Simon had gone on to tell her more details. It was not merely a right bestowed because of the day. People born on that day of ending and beginning came with a special attribute, an attribute not fully understood—a clear connection to the cup and the ability to hear the prophecy that came with each sunglow solstice.
There was also one other attribute, one she refused to talk about—the magic. Simon had called it “the gift.” She poked that stray braid of hair back over her shoulder. Some gift.
Most times, the message, the prophecy involved ways to improve medicines, grow crops, or improve on technology; each prophecy offered a leap in knowledge. In rare times it made predictions about what was to come; those prophecies were often disputed until the truth unfolded and the message was proven to be accurate.
The prophecies served not only the people of West Haven Sanctuary. The people of the Vineyards Expanse, the Flat Lands, the Northern Reaches, and even the faraway Eastern Seaboard, all had emissaries inside Great Temple Reach awaiting the pronouncement of each solstice message. The Desperate Lands kept to themselves, yet even they were said to have a representative present, albeit in the shadows and then gone before the light of day might find them.
Her thoughts returned to the moment as the garrison loomed before them. The massive iron gates to Great Temple Reach were open and folded back against the thick walls of stone, walls that stretched to Bow Lake in one direction, and in the opposite direction, off to the shore of the Muirin Sea on the city’s eastern side.
As forbidding as it appeared, the great city gave them entry without incident or obstacle. No one inspected their belongings; they didn’t even merit a glance from guards who were busy talking with each other, taking little notice of the folks streaming in and out of the city. She glanced at the castle on its lofty perch. She knew better than to accept without question the city’s apparent openness. The garrison was more like a wonderfully woven silk web, in which Lord Wallace was the one and only spider. Until now she’d been far below his notice. That would be different should she be chosen as caretaker-of-the-cup.
They passed through the gates and into the market area; stalls, concessions, carts, horses, children, and a plethora of stray animals scampered about, the children happy to be a little out of reach of busy folks selling their wares or making purchases. She noted the cleanliness of the market area—brushed down every night by the order of Lord Wallace, lest an unpleasant odor should sail upon a breeze to his stately palace high on its cliff at the center of the city. A puff of smoke from the forge touched her nose, and it bade her focus, above the clamor of those gathered, on the pounding of a hammer on an anvil. Other aromas greeted her senses, a cornucopia of things being cooked or baked, seared on an open flame or turned on some spit.
“I need but a short time to meet with Simon,” she said.
“I’ll be done before the second moon rises quarter,” he added.
“You sure you don’t mean Amaris? You being so in a hurry to be alone with me.” She kissed him on the cheek.
“I’ll be waiting at the Sabre’s Inn before Balac gets a chance to yawn.” He turned and was on his way.
She watched until he disappeared into the crowd. Her heart sank for his grieving, a grieving she could do nothing to relieve. She could only hope they were both wrong. She could not admit to him he was right. To do that meant her family, her friends, and her home would be in peril.
She commenced walking north, away from the market area, the castle looking down at her. She continued farther to the other side of castle hill, to the temple area—her destination.
Another shiver in her being. How long had it been since she would visit the temple and be led around by her favorite cleric? He’d been a younger man back then, and she a small girl free of all concern, full of dreams born by her uniqueness. What she would give now to have been born on a different day but with the same memories.
People passed her by, and they exchanged nods; not people she knew, though neighbors nonetheless, their numbers dwindling as she reached the top—the inner city where the nobles, teachers, scientists, soldiers, and other professions lived. She took a direct path north to where the visiting area of the temple provided an expansive promenade and view of the city below. Behind the temple sat the magnificent observatory, its tower stretching into the sky. There the scholars studied the heavens.
She’d always known him by his first name, Simon, and he had been a simple cleric back then. He had been her friend for so long. Now he was the head cleric. He loved life, and he loved food. She smiled, remembering her last visit. He would not stop commenting on the new tea he had found, something new from the Vineyards Expanse.
“Soul must be nurtured,” he had said. “It’s not enough that you turn your face to Ogmia when the sun begins to shine; you must also nurture the soul of your being so it too gives back to Ogmia.”
The best place to find Simon would be in the main dining room. She crossed the promenade, pulled open the door, and entered the dining area. He would almost certainly be near a window. A quick sweep of the expansive facility—ornate with cubicles of live flowers, captivating with art objects hanging from the ceilings, and pulsing with delectable aromas that begged indulgence—revealed her target. He sat feeding a small squirrel. With one hand he fed the squirrel, and with his other he sipped his tea. He looked so engaged in the moment that she almost retreated and let him be. But his instincts were sharp, and he turned to where she stood watching him. The squirrel took a last bite, looked her way, marked her for some foreboding evil for having interrupted its meal, and scampered away beneath the table.
