Jessa and the Lost Goddess Read online

  Jessa and the Lost Goddess

  Chosen by the Masters | Volume I

  By Becca Fox

  This story is meant to be a companion to Asta and the Barbarians, which was published by Tirgearr Publishing in April of 2018.

  Copyright 2022 Becca Fox

  Published by Draft2Digital

  Edited by Amy Brothers

  Cover design by GetCovers

  Map Concept by Devo and Becca Fox

  Map Designed by Adriano Bezerra

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be sold or given away. If you would like to share this book, please instruct all persons to visit the author’s website at www.beccafoxauthor.com .

  Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work.

  This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Jessa and the Lost Goddess (Chosen by the Masters, #1)

  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

  About the Author

  For fans of Asta and the Barbarians.

  Sorry it took so long!

  Somewhere on the Island of Holger...

  HALVAR CLASPED HIS hands behind his back. “You will do well here.”

  It wasn’t meant to be a reassuring statement. It was a command. I had already been warned of the consequences of disobedience.

  I swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”

  “You will advance until you impress your instructors,” he said as he stepped forward. “You will be nominated as a candidate for King’s Defender.”

  My muscles grew tense. My lungs grew tight. I didn’t want him to come any closer but closer he came, until his breath fanned over my face.

  He leaned down to meet my eyes. “You will serve the king to the best of your ability. You will become his greatest, most loyal guard. It’s the only reason you’re still alive.”

  “I understand,” I croaked.

  The general stepped back. “I will return in a year’s time to witness your graduation. It shouldn’t take you longer than that to achieve your goal.”

  “Safe voyage, sir.”

  He smiled. “Until we meet again, Asta of Holger.”

  I waited until I couldn’t hear his boots slapping against the floor. Then I eased the door shut, leaned against the rough wood and laughed. It sounded hysterical, almost maniacal, even to my own ears. I clapped a hand over my mouth then, suddenly overwhelmed with grief. Because I wasn’t free. I would never be free of him.

  Chapter One

  I cut my sausage into bite-sized pieces. My stomach growled and my mouth watered in anticipation but I forced my movements to be deliberate, graceful, ladylike. The prongs of my fork sank into the chunk of sausage. I lifted the utensil to my lips and closed them around the meat.

  “Slowly now, Jessa,” my mother chided from one end of the table. “Goodness. One would think you were starved.”

  I rolled my jaw at a snail’s pace, eyes downcast, annoyance frothing within. I am starved.

  My mother leaned in her chair so that she could watch the new maid prepare the tea through the open kitchen door. She pursed her lips, no doubt concocting a list of things to criticize.

  “Oh, the audacity of this man,” my father rumbled from the other end of the table. His tuft of brown hair stuck up from the top of the newspaper he read.

  My mother sat up straight. “What man?”

  “The young Lord Eckersley.” My father slapped the newspaper down on the table, revealing a round face and narrowed brown eyes. “He claims Anwyl is the cause of this mysterious disease killing off our people in droves. He’s placed an ad in the paper for any able-bodied man to join him in a quest to vanquish her.” A derisive snort. “The love goddess is a myth, a fairytale! And even if she wasn’t, she wouldn’t curse cities with illnesses.” The grumbling continued even as he chewed.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if the young lord has incurred the wrath of the goddess,” my mother said with a sniff. “He’s rejected every lovely lady his mother has tried to marry him off to. If I were the love goddess, I would’ve struck him with an incurable disease for constantly snubbing my will.”

  My heart palpitated within my chest. Memories like bubbles rising in the water began to blossom in my mind. Memories of a dream, too hazy to be completely remembered. A woman of unparalleled beauty. A misty hollow with overgrown grass and crooked trees. A journey that would change everything...

  I kept my expression mild. “A quest, did you say, Father? That sounds exciting.”

  “It’s codswallop! If anyone answers this call-to-arms it will be only out of respect for his father, or because some hot blooded firstborns need a quest in order to prove themselves worthy of independence. Not because anyone will believe this Anwyl nonsense.”

  I placed another piece of sausage in my mouth and chewed slowly with my head bowed. My mind was racing.

  “Any news on the war effort?” my mother asked, lifting her tea cup.

  My father stopped sawing into his omelet to cast a worried glance my way. “Nothing worth repeating.”

  “You’re done with breakfast, Jessa,” my mother said abruptly. “Go upstairs and change. I’ve set out a dress for you.”

  No, I’m not done with breakfast! I managed to scoop up one more spoonful of eggs before the maid could collect my plate.

  “None of that now,” my mother said. “We’re watching your waistline, remember?”

  I swallowed my eggs and, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, said, “Yes, Mother.”

  I rose, bid my parents good morning, and left the dining room with all the grace I could muster despite my frustration. Taking slow and deliberate steps, I traveled the length of the foyer to the grand staircase. More maids bustled along the hall of the second story, straightening the elaborate portraits of my forefathers, dusting the end tables, washing the windows, and collecting the rugs from the hardwood floor. The drapes had been taken to the laundry room; the windows, now unobstructed, showcased the seaport city of Sorsen. Through the glass, the competitive calls of newspaper boys joined the clopping of horse hooves and the sharp calling of seagulls.

