Prophecy's Ruin (Broken Well Trilogy)

by Sam Bowring

  ‘I do not know where it went,’ murmured Corlas. His bleary gaze shot up. ‘I do not care! It’s my son whom I travel to find, not a piece of jewellery!’

  ‘Of course,’ soothed the bird. ‘Of course. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  Be calm, came an urging in Corlas’s mind, quietly enough to seem his own. His breathing slowed and he calmed. It had been cathartic to yell and scream, to pour out his unspoken troubles.

  ‘We should talk some more,’ said the bird, ‘but for now I think it’s time you rested. You’re very tired, and I did interrupt you going to sleep.’

  Corlas was indeed tired, and growing more so by the second. The bird flitted off his arm and landed on the ground. ‘Do you have a name, little bird?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ said the bird, the fire reflecting in its blood-drop eyes. ‘It’s Iassia. What’s yours?’

  ‘Corlas,’ said Corlas, and slept.

  ‘Well, Corlas,’ said Iassia, ‘it looks like we might travel a way together, you and I. Perhaps quite a way.’

  •

  Iassia chuckled softly to himself as he sent out thoughts towards Battu. Prized by Arkus indeed . . .

  It was true that weavers had been created by Arkus long ago in his Garden of Paradise, but the rest of the story was a bit more complicated. It seemed that Arkus, in his vanity, could not stand to make anything simple, so he’d given his birds power and intellect despite the mundane nature of their intended function. He had expected them to be happy flitting prettily from tree to tree, entertaining others with their songs and playful natures. Iassia wondered how a god could be so stupid.

  Back in the days before the gods went to war, Assedrynn, Lampet, Elsara or any of the Dark Gods had often visited the Garden – and in fact Arkus had created a great lake there to make them feel more at home. Assedrynn had enjoyed speaking with the weaver birds, and saw potential where Arkus saw only pretty plumage. He had also noticed that, as the birds grew ever more bored, some of their tricks and jokes took on a nastier flavour. As disagreement erupted between Arkus and Assedrynn, the birds continued to do what was in their nature. As they carried messages, they encouraged misinformation between the gods and told Assedrynn things that Arkus would not have wished him to know. We were brash, thought Iassia, but we were created brash.

  War began, and no longer did Assedrynn visit the Garden, so the respect he had paid the weavers went too. The birds grew restless, their tricks more malicious. One weaver, whose common name was Osesha, managed to ruin a burgeoning love pact between two of Arkus’s retinue, and Arkus was enraged. He called together all the weavers and warned them that their games had gone too far, that they were expected to entertain and amuse, not to harm. As further warning, he destroyed Osesha. The birds were silent before his wrath, but they remembered what Assedrynn had said about the importance of being true to one’s nature. They were affronted that Arkus saw them merely as jesters. No one mourned the death of Osesha, as weavers are entirely selfish creatures, but Iassia remembered the great fear and hatred the act had produced in them. As soon as Arkus was gone, their thoughts began to fly between the trees in a whirlwind debate. For once, the weavers were united. They would abandon Paradise.

  At the Garden’s gate they had found the Guardian, one of Arkus’s strongest servants, whom they knew would not allow them passage. While no single weaver could affect such a powerful mind as his, collectively they dealt him an onslaught of confusion and terror, driving him insane in a matter of moments. He left his post to rage into the Garden, mad and destructive. With the gate abandoned, things that had no place in Arkus’s Paradise began to drift through. Against this backdrop of growing chaos, the weavers made good their escape into the world. That was a fun day, thought Iassia.

  Knowing that Arkus’s anger would be great once he discovered their treachery, the weavers fled to the newly created Fenvarrow. They could not find Assedrynn in the mortal world, but they did find Kryzante, then the High Priest of Assedrynn, who would later become the first Shadowdreamer. Kryzante had offered the birds a bargain: if three would serve him until the time of his death, he would perform the rituals needed to convert the weavers’ magic into shadow and so hide them from Arkus. The weavers agreed. Kryzante warned the birds that though their souls were now hidden, if someone summoned Arkus’s attention by using a weaver’s true name, Arkus would be able to recognise his wayward servant. Such a weaver would not enjoy its return to Paradise.

