SEVENTH BORN

BOOK ONE OF THE TALENTED

By Rachel Rossano

©2018 Rachel Rossano

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine, or journal.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to a retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This novel is a work of fiction. Though actual locations may be mentioned, they are used in a fictitious manner and the events and occurrences were invented in the mind and imagination of the author. Similarities of characters to any person, past, present, or future, are coincidental.

Scripture quotations taken from the New American Standard Bible® (NASB), Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation

Used by permission. www.Lockman.org

Cover by Rossano Designs

Table of Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

About the Author

Also by Rachel Rossano

Sneak Peeks

Romans 12:1-2

1Therefore I urge you, brethren, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies a living and holy sacrifice, acceptable to God, which is your spiritual service of worship. 2And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, so that you may prove what the will of God is, that which is good and acceptable and perfect. [NASB]

Chapter I

Zezilia

I was the disappointment. On the day of my birth, my mother cried for I was not a son. The son they hoped, prayed, and sacrificed for, the seventh son who would become the Sept Son. He would have taken the highest position under the High King and restored the glory of the Ilars. I knew the story as if I had been there from before my conception. Father retold the tale to my family every year on the anniversary of my birth.

I resolved this year would be different. The shame, the disgrace, and the pain in my father’s eyes might fade if I proved useful. A woman of marriageable age could advance the family by way of a profitable match. Marriage was the only way for a woman could please the goddess. I cringed.

Glancing around the tablium, the living area of the main house, I found myself alone, which was just as well. Mother lectured a servant in the next room. My father and most of my brothers had long since scattered about the house and grounds pursuing their own interests. I was supposed to be practicing my music, but I couldn’t keep my mind on my task.

Outside the open glass doors of our main house, the depths of gardens beckoned. I harkened to their call. Behind me, two of my six brothers argued loudly over who would take first in the foot race tomorrow. As their voices rose, the call of the quiet appealed to me all the more. Finally, I could resist no longer. Slipping through the doors, I reached the first turn of the path before they noticed my departure.

Heavy blossoms of deep red and orange bobbed in the breeze as if ushering me into the cool depths of the gardens. The broad, deep green leaves of the organza ferns reached out to brush my face and hair, tracing dew trails over my clothing. I slipped deeper into the wild heart of the garden, down where the tamed groves gave way to the chaos of nature. The border was unmanned, but clearly marked by a vast bramble of brandleberry bushes. Unfortunately, their crimson fruit, the goddess’ color, reminded me of my neglected duties.

It was a year of six, an extra day of feasting and dancing to celebrate the goddess and her bounty to us. Only here, deep in the gardens, I could find peace from the bustle of preparation for the week ahead. Why did it have to be a long year this year, the annum of my presentation? I hated that I was born on the first day of the high week. It brought extra attention when all I wished to do was hide.

“Child, curb your thoughts.”

I jumped at the sudden voice, rough and raspy. Turning around in my small haven, I beheld the strangest sight. A short man, only slightly above my height, stood in the midst of the brandleberries. Red hair stood out in a riot of frizz about his balding brown head. I say brown for his face was deeper than the sun-bronzed skin of my father and brothers.

“I sensed your thoughts jumbling about. They made my insides twist about half a mile away. Whatever could be wrong to cause such distress?” he asked, his strange green eyes assessing my face.

“You heard my thoughts?” I asked. I was stunned. Being a female, I wasn’t supposed to have the ability to send and the situation he was describing was a strong sending. None of my brothers could send that distance.

“Not coherently, or I wouldn’t be asking you these questions, girl. You obviously have no training. Without training, all I could pick up were your emotions and snatches of ideas. Now tell me, what is getting you into such a state?”

I regarded him in silence. He was a perfect stranger. I was not about to dump all my trials and woes upon him, no matter how he demanded it.

“But we are not introduced,” I protested finally. “I am not allowed to speak to men to whom I have not been introduced.”

The man scoffed. “You are talking to me already, girl. It is a little

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