The Last Prophecy
By
Russell Loyola Sullivan
Copyright 2020 Russell Loyola Sullivan
Acknowledgement and Dedication
Once again my editor, David Antrobus, has given considerable effort to ensure this work meets a standard that every reader should expect from a book. Any departure from that mission is my right to own as in the end the decisions were mine; and of course the story itself must stand on my shoulders alone.
This book is dedicated to Kayleigh, Conor, and Chance.
Other Books by Russell Loyola Sullivan
Seals of the Ages Series
The Druid and the Flower – Book one
Ashima – Book two
Riddle of the Keep – Book three
Chapter 1
A Trip to the Garrison
She swiped a strand of hair from her face. She wished she could swipe her thinking away so easily.
So many impossible things to ponder.
Did Devyn really expect her to take in everything he had uttered—an admonishing dissertation ending with a barrage of questions?
Three caretakers-of-the-cup had gone missing. She didn’t need him to remind her. She knew it all too well. The sunglow solstice marked the timing of each disappearance, and Devyn was preaching to her that she was unaware of or in denial about how close the next sunglow solstice was.
“Will you answer me?” he asked.
She had willed the events he described to tumble about in her mind on many prior occasions; nevertheless she found it impossible to make any sense of it all.
“Brenna?”
What was the word Devyn had used? Ruthless. Well, he had put an expletive in front of it, and yes, it was well known that Lord Wallace would kill people for even a perceived offense that might sit farther down the ladder’s rungs than any failure to carry out his desires, but to kill a caretaker-of-the-cup amounted to nothing less than dousing the fire meant to cook your meal. No, something else was in play, something Lord Wallace kept to himself. It was too simple to presume that the caretakers had failed to deliver a prophecy, and so he’d had them killed.
“Talk to me,” Devyn insisted.
“I’m thinking about your question.”
“Which one?
“Did I understand that Lord Wallace would kill me if I didn’t deliver a prophecy? That question. It makes no sense he would.”
“The last three are missing, most likely dead. Is that not enough proof for you?”
Proof?
She let that settle. Lord Wallace’s proclamation to his people after each of the last three failures had been the same: the caretaker had disappeared.
“But he needs caretakers,” Brenna said. “And he needs them to hear the prophecy from the chalice.”
“There have been no prophecies. Or there have been prophecies that Wallace doesn’t want us to know about. Either way, you’re in grave danger.”
There was something else here—more than Devyn realized, and perhaps more than Lord Wallace himself might be aware of.
She accepted that it was not this celestial body—Kielara, her beautiful world—that might bring about her demise; no, if malevolence came for her it would emanate from the evil that ruled and claimed Kielara’s bounty.
“There are other caretakers. He won’t pick me.”
His big hands rolled into fists. “You can’t know that, and I believe we should let the possibility fall on the side of caution.”
Her world was not the safe and loving place she had lived in as a child; more precisely, it was not the one she remembered growing up in. She didn’t need Devyn to remind her of that. But he was her husband, her lover, her friend, her blue-eyed farmer—a man much more proficient with a sword than with words, a man desperate to convince her that the world she knew had changed, if it had ever existed the way she perceived it; in his estimation this world was poised to offer her up—the snuff of a candle flame in the midst of a raging storm.
“I don’t want to be the caretaker-of-the-cup any more than you want to go back to being a mercenary.”
He stopped, softly touching her shoulder, and gave her a look that would make most people recoil.
“Listen… You’ve no idea how sinister he is.”
He was using his best soldier stance to get inside her defenses. She knew better; he had told her too many stories of how he used his size and battle scars to intimidate his opponents.
For a man who claimed to have used his sword more than words, he carried an arsenal of battle howls that could intimidate the most capable alpha wolf from marking a tree.
His actions in all their time together told her she had nothing to fear. Still he was, at the moment, doing his utmost to intimidate her.
“I found you. I’m not going to lose you,” he added.
Those blue eyes of his, focused and intense; she had to laugh, no matter how serious he was attempting to be. “I believe it was me that found you.”
She took his hand, kissed it, placed a finger on his forehead, pushed him away playfully, and continued walking.
She noted the immediate change in his demeanor, as the mercenary inside him caved to her response; he kept pace, his head down, his shoulders drooping like some schoolboy on his way to the schoolmaster to be disciplined. Not a schoolboy anyone would care to bump into, though; this was no display of weakness. It was his love for her and his respect for their relationship giving in to his fervent need to make all decisions. Mountains don’t ask that they be permitted to block the rays of the sun.
