At ocean’s edge
Nine virgins bleed
To call the lord to death
A final stand for all of man
She stands against the night
The black war’s shadowed outcome lies
On the strength of her fallen kin
Three men stand on blood soaked earth
One for immortality twisted and scorned
One for envy and deception’s throne
One for greed and resurrection’s stain
Three lands divided by oceans of black
One throne stands marked with tethered holds
Come silence and bring the forgotten
A battle for the soul of man
In the heart of creation
At mountain's surrender
The black soul of dark deceit
Awaits creation’s heart
In the hidden warrens of ancient kings
Against an army of crimson hate
Let silence gleam the final seal
Three must clean the stain
When the sky turns red
From the blood of the wounded land
The eyes of the forgotten
Shall open at last
For darkness can never endure
As time is said to heal all wounds
The stain of darkness
Will succumb to that which was forgotten
When he can’t fight
A warrior will defend him
When he can’t walk
The silence will carry him
When his mind falters
The past will teach him
When he can’t hide
The light will consume him
When all is lost
hope will find him
Eternity will not suffer a blackened soul
What was lost and forgotten
Can heal the world
Enaya finished with a deep sigh of satisfaction laced with regret. Meeting the Librarian and reading the prophecy had been her dream for as long as she could remember. Its culmination was bittersweet.
“Well Lady Relador? What do you make of it?” Roswell asked eyeing her with an excited grin.
She looked around at her companions, noting the studied cast on each face.
“It is quite vague,” she said with a shrug. “I did find it interesting that it ends with the phrase, ‘can heal the world.’ That doesn’t exactly provide a definitive outcome, does it?””
“It doesn’t,” Roswell agreed. “This prophecy merely outlines possibilities. Nothing is written in stone.”
“You’ve been studying this for a thousand years. What can you tell us?” Sim asked.
Roswell reached out and took the first scroll. He laid it out in the center of the table for all to see. “The first part is fairly obvious. It clearly details Desirmor’s rise to power. The Harven Mountains were known long ago as the White Mountains. Mist and falls refers to the Castle Alexidus. The shackled sapphire would be Harmony Alexidus’ sapphire crown. Then we see this part that speaks of a symbol of peace and a symbol of law. That is clearly the Alexidus monarchy and the Harvens, and I believe the whispering kin was the last Collora.
"If Sim’s mother is correct, then Maehril is the silence and the beacon whose birth announced the beginning of the prophecy. About six month ago an earthquake of enormous power emanated from the Weyrhidan Mountains, leaving behind a canyon sized fissure that revealed an ocean of fresh water hidden beneath the rock. That water has been pouring down into the Hatherford Waste, which was known many generations ago as the Lancashar Plains. The waste has been a desert as long as I’ve been alive. Now it is a lush plain, full of life. That was when I knew the prophecy had begun.”
“Those are the plains to the Southeast,” Nehrea seemed to be speaking to herself, sorting through the tangled mess of memories within her head. “My clan once called those plains home.”
Roswell nodded in agreement, pleased that she had culled a scrap of information from her past lives.
“Well even I could have guessed at that first part,” Sim said. “What about Despot’s blade? Let's start there.”
“I have always believed that Despot’s blade was a reference to the First Defender.”
“Navan Prianhe.” Enaya said.
“Yes. It’s only a guess really, but I believe Sim has to kill him at one of the Queen’s Trees,” Roswell said.
“What are the Queen’s Trees?” Sim asked, eagerly.
“My sister’s graves,” Givara said.
Roswell spoke to an audience of confused faces. “The Battle of Three Queens was a war between sisters. The Creator cursed them that day and spoke to each a final word before their souls where taken to purgatory. Life, virtue, love. When a queen dies, a tree grows from her grave. I gained my immortality by finding the Tree of Kiellanne, who was the first sister released from purgatory. I sought her grave only as a matter of documenting history. When I actually found it, I was astounded by the pure white brilliance of its leaves. And it bore a fruit the perfect shade of red. Since I consumed that fruit, I haven’t aged a day. That’s when I knew that Kiellanne represented life.” He turned and looked squarely at Givara. “And which do you represent, Givara?”
