The Lost City (The Lost Prophecy Book 5)

by D. K. Holmberg

  Brohmin couldn’t answer. How old had his son Joshua been when he’d been lost? After all this time, Brohmin still had to think about it. The memories had faded somewhat, enough that the pain was no longer present, nothing more than a hollowness within him. Even had Joshua lived, Brohmin would have outlived him, the gift from the Conclave granting him much a longer lifespan than Joshua ever could have hoped for.

  But then, he would have been able to watch as Joshua grew older, possibly married and had a family, and could have kept future generations safe. Instead, Joshua—his only son—had fallen during a war as foolish as the one that took place now.

  “They are innocents,” Brohmin said. “They may grow and become something else, but they are children. Children need care and understanding, and they need to be given an opportunity to learn why choices are made on their behalf.”

  “At what point can they no longer be salvaged?” the priest asked.

  “Anyone can be salvaged,” Brohmin said.

  “Anyone? You think the High Desh of Paliis can be salvaged?”

  It was a difficult question. Perhaps not everyone could be salvaged. Brohmin doubted that Raime after all of his years could be brought back and forced to see the error of his ways, but almost anyone else could, couldn’t they?

  But he knew that not to be the case. That was the belief of an old—and possibly dying—man. He’d seen enough in his years to know that redemption was difficult and often impossible.

  Where was the divider? At what point did the child become the man and then become the monster?

  The priest watched him, waiting for his answer, but Brohmin didn’t have one.

  Maybe there was no answer. It was possible that the Deshmahne would ask so much of their children that they would turn into the same violent and angry people as their parents. At that point, didn’t they become Deshmahne in full?

  A hint of a smile crossed the priest’s mouth, and he seemed to know the effect that he’d had on Brohmin. Brohmin hated that he did, and hated that he had no answer, that it was possible that children as young as thirteen could already have been turned so much by the Deshmahne that they were effectively lost.

  “Go on,” Brohmin said.

  He wasn’t about to get into a philosophical debate with a priest who had abandoned his Urmahne ideals. Doing so would only anger Brohmin, but as he thought about it, he had to wonder why it bothered him so much. What was it about the priest that troubled him? Shouldn’t he be challenged in such a way? Shouldn’t he be able to handle his values being questioned?

  If nothing else, five hundred years should have given him the strength of conviction and the knowledge and understanding that what he did had meaning, and that the darkness he opposed was real.

  And Brohmin knew that it was. The darkness was very much real, and for the most part, it was caused by one man, a single person who had sought violence and destruction over the years and wanted to use that for his dark purpose.

  They continued along the street until the priest led him toward the temple. And then he continued onward, passing the temple. As they did, they made their way to a different section of the city where Brohmin had never been. It was more run down, and the homes here looked as if they predated the Deshmahne influence. In the time that the Deshmahne had taken over Paliis, they had not done anything to improve the appearance of these homes, not as they had in other places throughout the city.

  The priest led him along the street and paused at what appeared to be a shop that was run down, with faded, peeling paint, and lettering on the door that Brohmin couldn’t read. It was possible that the lettering was written in the local language, but there was not enough of it present for him to attempt to interpret.

  “What’s here?” Brohmin asked.

  “Here is where you wanted to go.”

  “You brought the child to a shop?” There was nothing about this place that triggered his sense of ahmaean from the other Lashiin priest. If the child were indeed here, he would be separated from the priest, though Brohmin began to wonder whether he needed to chase down this priest when everything was over.

  “The child is here. You only have to go find him.”

  That seemed a strange choice of words. Brohmin waited for the priest to push the door open, then followed him into the shop.

  He sensed movement before he saw it.

  Brohmin reacted, rolling to the side and unsheathing his sword in a single movement.

  He pulled on his sense of ahmaean, drawing it around him, gathering it in such a way that he could gain speed and strength. If only he had Jakob’s ability where he somehow managed to slow time, though that seemed more related to his damahne ability than anything else. Brohmin’s connection to the ahmaean had always been different, strong though not nearly as powerful as what he had detected from Jakob.

  A sword flashed toward where he had been, and Brohmin crouched down, preparing for whatever might be in the shop.

  How had they known he was here?

  The priest must have somehow signaled to them.

  Brohmin should have been better prepared.

  The more he was in Paliis, the more he began to question whether he was prepared for an ongoing battle. It seemed that he was outmaneuvered much more often than he was accustomed to. He should not have been detected by the Deshmahne, and he certainly should not have been surprised by a priest.

  Three men were in the shop. One of them had the connection to ahmaean. How had he missed that in the walk to this section of the city?

  Was there more that he missed? Had he overlooked something else?

  Maybe there was more taking place than he understood.

  He was confident in his ability with the sword and confident that the priests would not be able to stop him, especially after seeing them face the Deshmahne back at the manor house.

  Brohmin took a deep breath. Either he’d been led into a trap, or the child truly was here. Either way, he needed answers.