“Come. Come sit with me.” He held her shoulder and kissed her cheek. “I was expecting to see you today. The warmth of the sun told me so.” A broad smile spread across his face. “Plus, last time we met, you said you would look me up when your husband came to book market day.”
The smile left his face. He looked about furtively and spoke again. “Sit down, Brenna. Sit down. Let me get you a cup of tea.”
She waved him off. “Let me get the tea… Can I get you one?
“No, I still have plenty, thank you.”
She returned and sat across from him—a few sips in silence before she approached the subject they both knew was the purpose of her visit. “Will they pick me?” She put her cup down; it rattled against the saucer.
“I used to be a confidant of Lord Wallace,” he began. “But that was before what happened… what did not happen in the last three rituals. Now I’m only allowed to feed the squirrels. I fear not for myself; the path I travel has mostly been of my own choosing. What happens to me is of no consequence. Any fear I have is for those I have counseled, those whom I have guided. Perhaps I brought them more danger than good fortune.”
He paused before continuing.
“My dear child, I wish I knew what will happen next. In these times I have as much to say in his decisions as does the grass in how it will bend to the wind.” He looked away. “You must not come visit me again. That much I can tell you. Stay far away from me and this temple with all the space you can muster. I know Wallace’s eyes are on you. That’s all I know. I believe that anyone who sits in my favor might be a target for Lord Wallace, and you being a most qualified caretaker makes you so much more.”
He replaced the cup in the saucer; steady like a rock for a man with such concerns. It would appear he was more concerned for her than himself.
“I—”
“No, it’s time for you to go. No more.” He got up, kissed the top of her head, and scurried through the door.
All right, that went well. Her thoughts tumbled as she made her way back to the market area. Surely if Simon thought she would be chosen, he would have told her. But he did tell her, didn’t he? He had also recognized the consequences of her leaving, no doubt, of what would happen to her family. He knew she was trapped, and he could do nothing to save her.
No, Simon, there has to be another way.
Devyn would no
t be finished yet. Maybe a few shops along the way would help: a new belt for Devyn, pastry for their celebration to come, and a wind chime made of small birds, intricate yet sturdy.
A calm of sorts came with each new breath. Her shopping done, she headed to the Sabre’s Inn. Surely her wait would not be long.
She entered, and there he was. He held a tankard of ale; a goblet of wine sat across from him. His face lit up with a smile as she approached the table.
His eyes told a different story.
Chapter 2
The Ancients
Devyn sifted the handful of dirt through his fingers. The clump of dirt gave him the information he needed: no frost, lots of moisture. He bent and scooped out a small hole, taking a few moments to observe the organisms—plenty of life creeping and crawling; good healthy soil for growing.
The walk with Brenna back from the garrison, a few days before, had resulted in more bountiful rounds of conversation, but she remained unconvinced about any action that should be taken. Her meeting with Simon had ignited some fear that all of Devyn’s talking had failed to make her accept. While he hated that she should have to feel trepidation of any kind, he could not help but hope that this new insight would bring her to her senses.
He stood and brushed the dirt from his hands.
It had remained sufficiently warm that an early planting might be possible. It still confounded him that Riverbend moved into warmer weather so much earlier than the Steel Mountains. During his first seasons here, Brenna had explained that Riverbend sat on the edge of Bow Lake, where any cold winds from the north were blocked by the mountain range that spread across the northern shores of the huge lake, mountains that extended farther eastward where they embraced the Muirin Sea. To the west was the Cohazen Ocean; there the currents flowing up from the south offered a more temperate weather pattern.
Yes, the soil was ripe for planting, his concern over more frost dissipating as each day passed.
No matter that the planting season might begin sooner; his gut told him there would be no planting season. Every iota of his instincts rattled a warning. If this had been a moment in his former days, he would have his back to the wall and his weapons cleaned and ready for battle.
How would they take her? Usually a messenger of clerics came with gifts, gifts honoring the chosen caretaker-of-the-cup to be, and the one chosen would go back to the temple with them. He would not allow that to happen. Surely that would be a time when she would see the need to get away. There would be no easing of the foreboding he carried until she accepted what was ordained and then agreed to take action.
He swore to one certainty: time was running out.
A few steps back toward the house, he stooped and studied one last scoop of dirt and then left the field. He stopped at the firepit; he so wanted to sit with Brenna beside a fire, the way it used to be. He loved the glow of the night fire on her cascading red hair, and her laugh…
The pit needed a cleaning. A few shovelfuls of ashes gave up the layer of stone that lined the bottom. He added some kindling, then some bigger pieces of wood. No need to bring in more wood; there was enough stacked next to the firepit for a good long night’s fire. He gave one of the goats who was following him a playful kick on the behind; the goat voiced his dismay, and Devyn went inside.