Givara defiantly matched the stares on the faces of everyone in the room. When she saw Farrus, a fraction of tension drained from her face.
“I am love,” she said, as though the words were being pulled from her mouth by force.
“Givara, you told me you were the last queen left in limbo.” Enaya said. “Do you know where to find the second tree?”
“Aizzesh died for the last time in Merrame.”
“Merrame?” Enaya nearly gasped. “Where?”
“In a cave on the eastern sea cliff.”
“Where is the tree of Kiellanne?” Enaya asked.
“In the Dragon’s Teeth,” Roswell answered, with a remorseful glance at his son.
“The fruit of life gave you immortality. What does virtue give you?” Sim asked.
“No-one can say. Virtue is within one’s own heart. What makes a man virtuous can be different for anyone,” Roswell replied.
“Alright,” Enaya took over for Sim. She pointed to a specific verse. “There are many parts that may reveal themselves in time. But what of this…the shark and the dagger?”
Roswell shrugged. “My best guess is that this references the dagger of Thalson Harvenstrong, the last Harven Chieftain. The dagger he carried was known amongst the Harvens as the blade of truth.”
“Where is the dagger?” Sim asked.
“Lost long ago, Siminus,” Roswell replied. “But I have no doubt that it will turn up.” He leaned over the table and pointed to the next verse. “I believe this refers to me.”
“An eternal life lost of love?” Enaya asked scanning the parchment.
“Yes. However, I’m not sure what it means. ‘Give greed the key to resurrector's debt, forge the first steps to the black war.’ All I can be sure of is that there is a war coming. This black war is referred to twice. And if you’ll notice this line here,” Roswell pointed to the second parchment, “right after the word resurrection makes a second appearance it says ‘three lands divided by oceans of blood.' I can’t imagine anyone bringing a challenge to Desirmor, but I believe a war is coming. A war with three parties. Possibly one army from each of the three major continents.”
“It says, ‘A gaelsend soars above the gap.’ I think that is about me,” Enaya said. Roswell crooked an eyebrow inquisitively.
“The gaelsend is the sigil of the Relador family,” Givara answered for her.
“It also speaks of Givara coming to my side, but what of this ‘last child of the mountain’. I had always assumed that referred to the Harven. Now I’m not so sure,” Enaya said.
“To that, my lady, I’m afraid I’m at a loss.” Roswell told her. “I also believe that the last child of the mountain may not be Siminus, though it is just as likely that I am misinterpreting these wor
ds. We can’t be sure who it is right now, but if he is out there somewhere, you will eventually cross his path.”
“What of the Dahara, Master Gracin?” Nehrea leaned forward on the table closely examining the prophecy.
“Both you and your clan are referred to. ‘Calling back the stallion carrying the whisper of change.’ I believe references to whispers regard you. The Collora was called the Whisperer by many people prior to Desirmor’s arrival.” He guided Nehrea’s gaze to a specific passage. “You see here: ‘Whispers of the past reborn, within the city of her kin.’ That is clearly about you. Your kin would be the Dahara. You were born in Nal’Dahara.” Roswell paused and seemed to talk to himself momentarily. “Actually, I think this passage has already come to pass. You escaped your life of enslavement and found your calling.”
Nehrea smiled proudly. “You may be right, Master Gracin. Is there anything else I may consider in regards to my clan?”
“I wish I could tell you something.” Roswell looked around at everyone sadly. “I’ve had this prophecy in my possession since the night it was written. I couldn’t begin to calculate the endless hours I’ve studied its words trying to decipher its hidden meanings. Sadly, for much of it, we will have to watch the events as they unfold.”
“What have you uncovered?” Givara asked. “Surely you can tell us about Roedaran’s cask?”
