With Roswell’s help, Nehrea returned to her seat on the overturned bucket. She wiped at the heavy layer of perspiration that covered her brow with the edge of her sleeve. The memories had seemed so vivid as though they were her experiences. She thought of the madness in Desirmor’s eyes toward the end and visibly shuddered.
“Did you experience Braille Ruvere’s memories?” Roswell asked.
“It was horrible. He stabbed his own sister in the back.”
“Yes, Collora,” Fallastar said sadly.
“Desirmor believed that he was showing her mercy, choosing a weapon rather than his own black theurgy,” Roswell said.
“Stabbing your own sibling in the back is considered merciful?” Nehrea was mortified.
“Desirmor is a madman, Nehrea,” Roswell told her.
“Are the legends true, Roswell Gracin? Does the princess still live?” Shearwind asked.
He nodded slowly. His peaceful brown eyes became hard as he treaded through his memories. “During my last stay in the palace as a servant, I charted the movements of every meal service, every watch change, and every last inconsequential routine that I could observe. If there was a way to free the princess, I wanted to put together a plan of rescue. There is a door in the northern courtyard. It’s sealed by one of Desirmor’s spells, but the servants who run food, and the select guardsmen’s who stand watch by her prison, use some sort of specific key. She’s alive, somewhere behind that door, waiting for her own prophecy to unfold and bring her freedom.”
“Is there any way that she can survive beyond Desirmor?” Shearwind wondered.
“The prophecy is unclear. It foretells only the possible end of Desirmor’s reign. The fate that has befallen Harmony Alexidus is one of the great tragedies in the history of man. I hope that she can one day walk freely beneath the sun and stars, but I fear that when death calls upon Desirmor, she will be called upon as well.”
“The princess is locked in a dungeon, then?” Nehrea asked.
“For over a thousand years now,” Roswell replied.
“Why?”
“Because she refuses to love him,” Roswell answered.
“How could he ever expect her to love him?”
“I don’t have any answers to that, Collora. Desirmor’s mind is dark and twisted. He has raped her endlessly for centuries, then forced her to bare his children and raised them to hate her as well. Harmony Alexidus exists in a prison of pain and loneliness. Hers is a fate too horrible to be believed.”
Nehrea felt the tears bursting through and let them come without shame. She had existed within her own prison for the last five years, raped and abused, and had only now been given the sweet taste of freedom. She tried to imagine how long she would have lasted before despair took control and the temptation to end her life became too great. How had Harmony Alexidus managed to persevere for such a staggering length of time?
“Why didn’t she just end it?” Nehrea wondered aloud. “No-one, not even the Creator, could judge her harshly for choosing such an end.”
“The princess has no choice, Collora,” Fallastar answered her softly. “Desirmor has used his magic to bind her in this life. When he dies, so too will her nightmare end. But not until his life ends.”
“Such a horrible fate,” Nehrea said, wiping away her tears for the princess.
“Indeed. In the annals of history, no story of tragedy shall ever surpass that of Harmony Alexidus,” Roswell remarked.
“We must stop this, darkness,” Nehrea said fiercely.
“It is up to the Harven,” Roswell said.
“Sim will save us,” Nehrea said.
Roswell took a moment to look her over. There was something close to pleasure in the subtle curve at the corner of his mouth. “You are quite fond of him, aren’t you Nehrea?” She tried not to blush, but the warmth spreading across her cheeks gave her away. “I must warn you, Nehrea. Be careful with him. Sim’s path has only just begun. There is much he must do before he can attempt to defeat Desirmor. His resolve will be forged like iron by the trials he must endure. The young man you know today, will be something entirely different in the end. And that is if he even manages to survive.”
“He is strong, Roswell Gracin,” Nehrea said.
“Physically, yes,” Roswell pointed out.
“Only recently, Sim witnessed his parent's murder at the hands of the Blood Lord. Such an experience could have broken a lesser man, but Sim perseveres. He is courageous, and kind, and valiant. I have no doubt that if Desirmor can be defeated, Sim is our greatest hope,” she said.
