“Shadefair.”
“Shadefair? That’s a long ways from here. It’s where you ended up when your people—”
“They weren’t my people.” He pushed the chair back and grabbed the edge of the table.
What is wrong with me? They’d been the only people he’d known as family. They’d taken care of him. They’d fed him.
“Sorry,” he added quickly.
She reached out and touched his hand. “It’s all right.”
“I cleaned out the firepit. It’ll be a good night for a fire.”
She stood. “How about I make us some breakfast? We can have another talk.”
She had to know this situation was well beyond talking. “You go first. I can’t convince you what I believe.”
She placed her tea on the counter. “You’ve not been content for some time. That’s because of me. I—”
“No, no—”
“Hear me out. You asked me to go first. Remember?”
He nodded.
“You told me the life you had, after losing the tribe, was empty and without meaning—being paid to hunt people and often hurt them, things far beyond that, things which you don’t like to talk about. I get that.” Her finger darted to her lips. “Ouch. I guess the stove is hot enough.”
“You all right?”
“Ya.” She pushed her finger against her lips. “Just practicing my stupid side.”
He slipped back into his chair. “It’s not about me. It’s—”
“Hold on. Let me finish. You love this farm and the animals, and you love me. You have three other people you might call friends, and everyone else is nothing more than dust in your eye. I get that.”
“Am I really that sad?”
She walked over and kissed him on the head. “You’ve never learned to trust anyone, and for most of the seasons before I found you it would appear everything was settled by coin and sword. I say that had a fair amount to do with you only having three friends.”
“Don’t need anyone else.”
“We’re all connected in some way, some more than others.”
“Ogmia again?”
“We’re here for a reason, on some journey that has purpose—”
“My journey has purpose. Stay alive.”
“Ah, we get to what’s bothering you so much.”
“Not worried about me,” he muttered.
“And I’m not worried about me.” She stopped what she was doing and stood her ground.
He got up from the table. The mug danced, a splash of tea flying out over the rim. He reached down and wiped it clean with the sleeve of his shirt. “I’m not hungry. I have some work that needs tending.” He went out the door and down to the stable.
*****
Damn that woman. It was clear she could not or would not see what was soon to happen, and every time he attempted to talk with her was only making it worse. So much for progress. He would tie her to her horse if he had to. But all that would do would be to get the poor horse in trouble, and Brenna on a path back home so her friends and family would not be punished by Wallace. It was ludicrous, yet saving her without her explicit approval was an option not unlike mating with a black widow spider.
He needed to clear his head. He saddled Fury, made sure the goats had enough food so they would not follow him, and with a light squeeze he sent the horse galloping south. Fury loved to gallop, and a slack rein gave him all the approval he needed.
The ride was exhilarating, the big stallion stretching his back legs forward and down with the sureness of a blacksmith’s hammer on his anvil, yet much faster; not a step wasted, not a step missed, gliding along dry ground and puddles, sailing over bits of brush across the path, his head high, his mane flying back against the wind. It was not a time for thought; Devyn gave him all the rein he needed, and Fury broke the two of them free.
He finally brought Fury to a trot as they reached the road leading to the Gadvy farm, first east and then south of Woodfield, isolated and tucked away in the foothills of the Hawk Peaks—nothing as majestic as the Steel Mountains, yet they held their own with the vast array of animals and plants that made their home there. The kind of place where, if you wanted to get lost, no one would find you. His friend and comrade had picked it for that purpose.
Oran Gadvy was one of the three friends Brenna had alluded to. The idea of referring to him as a friend was foreign to his nature. They had done some work together, in a time before either of them had found a wife, and now it was a delightful discussion between the two as to who had saved the other more often.
The Gadvy farm also offered a secluded place to meet for other important business.
He came up to the pasture gate. It was not to be a day for a visit. The wagon was gone, and only two horses were in the pasture; Oran and his family were most likely in the garrison, doing what Devyn himself had done yesterday. For the best, in his estimation; he’d merely required some time away from Brenna.
He stopped to give his horse some water, and they headed back toward his own farm. He kept the pace slow. Fury accepted the pace for some time before going into a trot. Devyn reined him in, and Fury lowered his head and went into a walk.
Devyn rubbed the stallion’s neck. “Good boy.”
How could he make Brenna understand?
