every residency is a shot in the arm.

      To my Book Commandos for their continuing loyalty and for recommending my books to everyone you meet.

      To my extended family for the love and support as I continue to write books. Amazing, I know! And a shout-out to my father—who reads every book despite not being a reader and who tells everyone he knows about me whether they want to know or not. Thanks, Dad!

      Thank you all!

      CHAPTER 1

      The little girl wouldn’t stop crying. I didn’t blame her. She was dying, after all. Her lungs were so full of fluid she’d drown in another few hours. Tossing and turning on my thin mattress, I listened to her cries as they sawed through the floorboards and through my heart, cutting it in two.

      One piece pleaded for me to save her, urging me to heal the girl with the bright smile and ginger curls. The other side pulsed a warning beat. Her family would thank me by turning me in to the town watch. I’d be hanged as a war criminal. No trial needed.

      The horrors from the dark years of the plague were still fresh in the survivors’ minds. They considered those times a war. A war that had been started by healers, who then spread the deadly disease, and refused to heal it.

      Of course it was utter nonsense. We couldn’t heal the plague. And we didn’t start it. But in the midst of the chaos, no one listened to reason. Someone had to be blamed. Right?

      The girl’s screams pierced my heart. I couldn’t stand it any longer. Three years on the run. Three years of hiding. Three terrible years full of fear and loneliness. For what? My life? Yes, I live and breathe and exist. Nothing else.

      Flinging my blankets off, I hurried downstairs. I didn’t need to change since I would never sleep in nightclothes or without my boots on. When you were on the run, the possibility of being surprised in the middle of the night was high. There was no time to waste when escaping, so I wore my black travel pants and black shirt to bed every night. The dark color ideal for blending into shadows.

      Another trick of being on the run involved finding a second-floor room with both front and back doors and no skeletons. They were hard to find as most towns had burned the plague victims’ homes in the misguided attempt to destroy the disease. And many victims died alone. My current hideout was above the family with the dying child.

      I knocked on my downstairs neighbors’ door loud enough for the sound to be heard over the child’s wet wails. When it opened, her mother, Mavis, stared wordlessly at me. She held the two-year-old girl in her strong arms, and the knowledge that her child was dying shone in her brown eyes. Her pale skin clung to her gaunt face. She swayed with pure exhaustion.

      Underneath