Castien spat on the ground. “Azazel holds no authority in these woods. Our people will never release anyone to his control.”
Kirag stepped back from the cliff and retrieved the bow and quiver of arrows from the nearest elf. Nocking an arrow, he drew, held the tension, and slowly approached the edge of the cliff. “Castien Galonos, know that Azazel, Lord of Trimoria, claims these woods. You are but cowardly trespassers hiding within.”
He released the arrow. His aim was true.
The arrow pierced Vaughn’s left eye, and the Talon collapsed to the ground, dead.
The look of anger on Castien’s face brought a smile to Kirag’s.
Wanting blood, Kirag nocked another arrow and sent it at this Castien.
Again his aim was true.
But it did not reach his target.
The elf’s sword moved in a blur too quick to follow. He sliced the shaft of the arrow not once, but twice in midair, and the pieces of the arrow fell to the ground harmlessly.
Castien cast a dark gaze upward. “Leave, Kirag… and do not return.”
Despite the fire in his shoulder, Kirag dragged the two dead elves to the edge of the cliff and kicked them over the side.
“Something to remember me by.”
The Mysterious Herb-Woman
Father sat back, patted his stomach, and let out a satisfied belch. “This was a very good stew, my dearest. And to think that only a few weeks ago your stew wasn’t deemed edible by even the sheep and the goats.”
“Hey, that was my first try! I’m allowed to make mistakes when learning, aren’t I?”
“Of course you are, my heart.” He sighed, and his eyes glistened.
“What’s wrong, Father?”
He pulled at his mustache. “I just wish your mother could see you now. She would be just as proud of you as I am. You are growing rapidly into a woman.” The cheer returned to his face, and he gave her a conspiratorial look as he whispered, “In truth, your stew is much better than your mother’s ever was.”
“Really? You aren’t just saying that.”
He shook his head. “Why do you think your mother hired Janius Mizmer?”
“Mother hired her? Really? Well, it was Madam Mizner’s recipe I followed. I only made a few changes.”
“Changing Janius’s recipes?” her father said with a chuckle. “You’re brave, too.”
Arabelle set the dishes aside and pulled out the book she’d brought with her. It was a leather-bound drawing book that had belonged to her mother. Father had given it to her years ago, because Arabelle loved to flip through and see all the sketches her mother had made.
Now she turned to the page she’d been looking at last night. The sketch on that page was of an old crone. Most of her teeth were missing, and she had tufts of hair on her chin. She looked altogether unkempt, and quite a bit frightening. Yet Arabelle’s mother had surrounded her with a series of wavy lines like a glowing aura. It gave the old woman a mysterious, almost divine look.
The old woman appeared in a few scattered sketches, but this particular image was so striking that Arabelle had decided to use her inner sight on the old woman—and had found that not only was she a real person, she wasn’t that far away. That made her curious.
“Father,” she said, holding out the sketch. “Who is this woman in Mother’s sketchbook? She appears several times in the book. Is she a relation?”
Her father twirled his mustache as he studied the picture. “It’s funny you should ask about her, for I know very little. After we were betrothed, your mother took me to this old woman’s home—a cave not far from here. I asked why, but all your mother would say was that it had to do with one of her visions, and I’d learned by then not to pry when it came to matters involving her visions.
“We walked into the cave, and the old woman was waiting for us. I found her… intimidating, if I’m being honest. She gave off the distinct impression that she could read my inner thoughts. She didn’t speak, she simply studied me, and then she nodded to your mother. Your mother smiled and took me by the arm, and we left without any of us ever saying a word. It was very strange. But I felt like I’d passed some sort of test, and for that I was pleased.”
“And you never tried to find out who she was?”
“Oh, of course I tried. My curiosity had been piqued, after all. Your mother wouldn’t tell me, so I asked around. People had heard of her. Most seemed to think she was a crazy old herb-woman who had left her home years earlier. Some knew her as the Gray Lady. They all claimed she was harmless. Yet now that I think on it, living out there on her own, and yet managing to avoid slavers, wild animals, and other threats, she must not have been as harmless as she appeared. And I certainly didn’t get the impression of harmlessness when I was in her presence.”
He sighed. “I would like to speak to her again. Perhaps she could tell me tales of your mother than I never knew. But she was ancient even when I met her; I am sure she has passed long before now.”
Arabelle knew the woman was still alive; her inner sight had told her so. But she couldn’t tell her father that, for she would be unable to explain how she knew.
“There’s also something that I wished to speak to you about this evening, my heart. Roselle has informed me about some of the questions you’ve been pestering her about the past months. Questions she has, understandably, refused to answer.”
“Father, I’m sorry. I know certain subjects upset her, but if she won’t tell me, how am I to learn?”
He smiled. “I agree completely. But I wasn’t able to get her to accept that you weren’t wrong to seek knowledge that she felt was… inappropriate. She’s rather set in her ways. So, as you rightly asked, how are you to learn?”