  Paradise, thought Iassia derisively. Another arrogance of Arkus to call it such. Give me a world full of puny minds to torment – that’s paradise.

  He twittered again as he watched over the sleeping form of Corlas.

  •

  Battu sat back in Refectu with building satisfaction. Not only was Tyrellan safely on the way to Skygrip with the child, but the weaver bird had had some stunning luck. Discovery of the child’s father might prove useful in itself, but there was something even more incredible about Iassia’s new friend. Beneath the man’s overgrown hair and beard, beneath the dirt-encrusted skin, Battu had recognised a face he’d never expected to see again. He’d forced himself to forget his assailant at the Shining Mines, the warrior who’d dealt him a grievous blow yet slipped through his clutches unscathed. Though he’d desired revenge, Battu had had the sense not to tear up Kainordas looking for a single man. Yet here the man was again, this time the father of the prophesied child.

  Perfect.

  A plan began to form, one that married purpose with revenge, and the longer the dark lord thought about it, the wider the smile stretched across his face.

  Eight / Fate’s Children

  Eight

  Fate’s Children

  Fate’s Children

  Tyrellan strode across the Stone Fields, satisfied that he was back under the Cloud. Battu’s distraction had worked well: on the journey home, enemy patrols had been thinner than usual. He’d managed to go undetected until the very last stretch, which had been across wasteland with little cover. Risks had been taken and he had been spotted. No matter. No Varenkai force would ever catch him in his homeland, if they dared to cross the border. Most Kainordans were too terrified by the presence of the Trapped, though there was little the floating spirits could do to harm them. Weak-willed fools.

  ‘Tyrellan.’

  The goblin halted as a shifting man-shape rose from the rocks before him. ‘My lord Battu,’ he said, bowing his head. From his back the babe looked on with wide eyes.

  ‘I’m glad to see you back,’ said Battu. ‘You’ve been longer than expected.’

  ‘I was forced to move quietly, lord. And the babe needed to be fed.’

  ‘Is there a murdered wet-nurse somewhere on the trail behind you?’

  ‘No, but many farmers wondered why their cows gave no milk the morning after my passing.’

  The Battu shape wavered in an unseen wind. ‘What of the other who was with you?’

  ‘He was killed, lord.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Battu. ‘I shall have an escort sent from Logale.’

  ‘They will only slow me.’

  ‘See that they don’t. I’ll take no chances with the child’s safety. There will be a whelkling waiting to bring you to Skygrip.’

  Battu’s shadow loomed forward, losing all human shape, surrounding the boy like the fingers of a claw. The boy looked back curiously, without fear, meeting Battu’s inspection with one of his own. Then Battu withdrew and was gone.

  •

  For the first time in weeks, Fahren felt calm. The boy had arrived, safe and well, and now slept in a cot in Fahren’s quarters at the top of the Open Tower. His long blue lashes caressed chubby cheeks, his blue hair grown into a mess of curls.

  The door to Fahren’s chambers burst open and in strode the Throne, highly agitated and puffing hard. The Tower steps were unforgiving wh
en one was in a hurry.

  ‘What is it?’ said Fahren.

  The Throne didn’t answer, but moved to the cot. ‘So,’ he said, ‘this is the child of power? He doesn’t look very scary.’

  ‘He’s three weeks old.’

  The Throne grunted, glancing around distractedly.

  ‘What is it, Naphur?’

  ‘Battu,’ snarled Naphur. ‘He’s disbanded his troops and war engines. He doesn’t mean to attack.’

  Fahren felt his heart sink. That could only mean one thing – the goblin had reached Fenvarrow. The other baby was as good as lost, at least for the moment.

  ‘So,’ said Naphur, keeping his voice steady, ‘it seems you were right, High Mage. It was a feint, massive and costly, but a feint nonetheless.’

  ‘And so,’ said Fahren, ‘you are finally curious about what we possess? And what the enemy now possesses?’

  The Throne nodded. ‘What do we do with him?’