Roswell shrugged. “There are three possibilities that I have uncovered. The first Roedaran was a wealthy wine maker who lived many ages ago. The second was a ship that left from Merrame Bay carrying a payload of salt nearly 2oo years ago. It was bound for Henthe on the Southern Tip of Altrega but never arrived. It is believed to have sailed too close to the Dragon’s Teeth which means the Vallrykans probably slaughtered everyone aboard. The last is from a poem that predates the age of the Daikhir. It tells the tale of an adventurer named Roedaran who was said to have slayed a beast that terrorized a primitive tribe in the land of ice and snow. In exchange for the beast’s head, Roedaran was given the hand of the chief’s daughter. It is a somewhat scandalous tale. You see Roedaran is said to have taken the young girl's virtue and then tried sneaking off. The tribe hunted and captured him, then burned him as a sacrifice to their God.”
“Which of these seems most likely?” Enaya asked.
“Any of the three, my Lady,” Roswell conceded.
“But surely you have an opinion?” Enaya persisted.
Roswell shook his head in defeat. “They are only three possibilities. It is just as possible that none of these is the answer.
“Well that’s helpful,” Sim said sarcastically.
“I told you only that you may see the prophecy. I never offered you the answers to its riddles.”
“So what do we do next, Enaya?” Sim asked.
Enaya sat back and folded her hands across the waistline of her green riding dress. She dismally regarded the stained and frayed fabric. Not too long ago, she would have been aghast at the condition of her appearance. Her hair felt matted and oily. Her boots were worn and caked with spots of dried mud. There was a sharp smell that had taunted her ever since she dismounted from Fallastar’s back. Now she was certain that smell was her own poorly maintained hygiene.
“If Master Gracin is willing to consent, I think we should rest for a couple of days,” she sighed, watching Roswell hopefully.
He stood and offered her a deep bow. “Not only do I consent, Lady Relador, I insist. You may stay as long as you wish.”
“A day or two will have to suffice. We are hunted by Navan Prianhe,” Enaya told him.
Roswell hissed through his teeth, “I shouldn’t be surprised. Desirmor always sets his hound out to do his dirty work.”
“I’m with you Enaya,” Farrus grunted. “Better to keep moving. If we linger anywhere for too long, he’s liable to catch our scent.”
“How long has he been tracking you?” Roswell’s concern was growing quickly. His eyes seemed to wander to the cabin’s windows.
“I saw him beneath my window the night before my parents were killed.” Sim’s words were bitter.
“He almost had us in Carleton, but Sim took care of him,” Farrus said.
“We should have killed him. We were careless,” Givara spat.
“There was no time to follow up, Givara,” Enaya frowned. “The local guard was arriving.”
Givara stared at her crossly. She still held herself responsible. Givara believed it had been her own failure that day. Though Enaya had reassured her several times that Prianhe’s sword skills were legendary, Givara still felt that she should have won the duel.
“What did you do to him Sim?” Roswell inquired.
“He used his power to lift him into the air and threw him against a wall,” Farrus answered for him.
“Prianhe was unconscious when the Trevloc took off,” Sim added.
“When we escaped from the Governor’s palace in Nal’Dahara, Prianhe was there,” Enaya said.
“Desirmor must have sent a traveler to aid him,” Roswell mused.
“Farrus…,” Sim seemed to compress a thought. “That half-man we fought in the alley. When he disappeared like that? He was a traveler, wasn’t he?”
Farrus rubbed a thumb along the scar that split the left side of his face. “That might just have been a coincidence.”
Sim raised a skeptical brow. “Really? After everything that has happened to us, you want to dismiss that as a coincidence?”
“What half-man?” Enaya sat upright sharply.
“A Turk. A trivarial Turk,” Farrus answered.
Enaya met Givara’s intense stare. They both knew immediately who Farrus and Sim were talking about. Baneur Deuseau. No coincidence.
“What? You look like you know something,” Sim asked.
