Resigned Fate

by West, Shay

  “As do I,” said Keera.

  A sudden commotion interrupted their conversation. A horse came down the main road at a full run. As soon as he spotted Rome, the rider yanked back so hard on the reins the animal squealed and sat back on its rump. The man fell to the side and the case he was carrying went rolling through the dirt. Several villagers ran to help the man to his feet.

  “Let’s go see what’s going on,” Kaelin said.

  The man was gasping and trying to speak. All he could do was hand over the leather satchel to Rome and wait for the man to read what was inside.

  Rome’s face blanched as he read the parchment.

  “What is it?” Saemus asked.

  “The Mekans have destroyed much of the Eastern Continent and are slowly making their way here. Many have already crossed the Sea of Solace. Mordaen reports severe wave fronts that are wiping out coastal cities along both Continents.” Rome sighed and rubbed a hand over his face.

  “What can we do?” one of the villagers asked.

  “There’s nothing we can do. These things are going to destroy us!” another villager exclaimed.

  “I have family in Vis Rellisa! I need to know if they’re all right! I should travel there and see if they’re all right,” said another.

  “We will remain here until such time as I decide we go, is that clear? And no one is to go gallivanting off on suicide-rescue missions for friends and family. The Mekans are still a long way off so we have a little time to decide what we are to do. If we are to leave, there is still much planning that needs to be done. I will appoint some of you to begin gathering supplies in the event that we need to evacuate,” Rome said.

  “We will need to evacuate. It’s just a question of when,” Saemus said.

  “Shouldn’t we leave now rather than waiting until the enemy gets here?” a villager asked.

  “We can’t just leave. There are preparations to make. Which we can see to if you’re done with all the questions,” Rome said firmly.

  The village leader then gave instructions to the villagers to begin collecting supplies: food, water, medicine, fodder for livestock, weapons, anything Rome thought they would need to survive.

  Saemus spotted Beth Stone, Jon’s mother, hurrying toward them. His heart sank. The last time she had been this distressed it was because her son had run away, only to later be kidnapped, sold to Queen Cheye, and taught to harness forbidden magic.

  “Have either of you seen Jon?”

  Keera frowned, trying to remember the last time she had seen him.

  “I haven’t seen him since before the wedding. I figured he was at the farm” Saemus said.

  “No. He’s been moody and withdrawn since you first arrived. I thought it was because he was still upset at finding out he was adopted,” Beth said sadly.

  “It could be,” Saemus said. “However, it could be something else.” Saemus glanced at Kaelin and Brad sharing a quiet moment under the shade of an aspen tree.

  Beth didn’t miss the look. “Surely you don’t think he’s still in love with that girl, do you? That was so long ago.”

  “I’ve caught Jon staring at her on more than one occasion, and when he sees Kaelin and Brad together, he looks enraged,” Keera said.

  “Not to mention that we’ve been traveling with Fa’ Vel. Who knows what that man has been filling his head with,” Saemus said.

  Beth looked even more distressed than when she first arrived. “Could he have run off again?”

  “Let’s go see if he’s at Fa’ Vel’s camp before we jump to conclusions,” Saemus said.

  Saemus, Keera, and Beth made their way to Fa’ Vel’s camp at the edge of town. Saemus’ heart sank when he didn’t see tents through the trees. It was clear before they arrived at the camp that the evil magician and his men were long gone.

  “What do we do now?” Keera asked.

  “The clone can tell us where Jon is,” Saemus said, opening his mind to the telepath.

  --What is it you desire?--

  --We need to find our friend, Jon. He seems to be missing--

  The clone answered after only a few seconds. – He is traveling toward a city called Faerow. He did not seem pleased that I made contact.

  --Why is he going to Faerow?--

  --Unknown. But he is with a rather large group--

  --Can you contact him again and ask him what he thinks he’s doing? And why he left without saying anything to anyone?-- Saemus asked.