  A genuine smile tugged at my lips. On crisp, sunny mornings like this, when my older brother had lived under the same roof as me, I would drag him out of his stuffy room and force him to take a walk with me in the park. Perhaps after I was finished at the bridal shop, I could surprise him at his house...

  Gilha, my personal maidservant, waited for me in the bedroom with a corset and a hoopskirt that could’ve been utilized in a torture chamber.

  “Apologies, my lady,” Gilha murmured as she tightened the laces. “Your mother’s orders.”

  She was old enough to be my aunt, with graying brown hair and a face lined with smile wrinkles. She was one of the kindest people I’d ever known.

  “My mother...is going to...kill me.” I gripped the posts on either side of my bed and leaned forward, fighting for breath.

  Gilha hmmed sympathetically and loosened the laces slightly. “Perhaps that’s enough for today.
”

  “Thank you.” I took a moment to acclimate to the restricting corset, taking short, quick breaths. When my head had stopped spinning, I straightened up and stepped away from the bed.

  Gilha wrapped the hoopskirt with the outrageous bustle around my waist and proceeded to tug the dress over everything. When she was finished, I was clothed in velvet layers the same yellow shade as butter. The dress’ neckline cut down my sternum in a V, with ruffles along the sides and a black bow beneath the bust. (Not that I needed anything drawing more attention to my breasts; they were already larger than the average young lady’s). The sleeves went down to my wrists and also sported black bows. The bodice, like the neckline, forced my torso into a strict V shape. The skirt flared at my hips, like water overflowing from a bucket.

  “You look beautiful, my lady,” Gilha said, fluffing the skirt.

  “The dress is beautiful,” I murmured. “And much too fine for a visit to the bridal shop.”

  Gilha pursed her lips to the side, giving a stern look through the mirror. “You’d look beautiful in rags and you know it. Can you blame your mother for wanting to show you off?”

  I scoffed. “Mother is proud of many things. I’m not one of them.”

  “And yet she smiles whenever someone compliments your curvaceous figure.” She cupped my chin in her hand, appraising it with a twinkle in her eye. “You’re more beautiful than all the flat, petite little flowers in this city and don’t you forget it.”

  Dear friend, I thought, smiling, you always know just what to say.

  Gilha released my chin. “Now, how should I do your hair for this afternoon?”

  I LOCKED MY KNEES IN place, straightened my spine, and made fists at my sides even as the bridal shop swayed around me. I stood on the pedestal, staring at myself in the mirror. White lace with a floral pattern had been laid over satin to create a simple but beautiful wedding gown that flowed gracefully down my body and accentuated my curves.

  I think I’m going to be sick. Sweat accumulated under my arms and around my neck. Oh, gods, I’m not ready for this.

  Mrs. Lamberton clapped her hands together and brought them to her mouth, which was pulled up in a smile. “It’s perfect.”

  Elise and Kamila nodded, gushing appreciatively from their seats. They had been my friends since childhood and yet they couldn’t see the plea for help I was projecting through my widened eyes.

  “Do you think it should be taken in a bit at the hem?” the seamstress asked, her brow quirked indecisively.

  “Maybe just a pinch.” Mrs. Lamberton came to inspect the hem for herself. Her hair was pinned on the top of her head in a pile of silver, making her an inch or so taller than everyone. The perfumes that had been used to wash those tresses wafted up to smother me.

  I suppressed a cough.

  Mrs. Lamberton looked up at me. “Are you quite well, Ms. Copeland?”

  “Yes.” I cleared my throat and schooled my mouth into what I hoped was a demure smile. “Just a little flustered.”

  “All women are, so close to their wedding day.” Mrs. Lamberton took my hand in both of hers. They were dry as paper and just as soft. They offered me no comfort. “Don’t you worry, my dear. I’ll make sure everything goes according to plan.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  The seamstress and Mrs. Lamberton continued discussing the dress, circling me like a pair of sharks.

  Elise and Kamila offered compliments and suggestions like good bridesmaids, but they mostly twittered among themselves, gossiping about the groomsmen or reminiscing on other weddings they’d attended.

  “Oh, I can’t wait until I get married,” Elisa said with a sigh. “You’re so lucky, Jess.”

  “I need some air.” I stepped off the pedestal and retreated to the changing room before anyone could object.

  Chapter Two

  I accepted the coachman’s hand as I stepped out of the carriage. “Thank you, Worthington. I won’t be long.”

  The older man tipped his cap. “Don’t forget your mask, Miss.”

  I lifted the paper cone, which hung from a string around my neck, until it covered my nose and mouth. Then I adjusted the picnic basket so that it rested more comfortably in the crook of my arm, and proceeded down the narrow street. Buildings of brick and stone towered above me on either side. A crude gate cut across the cobblestones, separating the quarantined area from the rest of the city. Through open windows, I heard the coughing of the infected.