Tonight they would celebrate the anniversary of their first meeting. He had no memory of that event, as he had been near death. That was not so long ago, but the man he was then had all but disappeared—he had willed it so.
It would be even better to have kept it that way, but old ghosts have a way of rising up when events drag them from the grave. Every fiber of his gut told him evil was coming to visit. And that evil was Wallace, a man with a desperate need to control everyone and everything around him. So be it, but the bastard would not have Brenna.
He entered the kitchen; it was empty. Brenna was likely off collecting eggs, though not long gone, as the kettle still steamed from where it had but recently been put to the boil, and the tea was newly steeping. He sat and filled his mug. He liked ginger. A sip. Another.
Sensing a slight jitter, he placed his hands on the table; an alarm alien to his nature swept over him, then quickly dissipated. What was happening? Why was he feeling so vulnerable? He would confront ten men with their swords in hand when all he had was a kitchen knife and one boot on. He could deal with that situation, calm his fears, muster his abilities, and deal out what was necessary; let the aftermath of battle allow for any pondering.
Yes, something else was crawling through his mind—Brenna, the possibility of her being taken from him, and worse still…
He would not allow that thought.
He had, on more than one occasion, known that death was nearby, one of those times being when Brenna had found him. He understood the calamity of win against lose, and he accepted the possible finality of it all; there were dire consequences even for the winner of such an exchange.
This was different. Maybe his becoming a farmer had brought its own set of necessary precepts. Was it possible that caring about crops and goats made you soft? No, it hit him square in the need to survive that anyone messing with his farm, his goats, or his new life, would find the mercenary alive and well. No, the farmer had made him care, but the farmer had taken away nothing from the mercenary; he was still there if need should arise.
It was not his becoming a farmer; it was Brenna. She had a mind of her own, and she made her own decisions. He felt that shudder one more time.
Thankfully, the steadiness he called on from the mercenary took over. Yes, it felt good to know the mercenary was there for when he was needed; maybe not an answer, not a solution, but someone to hang onto.
He took another sip of tea; ideally this called for something stronger, but anything with more bite would have to wait.
There was a time in Shadefair when he would have given anything for a hot tea. Shadefair. Why had they even gone there? Great. Now he was reminiscing. A pause, an urge to bring himself back to the present; still, he allowed the visions of his past to continue. Perhaps there was something in there that could help him now. No matter he’d rather not go down that path should the mere purpose be to reminisce.
Shadefair might be far from home, but then again there was never a real home. The Steel Mountains was merely a place he liked. There he’d enjoyed being one of many children; children who, along with a clutch of adults and elders, belonged to and served the tribe. They were not his family, though Brenna concluded otherwise from the stories he told her. They were not a cruel people either. Yet only the leader lived with any sense of power. He was the one who decided where they would go, when they would hunt, and what they needed to do to survive. They were nomads. Tracker was their leader.
Tracker had told him that he—Devyn—had been plucked from the Muirin Sea where he’d clung to the broken hull of a boat. Tracker went on to tell him he’d been less than several turns of the seasons old when they found him, a wee lad who spoke only a few words. On the shore they found some other debris and a piece of a ship’s log with the name Devyn Gerrick, so that became his name. No others were found, alive or dead, and the tribe, as was its nature, moved on.
Those mountains, where the tribe had taken him next, had given him the only strength and sliver of permanence he had known, the loss of his family having lodged somewhere deep inside him a tragic aloneness no matter how many people joined him in a celebration… until he’d found Brenna.
The tribe traveled for three seasons, and when frostbite began to offer up its cold weather, the tribe would head back to the Steel Mountains. The mountains never changed—always there when he came back with the tribe, always a sanctuary of sorts, but for the same reason as his connection to the tribe, never a real home. The tribe stayed there until the snows subsided, and once again they would repeat the roving process.
No matter; Brenna was his mountain now. Failure and shame. He was feeling that possibility of failure now, and the shame would follow unl
ess he did something.
He’d never known his father and mother. That thought had rarely entered his mind as no one had survived who could give him that answer. Yet here he was drinking tea and wondering who they were.
Endings. There was always an ending. Why the tribe had gone so far into the eastern lands would remain a mystery to him, lost in the many other unanswered questions surrounding his heritage. Only he and a few others had escaped the slaughter. He’d ended up alone in Shadefair, no more than a boy, and one who was hungry and scared. More so, he had failed his tribe, allowed them all to be slaughtered while he’d made his escape. What he had done to make it all go away robbed him of what little humanity he had learned from them. And now he was about to let Brenna be taken from him. No—
Brenna stepped into the kitchen. “Drinking tea without me?”
“Wanted to make sure it was steeped enough.” He poured her a mug.
She placed the small basket of eggs on the sideboard and joined him at the table. “You looked like you were deep in thought,” she said. “Don’t suppose you want to share.”
The Last Prophecy Page 2