  Brohmin surged forward, drawing on the strength of his ahmaean, pushing out with it in such a way that it solidified. He thought that he might be able to defeat all three of these swordsmen without it, but that risked something happening to him, and if that happened, something would happen to Salindra. He needed to get to the child, and then he could get to Salindra.

  The soldiers were unprepared for his speed.

  Brohmin spun, cutting the first one along his arm, before spinning again and smacking the next with the flat of his blade along his temple. That man collapsed, and Brohmin continued in his motion, finishing in a sweeping arc that was stopped by the last swordsman.

  Two men remained, along with the priest. Brohmin continued with his motion, spinning through forms, catahs that he had long ago mastered. They came to him easily, and he swept through the patterns and incapacitated the first attacker. It helped that he had cut him, slowing his movements. When Brohmin’s sword found the back of his neck, the man crumpled, falling alongside his companion.

  That left one swordsman.

  The man was good. He parried with Brohmin, darting forward with a few hurried movements, before dancing back and avoiding Brohmin’s attack.

  There was something about this pattern that was familiar. Brohmin had seen it before, but only from one other man.

  How would a Lashiin priest have learned one of Endric’s patterns?

  Brohmin forced out his connection to the ahmaean and used that to force through the connection to the remaining man. He attacked quickly, sliding into another catah, one that only a few men knew. Endric was one of them, and now Jakob.

  If he was right, and if this swordsman had trained with either Jakob—or Endric—he needed to know.

  Recognition flashed in the swordsman’s eyes, and he stepped back, bringing his sword up in front of him. “How is it that you know that form?”

  “How is it that you know it?” Brohmin asked.

  Brohmin pressed out, surging with a hint of his ahmaean, coalescing it in such a wa
y that it would create a shimmering light.

  As he did, the final swordsman’s face became clear. He recognized the man.

  Not just a man.

  He recognized the Mage.

  The Mage gasped. “I know you.”

  Brohmin glared at the Lashiin priest. What was this? “Where is Roelle, Selton?”

  Chapter Thirty

  The Unknown Lands spread out around Jakob. He stood far to the north, near the place where he once had awoken after traveling to Avaneam, a place that had allowed him to step from one side of the Valley to the other, traveling a great distance with little more than a thought. Now that he understood shifting, he suspected there was something of the damahne magic involved, though he didn’t know exactly what that was.

  Anda had come with him, willingly traveling so that they could look for answers. Jakob hoped they wouldn’t find them here. If they did, it meant that Raime had moved more rapidly than Jakob had expected.

  He had left Vasha after taking Roelle and nearly forty Magi warriors to the south. Each of the warriors had met Jakob before, and each had some experience with him so that he didn’t make them too uncomfortable with the fact that he shifted them all the way to Polle Pal.

  Somehow, they would have to conceal their presence. He would leave that to Roelle, and allow her to figure out how to work with the Deshmahne or stop them if it was necessary.

  “Why here?” Anda asked.

  “This is where I first came to your lands,” Jakob said.

  “These aren’t my lands. There aren’t daneamiin lands. We live with the land, and do not possess it.”

  “You don’t possess it, but your living with it is such that you have sway over it.”

  “With that, you’re mistaken. The land influences us, Jakob Nialsen. We do not influence the land. We are allowed to live here, and we do not abuse what we have been given.”

  “But you’ve not always lived with the land, at least not this way,” he said.

  Anda turned away from him, looking toward the east. Jakob didn’t have a sense of where the daneamiin city once had risen out of the forest, or whether there had been others. All he had was a memory of the way the city had looked, the enormity of it, and the sense of awe that he had at the way it had been constructed.

  Because of Raime, all of that was lost.

  That pained him, though he suspected that pained the daneamiin even more than it did Jakob. They had lost so much, and yet they simply moved on, establishing a new home.

  “We have not always lived the way that we do now. Our first settlement within the forest was one that was more like that of man. We built towering spires of stone, and buildings that rose out of the trees, but all of that was lost as others sought to destroy it.”

  “How many remember that time?” Jakob asked.

  “All of my people visited the house of the Cala maah.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that all of my people remember that time.”

  “What did the city look like?” Jakob asked. “I saw parts of it in my vision, but not enough to understand what happened.”

  Anda breathed out a sorrowful sigh. She reached for his hand, and he took it. Her ahmaean swirled around him, and he recognized what she wanted him to do.

  Drawing on his ahmaean, he shifted, bringing them to a place he’d only seen in his vision.

  When they appeared, they stood in a clearing within the forest. Jakob had the sense that they were far to the east of where the daneamiin now called home. Trees rose around the clearing, massive, thick-trunked trees, some with vines wrapped around them, the canopies high overhead attempting to block out the sun. Grasses and other small scrub plants overgrew a pale white stone but were not able to obscure what had once been here.

  The vision flashed back into Jakob’s mind. This had been their city. This had been a place of majesty, power.

  And Raime had destroyed it.

  He had led men across the Great Valley, forcing them to face the daneamiin who were unwilling to fight back. They had abandoned their city, and in doing so, Raime had overrun it, destroying it.