  The Pink Plague was what the doctors called it. The mysterious illness started off as a cough, but evolved into pink mouth and throat sores that swelled until the infected person could no longer breathe. It had been months since the first person had been diagnosed with and had died of the curious malady; physicians were no closer to figuring out how it began or how it could be cured. They did know that it traveled through the air, infecting the young and leaving the elderly to wonder why they were spared.

  I was one of the few that had been pronounced immune, but I still wore the mask. Everyone panicked when they saw a young person on the streets without one.

  I nodded to the guards stationed at the gate.

  “Ms. Copeland,” they murmured as I passed.

  The houses were so thin here, pressed tightly together as if they were one enormous line of brick and bath stone with a dizzying amount of windows and doors. Further down the street, around the corner, to the twelfth door on the left. This was where my brother had decided to live. In the midst of the infected, he was certain he’d find a cure. I set my picnic basket down on the doorstep and knocked. It took a few knocks, but eventually the slot at eye-level was yanked open.

  “Hello?” came Francis’ voice from the other side.

  “I come bearing gifts,” I said.

  The door swung open. He blinked in the sunlight, as if he hadn’t stepped outside in days. Given his love of science, his hatred of social interactions, and his abnormally pale skin, he probably hadn’t left his home in days. His rumpled trousers and shirt, and messy brown hair were further proof of his isolation.

  He smiled down at the picnic basket. “Food.” Bending down, he looped an arm through the handle. Then he straightened up and lifted one of the flaps to see what was inside.

  “Can I come in too?” I asked when it appeared he was going to retreat.

  Francis waved distractedly. “Yes, yes, of course.”

  I stepped in and closed the door behind me.

  The narrow corridor was lit by a single candle on a side table by the stairs. Faded blue paper peeled away from the walls. Crates with strong-smelling herbs, colored bottles, and mysterious metallic tools were stacked haphazardly along the baseboards. Francis poked through the food in the basket as he meandered around the crates and into the kitchen. I followed, lowering my mask. It was dreadfully dusty and dark.

  The kitchen was even worse than the hallway. Dirty dishes were piled high on the counters. The small square table was stacked with parchment pages of scribbled notes along with ink bottles and quills. There were also books with magnifying glasses holding them open at specific pages. More herbs hung from the ceiling. Things boiled in various pots on the wood burning stove, making the room hot. Somehow, I knew the contents of those pots weren’t for eating.

  Francis approached the table with his arm out as if he meant to brush everything aside, but paused. He stepped over to the counter and set the basket down there instead.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this morning?” he asked.

  I pulled out a hand held fan from my satin draw string bag. “It’s almost dinner time, Francis.”

  He peered at the clock, hanging upside down, on his wall. “Oh. So it is.” Shrugging, he turned back to the packaged foods.

  “Work is going well, I take it?” I asked, fanning myself.

  “Progress is slow.” He unwrapped a half loaf of bread and some cheese before hunting around his cabinets for a clean plate. “We’ve managed to create pistols and steam eng
ines and machinery to help with the production of clothing, and yet we still struggle with chemistry.” Abandoning his search, Francis bit off a chunk of bread from the loaf and then took a bite of cheese. He chewed both, frowning at his frothing pots. “It’s maddening. Why does the human body have to be so complicated, so frail, so precise?”

  “When was the last time you slept?” I asked, noting the circles under his eyes.

  My brother swallowed, shrugged, and took more bites of bread and cheese.

  “I hired a house keeper to clean this place and take care of you just last month. Don’t tell me you’ve already fired her.”

  “She committed the most heinous of crimes,” Francis said with a straight face and his mouth full. “She rearranged my crates.”

  I snapped my fan shut and swatted his arm with it. “I’m hiring another one tomorrow. You’ll do as she says or I’ll stop telling Elise all those nice things about you.”

  My brother scrunched his shoulders around his ears. “You’re starting to sound like Mother.”

  My jaw dropped. I swatted him again.

  Francis stepped back, smiling slightly. “I’m sorry. That was cruel.”

  “Yes, it was.” I opened the fan and continued waving it gently before my face. Still, his comment smarted like a pinch on the arm. “Do I really sound—?”

  “You haven’t tried to straighten out any of the wrinkles in my clothes yet,” my brother said with a chuckle. “You’re not Mother. Don’t worry.”

  I nodded, reassured.

  He lowered the bread and cheese back into the picnic basket before wandering over to the ice box. Reaching in, he retrieved a bottle of wine. “Care for some?”

  “How is it that you never have food in this house but you always seem to have wine handy?” I asked, lips quirking.

  “I have different priorities,” he replied in his best impersonation of our father.

  I laughed and shook my head, but quickly grew somber. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Ask away,” Francis said, his voice straining as he attempted to uncork the bottle.