  --He is not allowing me to discern the answers to your questions--

  Saemus sighed loudly, wishing he didn’t have to be the bearer of bad news. “Jon has left with Fa’ Vel and his men. They’ve gone to Faerow. I don’t know why.” Saemus frowned. “Not sure why Fa’ Vel would go back to Faerow, seeing how he had Mordaen’s family killed.”

  “Perhaps Mordaen never saw him. It wouldn’t surprise me if Fa’ Vel had his cronies do all his dirty work,” Keera said.

  “The question is, what do we do?” Saemus asked. “Do we go after him? Let him go his own way?”

  “Why should we go after him? He made his choice,” Keera said before she could stop the words. She winced when she saw the pained look that flashed across Beth Stone’s face.

  “Like it or not, he’s one of us. And we might need his power if the Mekans come,” Saemus said.

  “Maybe he and Fa’ Vel will defeat them and we won’t need him here at all,” Keera mumbled.

  “That’s not nice, Keera—”

  “I don’t really care if it’s nice! We went after Jon the first time he ran away and caused all sorts of trouble. Now he runs away again just because Kaelin married someone else. He doesn’t care about anyone but himself,” Keera said.

  “Maybe he will realize the folly of what he’s done and come back,” Beth said as she wrung her hands.

  “That’s true. Maybe he only went along to make sure Fa’ Vel was leaving for good,” Keera said, jumping on the chance to take the sting out of her recent words.

  “His absence doesn’t change anything. We must make preparations to leave and it’s too dangerous to send anyone after them. We just have to trust that he knows what he’s doing,” Saemus said.

  Beth nodded. Saemus put a comforting hand on her shoulder, wishing Jon hadn’t put his mother through this a second time.

  He better not show his face around here for a good long while.

  Saemus led the way back to the village, his heart weighed down with the tasks Rome had set before them. It would take some time for the villagers from Heart Stone, Oak Brook, and Willow Haven to gather the necessities. In the meantime, the Mekans drew closer to his home.

  As Saemus, Keera, and Beth approached the Village Green, they noticed riders galloping at full speed down the main thoroughfare. They split when they reached the fork leading to Willow Haven and Oak Brook.

  “Where are they going?” Keera asked.

  “Rome is sending riders to spread the word to the homesteads. At this time of year, they’ll be working the fields. They need to be warned about the danger so they can flee,” a villager explained.

  “I’ll say good day to you. There’s lots of work to be done to get ready. I best go see to the girls,” Beth said as she headed for home.

  “How can he be so selfish? Those girls were devastated last time he took off,” Keera snarled.

  “Perhaps they have grown used to his absence,” Saemus said.

  Keera grunted. “I guess. Still, it seems like a rotten thing to do.”

  “I agree. But we can’t worry about him right now. We have to help our people get ready to evacuate.”

  GENTRA

  FEEROR GASPED AND FLAILED HIS FOUR ARMS, trying to regain control of his gelatinous body as it rolled over in the warm water.

  This body is ungainly!

  Voilor and Moylir grabbed his arms, helping to steady him. In moments, he was able to gain control of his rubbery limbs, his brain quickly adapting to the new form. He nodded and his two companions let go of his
arms. The Kromin floated serenely in place, staring at the spectacle with its typical bland expression.

  The four made their way out of the portal chamber and swam quickly to the home of the prophets. Feeror hoped Druska was still alive and in charge. There was no indication how much time had passed on this planet since the last time they had visited. A few weeks may have passed, or it could have been a century.

  A young Gentran with a brilliant orange bell stopped them at the entrance to the prophets’ dwelling, demanding to know who they were and what business they had there.

  “Our business is our own. Fetch Druska, he knows who we are,” Feeror said, hoping the Gentran Master was still alive.

  The Gentran blew water out of his siphon but spun around to go in search of the head Master. In moments, he returned and motioned the five to follow him. He led them down the familiar corridor to the main meeting room. Druska was floating back and forth in front of one of the tables, both sets of arms clasped behind his back. When he heard them enter, he swam forward to greet them, disbelief followed by fear flashed across his features.