He rose to his feet, slid a chest from under his bed, and unlocked it using a black key he extracted from beneath his tunic. Arabelle had long known he wore that key around his neck, but she’d never known what lock it went to, and she’d never seen this chest before. It was bound with black metal bands that strangely reflected hints of red in the lamplight.
Her father removed a tightly wrapped package from the chest, locked the chest once more, and returned it to its place beneath his bed. Then he resumed his seat across from Arabelle and handed her the package.
“Don’t open that here,” he said. His voice was low, as if he feared listening ears. “I understand Roselle’s reluctance to discuss such matters with you, but your questions were fair ones. So, after much searching, I’ve found for you a very rare and forbidden book that contains the answers you deserve. In it you’ll find the only written logs I know of regarding demons, their origin, and the battles of the gods.”
Arabelle looked down at the package in her hands. “Thank you.”
He kissed her on her forehead. “Keep this knowledge safe, my flower. I have arranged for a chest and key to be delivered to your tent. Keep the book locked up and the key on your person at all times. And whatever you do, never speak of this to anyone. We don’t want others like Roselle to attempt to rescue you from such knowledge.”
“Yes, Father.”
Tabor poked his head into the tent. “Sheikh, my apologies. There has been a confrontation with a slaver party. Khalid wants to know what you would like us to do with them.”
Father grimaced and stood. “Excuse me, my flower. I need to take care of some devils.”
And with a swish of his robes, he exited the tent.
Arabelle snuck away from the caravan, cloaked in darkness. She could only imagine the curses of her escorts as they realized they’d lost her, but her conversation with her father had only heightened her curiosity about the old crone, and the only way she’d learn more was by going to see the woman herself. Her inner sight had told her the woman wasn’t far away, which meant this was the perfect opportunity to find her, before the caravan moved on once more.
Arabelle hurried across the grasslands, following the guidance of her inner sight. If she could get to the old woman quickly, and not stay l
ong, perhaps she could come up with a reasonable excuse for her escorts. Maybe—
She let out a yelp and pulled up short as two blink dogs popped into existence directly in front of her. A dozen or more pops sounded all around her, indicated an entire pack had suddenly surrounded her.
She was startled, and confused, but she wasn’t frightened. At least, not exactly. Blink dogs were scavengers, not predators. They shouldn’t pose a threat. In fact they were normally quite wary of humans. They followed the caravan in search of offal, but always kept their distance. Which made their current behavior all the more curious.
The two blink dogs in front of her sat back on their haunches and looked at her with yellow eyes. Their tongues lolled out from their dirt-encrusted muzzles.
Arabelle took one tentative step back.
The dogs stood up and—
Ew.
Both animals retched, bringing up piles of partially digested food.
The dogs wagged their tails proudly and sat back on their haunches. A few of their packmates came over and gave a few laughing barks.
What do these animals want?
“I don’t have any food with me,” Arabelle said. “If I did, I would share it. But now I must get to my destination.”
She started forward once more, stepping carefully around the piles of vomit.
The pack moved with her.
She began jogging, and the laughing animals kept pace.
But as they seemed to have no intention of harming her, and since she had no time to waste on them, she continued on. For the next thirty minutes Arabelle ran, surrounded by laughter and frolicking and near-constant pops.
At last, when she approached the looming cliff face where she knew the woman resided, the pack lost interest. They veered away and ran off in another direction.
How strange.
Arabelle closed her eyes and concentrated on the old crone. The woman’s heartbeat now thundered in Arabelle’s head, indicated that her target was directly ahead. She followed her inner sight forward—directly toward a sheer cliff face. There was no cave here, only rock.
But she trusted her inner sight, and she continued forward, right up to the wall of rock. Only then did she realize that a portion of the wall was actually a well-camouflaged cloth hung over the opening to a cave.
As she stood there, a warm, gravelly, female voice spoke from within.
“Come in, child. I have been waiting for you.”
Arabelle hesitated, gathering her courage, then finally pulled aside the cloth and stepped into the cave beyond.
The cave was small and empty, except for three things. The small fire that burned. The stone chair carved into the back wall of the cave. And the woman who sat on that chair.
It was the woman from her mother’s sketchbook, and she looked exactly as her mother had portrayed her.
The old crone’s eyes studied Arabelle from behind a mass of tangled gray hair, and Arabelle felt stripped bare.
“Sit, child. You are safe here. Nobody will disturb us.”
Arabelle looked back at the cloth over the entrance. Even this side was perfectly camouflaged, and had Arabelle not known otherwise, she would have sworn that she was now surrounded by solid rock.
She sat down cross-legged next to the fire. “My mother had drawings of you,” she said.
The old woman gave a toothless smile. “I knew your grandmother when she was but half your age, and the die had been cast when she found me.”
“You knew my grandmother as a girl? How could you be that old? You don’t look like an elf.”
The old lady tilted her head back and cackled. “Age is not important, and the threads of destiny form complex knots. You are a child of destiny. Your mother was also one of those children, but she was not the one. You, my dear Arabelle, Princess of the Imazighen, bearer of many secrets… you are the one I envisioned long ago.”
“How do you know my name?” Arabelle asked.
The old woman clucked and shook her head. “Not important. Ask me important questions.”