“And if, in the end, he chooses Lady Relador?” Roswell asked her gently.
“Then my heart will cry for all of eternity, but I will accept his decision,” Nehrea’s voice cracked at the thought of losing him.
“I like you Nehrea,” Roswell sighed as he contemplated her words. “I hope there will be a happy ending to your story.”
“Two days ago I was a slave with no future and no hope. Today, I am part of something with endless possibilities. My father used to tuck me in at night with stories of the Dahara. I am living within a dream too beautiful to be imagined. That is enough for me.”
Roswell looked then, at the three Dahara. “Where have you been these past thousand years?”
“Before Braille Ruvere went to her final meeting with Desirmor, she imbued the clan with a great gift she had discovered. She gave us the ability to shield ourselves from the eyes of men,” Fallastar told him.
“We have lived peacefully, grazing on the fertile grass of Perth’s vast plains,” Shearwind added.
“People need a symbol, something to remind them that Desirmor’s evil is not absolute. The return of the Dahara could polarize a movement of rebellion,” Roswell said.
“And we will be that symbol, Roswell Gracin. It is our purpose,” Shearwind said.
“We have waited patiently all these years, for the return of the Collora. That we may once again stand against darkness, and serve the Creator. Nehrea Alla’Dushura will be a catalyst of change, and the world will look to her to lead them into the battle ahead,” Fallastar explained.
“There is more we can discuss in the morning,” Firetail stood. Shearwind and Fallastar rose as well. Their eyes strayed to the east. Nehrea could sense their need to find tall grass and graze. “Collora, we will return in the morning. Your training must begin. There is no time to delay. Enjoy your last night with the Harven for your parting will be long and your sorrow great.”
Roswell lent Nehrea his hand and helped her to her feet. She went to each Dahara and softly stroked the left sides of their necks. From her memories, she knew that this was the traditional way of parting.
“Tomorrow then,” she said with a heavy heart.
She went to the porch with Roswell Gracin and watched the Dahara depart in silence. Every stride of their gallops that took them further off toward the horizon, expanded the ache that filled the pit of her stomach. She had known loneliness her whole life. It was like an invisible companion, forever at her side. Though she could feel her clan, all of them, the horrifying thought that she may never see them again pushed back against every effort she made to stamp it down.
Like the last dying rays of sunlight, the Dahara disappeared into the eastern twilight.
“You’re not alone, Nehrea,” Roswell whispered as though he were in her mind like one of the Great Horses.
“I do not fear loneliness,” Nehrea lied.
“Then you are much stronger than I believed, Collora,” Roswell said.
Chapter twenty eight: Prophecy
“I was expecting your father to be an old man,” Sim was saying to Quinn Gracin.
Enaya was only half listening. She was lost in an ocean of thoughts. Her body was tired. Her back and hips ached from the ride. She felt dirty and empty and impatient and…
She wanted to scream.
In many ways, it felt like everything was falling apart around her. What would become of her family? With ever
y breath she took, Enaya wanted to weep for their souls. Desirmor wasn’t known for mercy. It was possible that her mother was being fed to a pack of borlicon while she just sat there waiting for Roswell and Nehrea to return.
“They knew the risks.”
That was what Givara had told her a dozen times since the escape from the Governor’s palace. And it was true. They did know the risks. Her mother had been very clear with her from the day she first began to learn of her heritage, to the day she left with Givara to search out the Legacy. It did nothing to ease her suffering, however. It is an easy thing to tell yourself that you are strong enough to live with the consequences of your destiny, but another thing altogether, to stand tall when the weight of that moment finally arrives.
Enaya simply wished she was more like her mother. Her mother wouldn’t be sitting down, wallowing in her own self-pity. Isagelle Relador would be steadfastly planning ahead, ignoring the heartbreaking reality of knowing that her carelessness had put her family's lives in jeopardy. Her mother could handle any situation. Enaya just felt hopeless.
“Why?” Quinn wondered.
“Well, he is a thousand years old. Isn’t he?” Sim asked.
“So? Did you assume he’d look like a skeleton?”