  “Are there only the four of you left?” Druska asked.

  “No, though we have lost more on Astra,” Feeror answered.

  “How many remain?”

  “Thirteen, including us. And only one Guardian lives.”

  Druska shook his head. “So many gone.” He swam back to the table, trying to regain his composure before facing the three Chosen again. “Why have you returned?”

  “We wish to look at the prophetic scrolls. There may be something we missed,” Feeror said.

  “Do you really think you will find the answer there?”

  “We don’t know. But we have to try something. The Mekans have already destroyed our world and are digging on Astra as we speak. The prophecies may yet hold the answers we seek,” Feeror said.

  “We can only hope,” Druska whispered.

  The Chosen floated in the water, waiting for Druska to say something else. The silence drew out and the tension became palpable. The Kromin did not seem aware of any change in the emotional states of the others in the room.

  “You know your way to the library?” Druska asked without turning around.

  Feeror nodded, then shook his head when he realized the Gentran Master couldn’t see him. He cleared his throat. “I believe we can find it.”

  “I suggest you get started. Time is running out,” Druska said.

  Feeror led the way, taking a few wrong turns before finally finding the library. It was just as he remembered: row upon row of huge shelves, stocked with scrolls and other bits of parchment weighed down with rocks. A few young Gentrans floated through the stacks, grabbing scrolls until their arms were loaded down, then taking them to one of the many tables scattered throughout the room.

  Feeror glanced at the rows, unsure where to begin looking. The Masters had always had the scrolls brought to them.

  “If we have to look through all of this, it will take much too long,” Moylir said.

  “Perhaps we should ask someone,” Voilor suggested.

  Feeror stopped an acolyte on his way to one of the stacks. “Perhaps you can help us. Master Druska sent us here to look through some scrolls pertaining to a prophecy...” he trailed off, unsure of how much to reveal. The contents of the prophetic scrolls were supposed to be secret.

  The acolyte nodded. “You’ll need to see Femka. This way.” He swam off toward the back of the library.

  “Femka, these folks are here to see you.”

  Femka glanced up, mumbled something incoherent as he hurriedly scribbled something on the parchment on the table before him.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  “We need to see the scrolls pertaining to the Chosen.” Feeror hoped he wasn’t breaking any rules.

  “Wait here. I’ll bring you what you need,” Femka ordered.

  Femka and another acolyte arrived with their arms full of scrolls. They dumped them unceremoniously on the table. Feeror looked at the scrolls scattered on the table and sighed. “We might as well begin.”

  The Chosen looked through the scrolls until hunger drove them to find something to eat. Rather than leave the scrolls unattended or worse, have them returned to their shelf while they went in search of food, Feeror asked an acolyte to fetch them something from the kitchens. The prophet-in-training glared at them before running off on the errand, clearly upset about having to leave his studies to act like a servant.

  “Let’s go over the actual prophecy one more time. One part speaks of going to the past, that the answer lies behind. Another speaks of destroying and infiltrating the enemy. Bah!” Feeror shoved the scroll away. “This speaks in riddles! How can we find an answer behind? How can we destroy and infiltrate something at the same time? It’s contradictory.”

  “Perhaps we need a break. We’ve been reading for hours. Maybe we could find somewhere quiet to spar,” Voilor said.

  Feeror’s violet eyes lit up. It would be nice to burn off the agitated energy flowing through him.

  --I will remain behind and look through the rest of the scrolls--

  “Let us know the moment you find anything useful,” Feeror said as he stretched his arms above his head. “Let’s go.”

  The three left the library in search of somewhere private where they could spar and work the forms. Volgons were used to honing their skills daily by practicing with their various weapons, even ones that their people no longer used. That had proved to be a useful task since they had been forced to use knives when they had fought Fa’ Vel’s men on Astra.