  ‘Keep him safe, and watch him grow. The Shadowdreamer must not find him, so his identity will be kept secret.’

  ‘His hair is blue,’ said the Throne.

  ‘A simple enough enchantment can take care of that. It’s his eyes I wonder about . . .’

  ‘His eyes?’

  ‘You will see when he’s awake, Throne. They are amber flecked with gold. The child must have some Sprite in his ancestry.’

  ‘Really? He’s a Sprite?’

  ‘No, he is human. There are some who still carry an aspect of that ancient bloodline, but it’s always weak. Besides, I think the physical characteristics are all that’s left to him. Any Old Magic would have been destroyed when he was separated from his shadow self.’ Fahren frowned. ‘I’ve been wondering endlessly if this is all meant to be, if each side is meant to have a champion – it does not seem chance that he was born with Old Magic and the only artefact in the world capable of separating him into shadow and light.’

  ‘I only heard “no”,’ said Naphur.

  ‘I shall leave his eyes, but change his hair,’ sighed Fahren, used to Naphur’s refusal to even attempt understanding of things magical.

  ‘What of the parents?’

  Fahren took a moment to think about that. ‘Most likely they are dead. My dream showed nothing of them, and nothing’s been found since.’

  ‘Very well, we shall assume them dead. You will be the boy’s guardian, responsible for his upbringing and education. He shall remain under your roof, so to speak. That is what you want?’

  ‘Yes, my Throne.’ He was glad to hear Naphur finally treating the matter with the seriousness it deserved.

  ‘And what of Battu’s child?’ asked Naphur.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Fahren. ‘I’m uncertain of many things. Perhaps both sides have a champion, perhaps just one, perhaps neither.’ He sighed. ‘I shall need time to ponder, and I may not have an answer until it is delivered to us by fate.’

  Naphur’s jaw tightened.

  ‘I am worried,’ continued Fahren, ‘that I haven’t sensed anything of magic in him yet.’

  ‘Who’s to say there’ll ever be any?’ said Naphur. ‘To blazes with magic. Maybe he’ll be a great warrior.’

  ‘He is the child of power,’ said Fahren flatly.

  ‘There are all kinds of power.’

  ‘Your problem, my good Throne, is that you see what you want to see. And though I agree that there are all kinds of power, our world is so governed by magic . . . I don’t see how someone without the gift can possibly hope to change it.’

  ‘I hope you appreciate that I find that insulting, even though you’re wrong,’ said Naphur. ‘As the Throne of Kainordas, I don’t have to be magical myself to command you to go off and fight the Shadowdreamer, do I?’

  Fahren leaned back in his seat. ‘I suppose not.’ He sighed. ‘Well, for now there is only one thing to decide.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A name, my friend. We should not let wider concerns distract us from the pleasant trivialities of life. The boy requires a name. Something unassuming. I suggest we have some wine while we argue about it.’

  Fahren filled two large goblets, and they sat watching the baby in the cot, bickering with each other until the sun began to set. Eventually they came to an agreement.

  ‘Bel,’ said Fahren, placing a hand on the brow of the sleeping boy. ‘Your name will be Bel.’

  The child stirred in his sleep.

  •

  A knock at the door made Lalenda start and look up from her book. Books were the only escape from the stark room where she spent her days alone. She was reading about a human girl child, the same age as her, who got up to all kinds of mischief. It was a happy, funny story, although sometimes the thought of such freedom made her weep. When she dreamed of it, waking was all the worse.

  Nervously she got off her bed and went to the door. Outside stood a fat Grey Goblin. From the goblin’s short breaths, Lalenda could see that the journey into the depths of Skygrip had taxed her.

  ‘There a portal door round ’ere?’ the goblin demanded.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lalenda, staring out from under strands of black tousled hair. ‘Away up the passage by the crystal fountain. It connects to the upper castle.’

  ‘Old fish-head be damned!’ muttered the goblin. ‘I couldn’t find the blighter. ’Ad to come down all them stairs!’

  Her tone seemed to imply that this was Lalenda’s fault. Lalenda wondered who old fish-head was.