She fully understood that his actions were a calculated orchestration to make her see what he perceived to be unfolding. She smiled even as her heart ached for what she knew he was undergoing.
“You’re not listening to me, are you?”
“Yes, I am.” She gave him a playful bump and ran to the riverbank. “Lightsgift’s come early. Look. So much energy.”
He came up beside her and looked out on the torrent of turbulent water—the murky yellow mixture of snowmelt and the heavy rains that had pelted the land during the past few days. The early growth of grass and shrubs along the banks were being drowned by the frantic momentum of the high water, water in a hurry to reach the ocean.
“Still too early for planting; more frosts to come,” he said.
She pressed against the closeness of his arm encircling her waist.
He spoke again. “I won’t let him take you.”
He was not going to give up. All this talk, and they were but a short distance into their journey, their farm still in sight should they look behind.
She loved lightsgift, though it was a little early this turn of the seasons. The South River gushed with the massive energy brought on by the sudden onset of the growing season—the power of nature, the bounty of awakening from repose. Eddies tangled with each other as they rushed downhill out of control, looking for banks to smash over, a formidable force kicking and dancing, a hatchling of chicks let loose from the nest and scattering in all directions, this deluge a thousand-thousandfold more powerful, the very essence of life coming to satiate the thirst that the long, cold season had wrought upon the land.
“Do you hear me? I won’t let him take you.”
The young girl somewhere deep inside Brenna remembered dancing in the sunlight, celebrating the onset of warmer weather, letting the rays wash over her face, the new fragrances of fresh growth filling her very being, enticing her outdoors to explore her world, that same dance stirring in her now, if only to remain in her imagination.
“I don’t plan to be taken by anyone.”
With a deep breath to take it all in, she lifted her head; there, a hawk, not a species she recognized. It sat perched on a birch b
ranch that had gone reaching for the heavens and then dipped down to where it might soon touch the water. The hawk perched well above, where the branch curved back down on either side; his dark eyes were on his hunting territory, no doubt.
“We need a strategy,” said Devyn.
What a magnificent creature: its red tail feathers glistened, twitching so subtly, ever alert for the need for flight; the spots of orange along the brown of its back looked like ripples on a wind-blown creek being scorched by a setting sun. Such a powerful form in so small a body. She took no small amount of delight in the idea that great power came from small packages.
“I know you’re concerned.”
A slight jolt of clarity whispered something different. The hawk looked directly at her; a tiny yellow margin outlined the formidable beak, the raptor’s eyes seeming set on telling her something, or so she imagined. How absurd. Yet the eyes seemed to hold more than the gaze of a predator. Impossible.
Brenna glanced at Devyn. A tinge of concern surfaced. Was that what she saw in the hawk’s eyes?
What was she doing making a hawk her confidant? Yes, she realized she would do anything to take her mind off the possibility of being called to be caretaker-of-the-cup.
Devyn pressed on. “I need you to give these matters your attention. Your ignoring this won’t make it go away. You have to know that.”
The hawk took flight. Even he knew better than to be her reason to ignore Devyn.
There could be no way to avoid the issue, and she would not allow any further silence to trouble the man who loved her so much.
“They won’t pick me. And if they do, there’s nothing we can do about it.” She turned to face him.
Caught up in the flight of the hawk, she had not thought before speaking. She should have chosen better words. Too late for that now. She could only defend what she had said. “Our friends and family all live near Great Temple Reach. We can’t leave them and simply disappear.”
“I know what this place means to you: your family, friends, and all the things that make your life worth living. But—”
“What makes you think they’ll pick me?”
“Those chosen before were your age, and you’re one of the most intelligent people I know, a deadly combination for Wallace.”
“It doesn’t mean I’m next. Lots of people are my age and… intelligent?”
Caretakers were central to their way of life, and a chosen caretaker became caretaker-of-the-cup, a unique responsibility that all the races, all the cities, all the people of Kielara depended upon. She shivered, in spite of the warm sun and gentle breeze.
“Let’s get going, or we’ll never make the city today.”
She commenced walking.
Devyn kept by her side.
They crossed South River Bridge and turned north toward the East River, the second great river flowing out of Bow Lake, a lake fed by the range of mountains well to the north. On a clear day, one could catch a glimpse of the snowy peaks, smoky and stoic against the brilliant blue sky.
Their conversation turned lighter: favorite fiddle songs, which of them would do the cooking to celebrate their anniversary, plans for the arriving planting season.
“Hens or ducks?” she asked.