“No. I don’t know what I thought. I just didn’t expect him to look so…normal,” Sim tried to explain.
Quinn, who had seemed distracted ever since arriving at his father’s, offered Sim a forced smile. “He was in his thirties when he found the Allaheara Spring, where the Tree of Kiellanne grows. Physically, he is frozen in time, a man who does not age.”
“Does that mean he can’t die?” Sim asked.
Quinn shook his head. “No. He is still a man of flesh and blood. He simply doesn’t age.”
Sim thought quietly to himself for a moment. Enaya had always enjoyed the way his brow furrowed to an exaggerated degree when he tried to think hard.
“Are you his only son?” Sim asked, still trying to solve a riddle he had created in his own mind.
“I am not his first child. But, currently, I am his only offspring,” Quinn answered through a yawn. He stretched his arms out wide then rubbed his eyes, both eyes, Enaya noted, with interest.
“Where is your mother?” Sim asked.
“I am sixty-six years old, Sim. My mother has long since passed.”
“What was she like?” Sim continued to question him.
“Why do you want to know?” Quinn sounded bored.
“I just find it interesting. To live so long, you must know that you will outlive all of the people you love. How does he handle that?” Sim shook his head, perhaps unaware of the gravity of his question.
Quinn seemed to withdraw then. He looked down at his hands and gently caressed the scarred tissue that covered his entire left arm. A long sigh, like a concession of something that had provided a lifetime of burden, released from his body. He shook his head, then shrugged as if defeated. When he spoke, his voice cracked with restrained emotion. “I suppose it's better to have someone in the world to care about, then to have no-one at all.”
Enaya knew there was something more to his answer. Though they had traveled together for a few days, she realized how little she actually knew about the man. What kind of life had he lived in the shadow of his legendary father? She knew that he had obsessively searched out the same tree that had given his father eternal youth. Now here he was, an old man, hideously scarred by the pursuit of his life long quest, a childless bachelor still trying, she guessed, to be worthy of his father.
It made her suddenly ashamed of herself.
Every time adversity bore down on her throughout her life, she had turned to her own feelings of inadequacy. How could she ever hope to be as strong, as decisive, as perfect as her mother? Perhaps everyone has to face that same battle. She spent so much time and energy comparing herself to Isagelle Relador that she never stopped to consider that it was pointless. She wasn’t her mother. She never would be. Being Enaya Relador would have to suffice.
Maybe that’s what Quinn suddenly realized. Perhaps he had spent so long trying to gain immortality like his father that he never understood the sacrifices his own father had made.
“Quinn, did you love Fanna Foust?” she asked him, softly.
The scarred old man looked up at her tearfully and answered with a mournful nod.
“There’s still time you know. You can go to her. You can still have a chance at the life you missed out on,” she said.
He shook his head sadly. “No, Enaya. It’s too late for me. The prophecy is clear. I have to die.”
“Nothing is clear!” Givara suddenly shouted, gaining the attention of everyone in the room. “No-one knows better than I, the mountain of regrets you can accrue when you turn a blind eye to all but the quest that possesses your heart. You have only wasted one lifetime, but in the end death will release you from your suffering. Try spending all of eternity wading through an ocean of your own failures.”
“You don’t understand, my Queen,” Quinn said. “The prophecy says I must die protecting you.”
“And how do you know the prophecy is specifically talking about you?” Givara countered.
“My father is certain…”
“Nothing is certain!” she shouted again. “A prophecy can’t tell you how to live. Neither can your father. No person holds domain over you, Quinn Gracin. If you choose to seek out love, then make that choice and be done with it.”
“I wish it were as simple as you say, my Queen,” Quinn shook his head sadly.
“I think Givara is right, Quinn,” Sim said. “Why is it so complicated?”
Quinn looked around at his companions, unable to truly articulate his frustration. “What can any of you know about a lifetime of expectations? My father didn’t bring me into this world out of love. He is convinced that his son is imperative to the success of the prophecy. The seduction of my mother was for no purpose other than to ensure that the prophecy had a chance. For the duration of his life, he has selfishly produced offspring for that reason alone. He was never a father to me. He was a professor, and I a pupil. I made the pursuit of immortality my sole ambition so that I could be his last scion. That way no more children would have to suffer the lifetime of indifference that I and all of my brethren were given in the place of paternal love.”