There was a preternatural strength in the woman’s words—as if contained in that frail body was a well of power that was ready to explode. And as Arabelle looked closer, she saw a shimmering glow surrounding this woman. Just like in her mother’s sketch.
And then Arabelle noticed something else that made no sense. She felt no heat coming from the campfire. Nor did it give off any smoke. She reached a hand toward the fire and felt nothing.
How is that possible?
Arabelle tried to collect her thoughts. “Who are you?”
“Not important. Ask me important questions.”
Arabelle was getting frustrated. “You said you envisioned me. Who am I? What am I to do?”
The woman closed her eyes. “Those questions are worthy of consideration.” Her jaw moved as if she chewed on her thoughts, then her eyes flew open once more. “You are mistaken in your belief that you carry a curse. A poison. What you carry will serve as a tool. A tool that you will need if you are to successfully walk the path of your destiny.”
Arabelle gasped. How does she know all this?
“Your success is not certain, my dear. There are many obstacles along your way. There are decisions only you can make. Choose incorrectly, and your people will surely suffer.”
Arabelle’s heart threatened to beat its way out of her chest. “Can you tell me what I’ll face? Can you help me?”
The old woman closed her eyes and made those chewing motions once again. Then her eyes opened and she shook her head.
“I cannot tell you the nature of the dangers ahead. There are too many threads that might change in time.” She opened her hand, and a tiny leather satchel appeared out of thin air. “But I can offer you this.”
She held it out to Arabelle, who took it. Inside was a scrap of parchment with some sort of recipe written on it.
“What is this?” Arabelle asked.
“Instructions for creating tincture of the new moon. Use it at night when you must travel and wish not to be seen. Apply one drop to each eye.”
“What does it do?”
“The tincture will coat your eyes with blackness. The blackness of your eyes will be pure like the new moon. They will neither reflect the lights from the stars, nor any other lights. And while this tincture is active, your superior night vision will be enhanced.”
“How—how do you know about my superior night vision? Not a living soul knows about it. I barely understand it.”
The old woman smiled mysteriously, then began to fade in front of Arabelle’s eyes. The campfire faded too, as did the stone chair on which the woman sat. As the last wisps of woman, chair, and campfire disappeared, a parting whisper sounded in the now-empty cave.
“Not everything is as it seems, young princess. That bird you seek in the sky is bound to land on the ground. Protect the bird, or all you know will suffer.”
A New Apprenticeship
The three weeks since his escape from the mines had been a whirlwind of activity for Grisham. He’d begun an apprenticeship with a dwarf soldier named Oda. The dwarf was respected by the caravan soldiers, and although he was gruff, Grisham could tell he meant well. But he was very demanding, and Grisham found himself busier than he’d ever been.
Still, in quieter moments, he often thought back to what had happened in the mines. What had happened to him. He had actually become a megapede. It was surreal even to think about, but he knew it to be the truth.
And it was more than just a physical transformation; it was mental, too. As he chewed through the rock to get out of the mines, he wasn’t very clear on who he was, and he even felt angry that the other slaves were following him. It was as if he had lost contact with the Ta’ah that was inside of him and was actually thinking like a megapede.
Then, when he broke through onto the surface, the bright light confused him. Nicholas later told him that he began lashing out at anything nearby, and only after Nicholas called his name repeatedly d
id he calm down.
Grisham wondered what would have happened had Nicholas not been there to bring him back to himself. Would he have remained a megapede forever?
Grisham was in the soldier’s barracks, repairing one of his master’s ripped tunics—Oda was constantly destroying his own clothes—when Nicholas walked in and laughed.
“Grisham! What do they have you doing now? Sewing?”
Grisham grimaced. “Oda says he’s all thumbs with a needle and thread, and as I’m his apprentice now…” He shook his head.
“Well you’d better not make your sewing skills too widely known, or every soldier will be coming to you claiming to be all thumbs. The pile of torn clothing will be taller than you, my friend.”
In truth, Grisham enjoyed sewing. Or at least, he preferred it to practicing with weapons. Given his size, he didn’t think hand-to-hand combat would ever be something he could excel at. Of course, the hadn’t told Oda this. He was the dwarf’s apprentice, which meant Oda was going to teach him what being a dwarven warrior was all about. And Oda of all people would brook no excuses about being small. He always boasted that anything a human could do, a dwarf could do—but correctly.
“How about you, Nicholas?” Grisham asked. “Are you officially a part of the guard again?”
Nicholas had told Grisham that this caravan was the very one that he had soldiered for at the time of his capture by the slavers. He’d been worried about whether they would accept him again, seeing as, from their perspective, he’d already abandoned his post once before.
“As a matter of fact, all turned out well. A soldier I knew well, Khalid, is still here—in fact he’s the captain now. He remembered me, and I explained what happened—that I didn’t abandon my post, but that I did foolishly drink too much in commemorating the anniversary of my wife’s passing, and that’s what got me captured by slavers. Khalid was very understanding and fair. We’re lucky to have him.”
Agent of Prophecy Page 13