  They swam to their old quarters, picking several stalks of long sea grass on the way. They were pleased to find the entire building abandoned, as though it were waiting for them all to return. For the next hour, Feeror, Voilor, and Moylir practiced with the stalks, enjoying the feeling of their muscles protesting the movements. Volgons did not shy away from pain; rather they welcomed it. They practiced and sparred until they could barely move their arms, breath moving quickly through the siphons running down their backs.

  “Who is that?”

  Feeror looked to where Moylir pointed. A Gentran was peering at them from behind a screen of bright pink sea grass. When Moylir pointed, the stranger darted away in a flash of bright yellow bell and a wake of water.

  “He doesn’t look familiar. Then again, they all look the same to me,” Feeror shrugged. “He might have seen us at our exercises and been curious.” Though he couldn’t explain it, a chill moved its way down his spine. “Let’s go see if the Kromin has found anything useful,” he suggested.

  “Perhaps we should find something to eat first. All that work made me hungry,” Voilor said rubbing his abdomen.

  The three went to the kitchens in the library and grabbed plates of food. They took them back to the library and ate while their telepathic comrade pored over the scrolls, reading through them much more quickly than normal Gentrans could do.

  “Did you find anything useful?” Voilor asked around a mouthful of food.

  --I believe so. There is another reference to returning to the past to find what we seek. This along with the other line suggests that we must somehow go back in time--

  “How is that possible? We can’t go back in time. It must mean something else,” Feeror said.

  --I have gone over the entire prophecy. It is the only logical explanation--

  “What about the part about destroying them and infiltrating them?” Feeror asked.

  --I am unsure. Perhaps it refers to destroying some aspect of the machinery and in so doing, stopping them from destroying planets--

  “But how does that help us? Does it say what aspect we need to destroy or how to do it?” Feeror asked, growing agitated. “It appears this was a wasted trip.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  The Chosen turned as one at the strange voice that sounded from the shadows.

  The same Gentran who had been watching them from the safety of the sea grass floate
d out of the darkness, flashes of green pulsing through his bright yellow bell.

  “Who are you? This is a restricted area—” Feeror began.

  “I will explain everything. But first, we need to go see the Masters. They, too, need to hear what I have to say.”

  ***

  “I think we are all here. Let’s get started,” Druska said as he glanced around the chamber.

  He had been reluctant to call the meeting. When he had heard that a stranger had entered the home of the prophets and approached the Chosen, his first instinct had been to destroy the scrolls pertaining to the prophecy, send the Chosen away and pretend the scrolls didn’t exist.

  I can’t pretend any longer.

  “Tell us your name and what you were doing in the home of the prophets,” Druska ordered.

  The strange Gentran cleared his throat. “My name here on Gentra is of no consequence. My real name is Lamnor. I followed them,” he gestured to the Volgon Chosen, “when they returned to the prophet’s domicile.”

  “What do you mean by your ‘real name’?” Druska asked, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach.

  “I am not from this world. I traveled here through the same portal that brought these visitors.”

  The silence left in the wake of the Gentran’s announcement was soon destroyed by excited squeaks and clicks as everyone tried to talk over everyone else in the room. Druska floated in place, arms limp at his sides, face expressionless.

  Druska held up his arms and the room slowly quieted down. He cleared his throat, unsure how to proceed. Things on Gentra had been tense since the prophets had been unable to see into the future. The Masters had tried their best to hide this fact from the other Gentrans but it was nearly impossible. They had been unable to come to any major decisions. The thought of trying to make something up had been more difficult than any of them imagined.

  The other Guardians should have remained here.

  “Where exactly are you from?” Druska asked.

  “It does not matter. My world ceased to exist long ago,” he sighed. “The leaders of our world sent explorers to try to find a suitable planet for my people to move to after we found out our sun was dying. But we were unsuccessful. My people didn’t possess space travel capabilities. Most chose to stay behind and die with family and friends. Others chose to go through the portal and continue living on some other world, as I did.”