  ‘You Lalenda?’ continued the goblin.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘’Is lordship wants to see you immediately. You’d better ’urry, as I took so long to get ’ere.’ Her message delivered, the goblin turned to huff off down the corridor.

  Dread filled Lalenda. Since the boy had arrived yesterday with Tyrellan, she’d hoped Battu would forget about her for a while. If only she could make him understand about prophecy, but she didn’t dare try. Her visions seldom concerned Fenvarrow on any broad scale, nor Battu’s future as its ruler.

  She went to her dressing table with its cracked mirror, the only furnishing in the room besides the bed. Once, while Lalenda had been sitting at it, she’d had a flash of its former owner – the wife of an Arabodedas counsellor, smearing her lips blue. Now the mirror stood covered in dust. In an attempt to make herself presentable, she tied back her long hair, then rubbed a washcloth over her cheeks to wipe away dust arisen from old pages.

  ‘I tie ribbons in my hair, which the wind catches and makes me dance,’ she said.

  She turned away before she saw tears.

  •

  Lalenda forced herself down the narrow corridor. Every few paces was an alcove containing a bust of some Shadowdreamer past, softly lit by a glowing block of ice set into the wall behind. Their stony faces loomed over her, for Mire Pixies were a short folk, and at six years old she stood less than a pace tall.

  Her skin was the same colour as the mud of the swamp where she should have been growing up. Her lips, hair and curving lashes were black, and she had large eyes of cobalt blue – a rarity amongst her people. Most of the time her small mouth hung pensively downturned, pointing away from her upturned nose. Her fingers were tipped with retractable claws, though she’d filed them back so as not to damage the pages of books. Two crystalline wings folded tightly across her back.

  She tried to take another step but her legs refused. To her side was an alcove containing the Shadowdreamer Raker, whose bust, for some reason, was not lit. The darkness in his alcove seemed like sanctuary and, without thinking, she slipped into it to crouch in hiding. Time passed. At her knees a pool of tears silently grew.

  Lalenda wished she hadn’t been born a prophet. Sometimes it seemed she spent every moment wishing it. It had ruined her life, bringing her to the castle at a
n age when other Mire Pixies were still being taught the mysterious ways of Swampwild. Children she’d known would be flitting through willow trees, chasing fireflies or teasing humptoads.

  Her thoughts turned, as they often did, to her mother. Before she’d come to Skygrip Castle, she and her mother had been each other’s only family. Her father, killed when she was barely flying, was but a face and a voice and a single burning scene seared into memory by pain.

  It had disturbed her parents to see their daughter so, pulling on her father’s arm with fear written so plainly on her face – not yet able to talk but wordlessly begging him to stay. What possessed the child?

  ‘What is wrong, my little Lalenda?’ her father had asked. He had knelt before her, cupping her face in his hands, and she had clasped firmly to his wrist. Into his arms he’d gathered her, but she maintained her grip. ‘I won’t be gone long, willow princess.’ His special name for her. She remembered that too.

  Then he’d pulled away. By the time she’d scratched and bitten her way free of her mother, he was already flying. As he’d disappeared into a grove of willows, she’d known it was the last time she would see him alive.

  A few hours later his body was found, claws extended, caught in the tendrils of a demonflower. Her brethren had burnt it out, and her father’s body with it. Lalenda stood nearby, clutching at her mother’s leg, finding it difficult to breathe. She had seen this already, in a vision that had come from the future. A vision she had been unable to communicate. She had been too small.

  After that, Lalenda had stayed silent long past the time she was first due to speak. She’d wake bawling in the night, and her mother was almost thankful, for it was the only time her daughter responded to her any more. Her poor mother, whose grief had increased as she understood that the death of her husband had also killed her child’s happy, giggly nature. But as time passed they grew closer again and helped each other heal. When Lalenda finally did choose to speak, she spoke well.

  About a year ago, word had got out amongst the community about Lalenda’s gift. Eventually it reached the ears of the Swampwild Counsellor. Discovery of a prophet was never overlooked, and soon enough Black Goblins arrived. Her mother tried to stop them, but was struck and knocked out cold. Lalenda had been taken to Skygrip to become one of Battu’s prized possessions.