“I met a Turk named Baneur Deuseau at the bank in Nal’Dahara. He knew my father. There was something strange about that little man. Something off.”
“He is one of Desirmor’s spies,” Givara said.
“We saw him leaving the Governor’s palace, sometime before noon,” Farrus said intently. “We followed him and confronted him in an alley. He tried to burn us, but Sim threw up a wall of water.”
“Don’t forget about the men,” Sim added.
“Right. First we were attacked by a few soldiers. After we cut them down, the Turk turned to his power. Thing is…when he realized Sim was no easy meat, he disappeared and so did the bodies of those soldiers. We couldn’t figure out where they had even come from. It was like some kind of an illusion.”
“Sounds like we have an Augraman on our hands,” Roswell said.
“What’s that?” Sim asked.
“An elite unit of spies and assassins. Desirmor doesn’t just kill any Trival that shows some real skill. He binds them with a spell of compulsion. Augramen tend to be Trivals with multiple talents. The strongest of the strong,” Roswell explained. Then he shook his head. “Strange though. Turks rarely show any ability with the power. I would be weary of this one. Something doesn’t smell right, there.”
********************************************************************
Baneur Deuseau slid back away from the cabin. He had hidden himself beneath a window where he had a good view of the group gathered for dinner. Most importantly, he was able to clearly see Nehrea.
Longing knotted a pit in his stomach. His chest heaved in an effort to regulate the breaths that had been stolen by her beauty. He was tortured in her presence.
On hand and knee, he slithered several feet back. When he was confident he was beyond the realm of detection, Baneur rose to his feet and began a brisk walk toward the army encampment, about a league to the north. Traveling would have been easier, but his mind was a tumult of static emotions. He needed to walk. Using your own two feet had a way of forcing you to face your problems. A long walk would do him good.
She had been holding that boy’s hand. That one thought swelled like waves of irrationality in his mind. They had kissed even. They had kissed.
Nehrea Alla’Dushura was his. She belonged to him. She would be with him or she would be with no-one.
Something had changed about her. He noticed it immediately. It was in her eyes, the way she stood and walked. Confidence? He had been certain that Governor Cantor had raped and beaten the confidence out of her. Baneur had fallen in love with the broken flower that she had been during her indenture to the Governor. Perhaps it would be enjoyable beating her back into submission.
What was all that nonsense about a prophecy, he wondered, trying to think of something other than his unrequited love. They had spoken at length about things that Baneur didn’t understand.
He needed to contact his master right away. The king’s name had been mentioned. Did these fools truly believe they were capable of destroying his master? It seemed to be their purpose.
He reached into the pocket on the inside of his black cloak and fished out his calling stone. With his dagger he nipped the tip of a finger and squeezed until a drop of blood glistened in the soft moonlight. Just as he was about to smear the blood over the surface of the flat black rock, he paused. A battle waged in his mind. A conundrum. If he called upon his master and reported his findings, it was likely the king would come to handle the situation personally. Baneur knew very little about the Harvens, but he knew it was a subject of grave importance to his master. He knew that Prianhe and Thorl had been hunting a specific Harven for some time. The problem Baneur faced was the fate of his own true love. If his master came, they would all die. His master was merciless. The spell of compulsion that at times felt like ropes pulling him endlessly like a marionette, pushed his bloody finger toward the stone. But his undying love for Nehrea pulled it back.
If he waited a day, he could take Nehrea himself. All he had to do was get his hands on her, and then he could bring her anywhere he liked -- anywhere in the world. Somewhere no-one would ever find her. Prianhe would take care of the rest of the criminals, and the King would be satisfied. He didn’t need to know about Nehrea. Why should he even care about some meaningless palace whore?
Baneur wiped the blood away on his cloak and put the calling stone away. The night was still young. He needed to begin bringing in soldiers, fortifying the numbers to ensure that nothing went wrong the next morning. The criminals would be caught and put to death. Nehrea Alla’Dushura would be his.
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