“So he’s a bad father, is that it?” Farrus‘voice had an angry edge. “Your daddy didn’t love you enough?” he practically spat in disgust. “Do you really believe you’re the only kid who had a tough life? My father used to get stinking drunk and beat me and my brothers for sport. He’d look for anything, any reason at all, to pull out his strap. He’d hit me until I’d cried every last tear my eyes could spill, then he‘d hit me some more. Your father didn’t love you? What a load of bull.”
Everyone, especially Givara, looked upon Farrus in shock. Enaya had never heard the grizzled old guardsman speak so angrily, or so much for that matter. The anger in his words seemed to have made an impression on Quinn. Something like shame flushed the wrinkled flesh on the good side of his face.
“Farrus may have a coarse way of making his point, but his message rings true,” Enaya said to Quinn, doing her best to convey some compassion after Farrus’ harsh rebuke. “We all have our own repressed feelings of bitterness and resentment toward our parents, but you can’t let that determine your life.”
“How about me?” Sim said, with a smile. “My real father left me in the care of his friends, who raised me to believe they were my real parents. If anyone deserves to feel some bitterness, it’s me.”
Quinn managed to crack a smile of his own. He threw his arms up in defeat. “Perhaps I’ve been a bit obtuse. But it hardly matters now. Even if I chose to be with Fanna, it could never be. We are fugitives. Desirmor’s bloody hound hunts us as we speak. I can only hope that Fanna and Ron were allowed mercy. It’s likely the Governor will punish them for giving you shelter.”
Enaya felt a sudden pit of emptiness
explode from deep within. How had she forgotten about Ron and Fanna Foust? Sim, Quinn and Farrus had been captured at their inn. Would they be allowed to continue unscathed? There were plenty of precedents for authorities to harshly punish an innkeeper if it was believed they were complicit. She hoped they were alright. Sadly, knowing Governor Cantor, she doubted it was business as usual at the Blue Trellis this evening.
“Would they really punish them, just because we stayed at their inn?” Sim asked incredulously.
Quinn, Givara, and Farrus all nodded glumly. Enaya met Sim’s eyes with a heavy dose of sympathy. “It is one of the harsh realities of our situation, Siminus. Anyone we come in contact with can become ancillary collateral.”
“More ghosts to avenge,” Sim whispered under his breath.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
Sim looked up, surprised that she had heard him. “Nothing, Enaya.”
The smell of roasting fish and vegetables began to fill the air, causing a chorus of grumbling, empty stomachs. Enaya wanted to eat, but she was straining to contain her impatience. Somewhere in the room lay the original copy of Harmony Alexidus’ prophecy. Her eyes couldn’t help but wander around the room.
“I was wondering something,” Sim suddenly announced. He looked around at his companions, and Enaya sensed that he was worried that what he was thinking might be taken as foolish. No doubt it would be, she thought. “This prophecy. If you all know what it says, then why are we here?”
“The Librarian is the only one who knows what it truly says,” Givara answered, curtly.
“But everyone is always talking about it. I heard Sarimus quote from it. And you Enaya. You quoted it as well,” Sim argued.
“He knew parts of it, Sim. Only small parts,” Quinn told him. “You see, my father did his best to keep it relevant, but Desirmor is very powerful. In the early years, my father would pass out copies on the streets of cities or hang it on poles on roadsides, even on doors. Then Desirmor outlawed it altogether. To be seen in possession of even a passage from the prophecy was punishable by death. Then he began handing out death sentences even if it was tacked up on your door. My father realized that he was becoming responsible for the deaths of innocent people, so he tried using different tactics. He would hide snippets within books in libraries. He engraved passages in trees on well-traveled roads or in stone benches in town squares. Most people know nothing of the prophecy, especially in Fandrall. The words have been kept alive by those who oppose his rule and pass the knowledge down through their families.”
The Innkeeper's Son Page 71