  As Jakob stood there, he could practically see that happening in his mind and realized that he was having traces of a vision, a hint of the fibers.

  Anda looked over at him. “Ahmaean flowed strongly here.”

  “It’s almost as if I can see what happened without even attempting to walk back along the fibers.”

  Anda blinked and wiped a tear from her eye. “Many of my people make a pilgrimage here. They view it as a rite of passage, taking that journey to our past, to understand what we must do in the future. Many choose to do this before spending time in the house of the Cala maah. It prepares them.”

  “Did you make this journey?” Jakob asked.

  “I have journeyed here many times.”

  “Why many times?”

  “I serve the Cala maah and my father, and to do so, I have been a guide, helping others find their way here. It gets no easier each time I visit.”

  “Why wouldn’t the daneamiin have defended themselves? The daneamiin have power with their ahmaean, they would have been able to push Raime and the soldiers back.”

  She looked at him, sadness heavy in her eyes. “Fighting would have only required more fighting. How many would have been lost had we resisted? How many would have failed to return were we to have opposed those men? We might have lost our city, but we did not lose our people or identity.”

  Jakob walked along the rocks, feeling the power that had once been here. It was a strange sensation; he could practically see what had been and could see what had happened over time. The city was no more, but in his mind, it still lived and still rose out of the trees, a place of power, and built with skill that rivaled anything else—even the Tower of the Gods.

  “Why didn’t the damahne help?”

  “What would they have been able to do? They were limited the same way that we were. The damahne have recognized that attempting to fight, and putting themselves at risk in such a way endangers their purpose.”

  He would have to travel back to understand why they felt that way, and what that meant. If the damahne were truly unwilling to fight out of fear for what might happen, he needed to understand what would happen were he to fight. Already, he had faced the groeliin, and he had faced the Deshmahne, and had no remorse for what he had done to either of them, but others who came before him might have known more.

  Jakob walked through the remnants of the city, letting the sensation of the stones surround him. He held on to his connection to the ahmaean, not certain whether he could see much more than the visions that he had already seen, or whether there was anything more for him to experience here.

  As he wandered through the city, he began to have a greater connection to visions from the past. He stopped when a particularly strong one struck him.

  In the image, he saw a tower toppling. Near the base of the tower, Raime stood, pulling with his ahmaean, drawing ahmaean away from the tower, but also from deep within the ground.

  Jakob could practically feel the earth rumbling. Why had Raime come here? Why destroy the daneamiin?

  There had to have been something that prompted him to come. He sought power, but he did so with a purpose. Was there a reason that he had chosen the daneamiin city to attack?

  Jakob moved deeper into the remains of the city. He climbed atop a pile of stone, feeling a tingle across his skin. There had been other times when he felt similar tingling, and he recognized it from the ruins he had visited when traveling with Novan and the Denraen when leaving Chrysia.

  Was there something similar about those ruins and the ruins of the daneamiin city?

  He looked over to Anda, but she was gone.

  Not gone. He had disappeared. Jakob had traveled, drawn by whatever force and power remained within the city, but couldn’t help himself.

  He stood within the city, walls towering around him, the thundering sound of violence every
where. He knew that he should run, and knew that he was here too deeply, that he had stepped back too far, and too fully, and posed a danger to both himself and the daneamiin—or whomever he’d stepped inside.

  But maybe he needed to be here.

  For some reason, the city had wanted to draw him back and had wanted him to be here. He had felt that from the moment Anda had taken him there. He’d felt drawn to it, compelled by the power of the ahmaean still remaining here.

  Parts of the city had already collapsed. Jakob looked around, noting black smoke swirling from spires. The sound of swords clanging against other weapons rang out through the city. He heard the snap of bows as arrows were fired.

  How many daneamiin remained within the city?

  Had they not all abandoned the city?

  Unless Raime had appeared and prevented them from leaving.

  He felt the daneamiin ahmaean in one of the towers.

  Jakob focused on it and shifted.

  When he appeared within the tower, he noted the brilliant white stone, the ahmaean swirling around it, flowing from it. Two young daneamiin stood along one of the interior walls. When he appeared, they looked at him and started crying.

  “Shush. I’m here to help.”

  Another daneamiin appeared and stood in front of the two children. From the gentle slope of her eyes, a slope that was similar to the children’s, Jakob suspected that it was their mother.

  “Please. You do not have to do this,” the mother said.

  She held her hands out, the long fingers pushed ahmaean away from her, sending it at Jakob.

  When it struck him, he recognized a warmth, a sensation that was designed to placate him.

  “I’m here to help,” he said again.

  Ahmaean pressed against him once more, this time with more pressure. The daneamiin stepped back, pushing the children along with her.

  Jakob had assumed that he’d stepped back in the form of a daneamiin, but what if he hadn’t?

  He held his hands out and realized that they did not have the long fingers of the daneamiin. He wore a heavy tunic, and for the first time, he was aware of the sword at his side.