He recalled one of their conversations. His mistake was having brought up Ogmia. Her beliefs and his did not always match. Hers were steeped in the lore and teachings that comprised the life of a caretaker. Of course, there were many caretakers as such a nomenclature was merely decreed by the timing of their birth, albeit a perilous event with a much higher death rate than other birth dates. The special anointment came with being picked to serve at the solstice; Devyn had emphasized that it was the decision of Wallace not Ogmia. She made no such distinction in who was responsible for the appointment. Wallace might be the one to voice the appointment, but Ogmia must have willed it, was all she would say.
He accepted that the prophecies were more than the mere thought processes of some young girl or young man. The astronomy facilities were proof of that: inventions to stagger the greatest inventors of their time, the forging of metals and mining, herbs and elixirs in variety and combination impossible for any alchemist of the time. Much of this he accepted as beyond his reasoning, as was magic—something given to the few who were born caretakers.
Brenna was gifted with magic, even if she refused to use it. He remembered a candle being lit one time when he stumbled in the dark of the bedroom. It lit all too fast without tinder or flame nearby. When he’d questioned her, she had stuttered a reply, the words impossible to decipher, and she’d hushed him as she tended to his wound taken in the fall.
One other time, a beam had let loose in the barn. It should have come down straight and hit him, but it had moved to his right, avoiding a most serious blow to his head. That she’d explained as the will of Ogmia.
And the hawk. Devyn knew well enough it belonged in the faraway Desperate Lands. She would discuss none of this, which made it all the more real for him.
The connection to Ogmia and that soul was her answer to all such events. She believed that in the universe we are all connected around the same table, all dining together, one soul to another, and all to a singularity that cannot be understood, only felt. She avowed that even Kielara had a soul of its own, and that too connected to each of them, for all of life is part of the oneness. That was where he parted company with her beliefs. He told her stories of the evil he had witnessed in his escapades. To be one with any of them would mean damnation of his soul. Each life had a responsibility to defend itself and live on. The weak would lose and die. The evil had to be vanquished. It was the way of all things.
He smiled now, for her answer to that had ended his ability to attack her conviction. She asked how anything as delicate as a flower could come again and again in spite of the rains and the snows, the weeds and the insects, the scorching heat and drought. No matter what, delicate flowers continue
d to welcome lightsgift and add the greatest of beauty and life to all about them, feeding birds and insects alike, offering themselves as medicine and elixirs to the highest forms of life.
He could only bow his head to her wisdom, with just a trickle of shame for the many things he had done in the name of survival.
He would find a way.
She met him as he turned into their farm, presented him a mug of tea, and offered to set Fury out in the pasture.
She was so much better than him. He must save her at all costs.
“Let’s you and me take a look at that field.” She rubbed his back. “And if you’re nice, I’ll let you have an ale before Amaris goes full shine.”
*****
The glow from the firepit made him pause to watch the dance of light and shadow on Brenna’s face.
The horses would stay outside tonight for the first time since the middle of frostbite. They were already beginning to lose their warmer lining of fur. The goats were another matter; they liked their spot inside the barn until the nights got warmer. The hens and ducks were safely away from any night predators, and the night sky showcased Amaris as she raced to the horizon with Balac blazing in his glory and fast on her trail.
“Do you ever wonder if we’ll travel to the stars one day?” she asked.
“The prophecies come from somewhere, or someone. Maybe we’ll grow to be like them.” He chuckled. “But it’ll be long past the present period in which we wield swords or plant fields.”
She touched his arm. “Have you ever heard the story of the ancients?”
“You mean Ogmia?”
“No, not Ogmia. People like us, but more evolved.” Now she laughed. “Maybe not like us. But somehow of us.”
“Maybe I have, maybe a little. Tell me again. It’s a good night for a story, and I have an ale or two that wants to be my friend.”
“You make fun of me—”
“No, no. Any stories I was told had to do with loot and villains, loose purses and daring raids, quick escapes and clever hideaways. The only bit of real history I ever got was from a barman or two I tipped with too much coin.”
“You mean barmaid, don’t you?”
He raised his hands. “Ah, it was long ago! Who remembers? Yes, tell me some history of this old world of ours.”
“Sit back, farmer. Let’s embrace the evening. The story of the prophecies is not so much about our history, as our written history came much later. It’s buried in myth and legend handed down in drawings and symbols, old stories told by word of mouth from one generation to another until only the remnants are left, and very little of that.”
He stood. “I think I need another ale, and you another wine before this begins.” He scurried off and was back in a flash. “There.” He handed her the wine. “Now I’m ready. Enlighten me.”
She scuffed his hand as she accepted the wine. “I remember telling you the story of the temple, not the one in Great Temple Reach but the one built long before that, at a time when such structures were beyond the construction ability of those who lived on Kielara, long before the prophecies we know, long before the people began to understand the concept of soul or Ogmia.”