He picked up a small rock and tossed it toward the river. It skimmed a few times on the surface before diving beneath the current. “I think we need more hens if we’re to do any serious bartering.”
She tried her luck at skipping a rock: only one skip before it sank. “I thought you wanted to do more growing, maybe some late-season crops to balance out the trips to market.”
“If it’s to be crops or hens, I’ll take crops. Plus, crops have their season, hens peck on forever.” He quickened his stride.
There was to be no way around what occupied his mind. She took a hop to catch up with him. “I know you love your goats so much more than your hens; it’s why the hens get more food than they really need. I think the goats would rather be viewed as you do the hens. Why do you like those goats so much?”
“You know why. You’re just trying to change the conversation.”
Yes, she knew. He had a soft spot for the goats. They kicked and bucked, jumped and danced, in some crazy fit of life. He saw it as raw energy and love of their existence, a trait he thought few other animals possessed, including people. While he had slaughtered hens and cows, sheep and geese, she noted he was never able to slaughter goats, and he had finally decided that goat meat was not an appropriate food, whatever that meant.
This man was everything she had ever hoped for in a partner, but he owed her the honesty of informing her of his plans, of sharing what he had already put into action, especially as those decisions very much included her, else he and his goats could go share the root cellar. “You have a plan, don’t you? I knew this morning, even before Amaris made her arrival, that you had something on your mind. And then you suggested we should walk rather than ride.”
“Wanted to spend some time with you, is all.”
“Time with me? Then we should have taken the horses. Would’ve been there and back by now, with plenty of time to sit and talk.”
He didn’t look at her when he spoke next. “They’ll not take you.”
Her very being shook with the intensity of his remark, no matter it came barely above a whisper. “We’ll talk about it more tonight, okay? Let’s enjoy the walk and the day.” Clearly this topic would not be solved by talk of hens and goats.
She gave his back a few scratches, and they continued walking, falling into a forced silence that was bound not to last. She knew he was not one to brood. Yet today he struggled in despair, awash in his need to solve an impossible situation. There was nothing she could do, other than walk by his side and hope that the surroundings and the quiet of the morning would provide him some solace.
She glanced at the sky. Amaris sat well above the horizon, now much dimmer as the sun took over the day. When lightsgift wore on into the season, Amaris would climb higher and higher, until she would be at center sky in the middle of the day by the time the season approached sunglow. Then the smaller of the two moons would be almost impossible to see, the strong sun bearing straight down and insisting on shining brightest. Of course, Balac would still be noticeable and lower on the horizon where he followed Amaris across the sky, day after day.
At last Devyn seemed to have accepted the silence, and Brenna let her mind wander.
The stories of the two moons were familiar to her as getting up in the morning. Her mother used to tell her the story of how Balac chased Amaris, hoping to charm her with his size and speed. But she always managed to keep ahead of him, even though he never gave up the pursuit. Her mother said that in the heavy heat of sunglow, especially at the end of the season, Amaris would wait for him, allow him to catch up, but he would tire with the heat of the day, and so she would continue, believing his efforts had somehow diminished. Later, in the cool of moonrest, and more so when frostbite approached, she would change her mind, and she would glow with the crisp light of sparkling diamonds, and he would speed up once more, to her heart’s renewed desire.
The East River came into view, and here a number of other roads joined the main road. Folks, most on horseback, some with wagons, waved a good morning; they too were making their way to the garrison.
By the time the two of them reached the bridge, Devyn appeared more like his usual self, his chin high, and his footsteps wide and sure. She knew better than to take it as a sign of acceptance of any kind. He was merely putting on his defensive cloak in front of so many other people.
“How long will you be at the market?” she asked.
“I’m hoping for the same spot as last turn of the seasons, so I can be done before Balac climbs into the sky and home even before Amaris becomes invisible in the midday sun.”
“When did you get so lazy?”
He gave her a playful slap on the behind. “That’s not lazy. That’s being smart.”
Her heart le
aped. Maybe posturing had had something to do with the change in his demeanor. He was indeed somewhere else inside his head other than struggling with the impossibility of their situation.
Impossible situation? No, no, plenty of time until the beginning of sunglow. She had asked Simon how the timing of the ritual came about. He’d told her it represented a special time, when the light of day was at its longest.
Why had she ever been born on that day? It’s what made her a caretaker. It was a cruel date to be born, and many a midwife attempted to skirt delivery for either side of that day, as those who did arrive came with a pained labor. Less than one in ten such babies survived the day. They said it was because of the gift.
The Last Prophecy Page 1