He watched as she looked up at the stars and took a sip of her wine, and he waited for her to continue.
“Our scholars have spent thousands of turns of the seasons attempting to understand all that was left by those who tried to describe what we now refer to as the Ancients. All over our world, in places diverse from each other and far from each other’s touch, were found similar drawings of structures and beings that were not of this world. Drawings of the old temple, a call for technology beyond what we have now, and the oldest of writings point to it as a great communicator to the stars themselves.”
“If we can’t find it, how do we know it exists?”
“Ah, a good question. Our new temple is built in the likeness of the old. We know all about when our new temple was built, how it was built, and by whom it was ordained to be built. The history is documented that after seasons of failure, a large promenade was placed where the domed tower of the original temple reached into the sky. Our mythology and lore tell us that in the distant past of the old temple, the dome of its towers gave the Ancients information about how we were developing as a species, and that such understanding promoted special prophecies. What we have today—or did have, I should say—is a one-way communication where we receive information but none travels out to the Ancients.”
“Why would they want to know about us?”
“Our scholars and the clerics believe that it’s much more than wanting to know. Their speculation is that we’re but children of the universe unable to care for ourselves beyond the confines of this world, and even here we struggle. Like all children we need watching and nurturing until we can stand on our own.”
“So you are saying the original temple is gone?” he asked.
“Yes, lost to antiquity.”
“And we’re alone?”
“We’re much more than that. We’re orphans.”
“It’s not that bad. You have me,” he added.
They laughed. She held out her hand, and he took it.
He would talk of what they needed to do another time. Tonight was already filled with purpose.
Chapter 3
A Matter of Choice
The night before had been a wonderful celebration, talking about the stars, the universe, the moons, the ducks, the horses, and whatever else might allow the ale and wine to pour, and they had looked up now and again to where the stars shone brightly, and thanked all of light for their love and togetherness. They had laughed about the tea stain on his sleeve.
She had touched every scar on his face when they finally made it to bed. He had touched every part of her as they shared love’s embrace, and he had tucked her deep inside where she would be safe.
There had been no talk about leaving their home. It had been a time to renew the grand attraction that made them one.
The morning light came too soon; he made them breakfast, fed and watered the animals, shared a parting kiss (one that lingered), saddled Fury, and headed to his appointed destination.
This time the wagon was where it usually could be found. Fury approached the shallow brook with its wooden bridge that would need some repair if it was going to last another turn of the seasons. Devyn would offer his help should Oran bring up the need for such repair; it would not be neighborly at all to instigate that conversation.
Fury took one leap to the middle, a moment to steady himself, and the next leap took them across the bridge. Even Fury knew when a bridge needed mending. Perhaps there were other things on Oran’s mind.
Selina had yet to arrive. He took his time removing the saddle and gave Fury a few rubs and a pat on the behind before setting him loose. There would be plenty of flakes of hay scattered around for the stallion to keep busy, including sprouts of the season’s new grass, less with sugar this early in the morning. The water trough was full; Oran was, no doubt, about his chores.
“Hey. Did I see Fury’s hoofprints as I was returning home yesterday?” Oran asked, stepping from the stable and leaning the pitchfork against the stable door.
“Let’s just say he had to stretch his legs… Market?”
“Ya, never too early. Making any headway with Brenna?” Oran added a telling wink.
“You know me too well, old friend.”
His conversations with Brenna came flashing back. Maybe I do have friends. Had he called Oran that before? Oran didn’t seem surprised. Maybe Brenna knew him better than he knew himself.
“Still lots of time,” Oran added. “Getting everyone organized and ready to leave at an exact time is a daunting task. And then there’s keeping the secret. It’ll be hard getting everyone.”
That twinge of irritation. So, not only when he talked to Brenna. “We can’t get everyone. Get your family. I’ll get mine. Let’s keep this tight.”
“You know what you’re saying, right?
”
“I know we can’t save everyone.” He turned and walked to the fence. The field had been worked on. It was certainly ready for planting. A conversation about who was not going was not a conversation he wanted to have. He rejoined Oran. “You started planting.”
Oran lowered his head. “Those we leave behind, close friends and maybe some family, they’re all doomed.”
“They’re fools to stay. We can’t drag them away. We can only save those who want to be saved. It’s their choice.” Damn the gods. That’s not what he wanted to say. No wonder he had only three friends.
The Last Prophecy Page 3
