The Threat of Madness (The Lost Prophecy Book 1)

by D. K. Holmberg

  “A strange place to request a meeting,” the old man said.

  “I’m pleased you received the message.”

  The old man seemed to frown. “Even if I wouldn’t have, the Conclave asked me to meet.”

  “You are needed,” a musical voice said, barely audible forcing Jakob to strain to hear. His head throbbed with the effort. “Much is at stake.”

  The old man nodded, a scar atop his white-haired head gleaming in the lamp-lit night. He said nothing.

  “You must go north,” the person said, hooded head bobbing as they spoke. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman.

  Jakob knew he shouldn’t listen and turned back to the storyman. He could still hear his voice, telling now about Jarren Gildeun’s own travel north, but something made him turn back and listen to the old man and his mysterious companion.

  “I’ve been in the north many times,” the old man answered.

  Jakob moved behind a nearby choco stand, ignoring the inviting stares of the hawker begging him to try her sweets. He could smell the strong sweet aroma of the choco, though it mixed with another scent, one that reminded him of spring. It was almost the smell of flowers in bloom. Frowning, he pushed forward, and the smell of choco faded, though the other did not. Others around him were ignoring the people in the alley mouth, steering clear. He slid ahead a little, still straining to hear.

  “In the far north, there is a town called Avaneam. You must go there.”

  The old man nodded again, considering. “I know most of the northern towns,” he began. “I do not know Avaneam. Its name—”

  “Means what you think,” the other answered quickly. “It is a sacred place, one that must be entered carefully.”

  The old man smiled, though the expression did not reach the rest of his face. His eyes were a hard stare even from Jakob’s distance. “How will I find it?”

  “It is in the mountains, along the Elasiin path, not far from the Great Valley. You follow the path until it is no more. It will not be easy.”

  “I have heard the rumors.”

  The other shook his head slightly. “Not the raiders. This is something worse.”

  “I have heard the rumors,” the man repeated.

  “Of course you have. I should know not to doubt you.” The other paused. “There is something you must deliver,” the other said and handed the old man an object. Jakob decided it was a woman’s voice, but she sounded nothing like anyone he’d ever heard. The object she handed over was covered in a thin sheet, hiding what looked a little like a small chest. “Protect this until it is delivered. Much would be lost with it. This is what he seeks, but he will not be able to open it.”

  The man took the package and nodded. “He’s here?”

  “He has ventured far from the south.”

  The old man chuckled. “He’s not from the south.”

  “No. Once he was... It doesn’t matter. It has been many years since that mattered. The priests have watched this for long enough. Now... now the others must keep it safe.”

  “Not open it?”

  “Perhaps they will make that choice,” she said.

  The man didn’t press the question. “Do you really think him that close?”

  “I’ve learned not to underestimate him. If he captures me...”

  “I understand.” The old man glanced up and down the street, and Jakob shrank back. “Why can’t you—”

  “This cannot travel the way that I must travel, and there is a certain safety in your men.”

  The old man nodded, looking down at the package. “I’m uncertain I am the best for this task. I have other responsibilities—”

  “Maintain whatever appearances you must. I can’t overstate the importance of this.”

  The old man laughed softly. “You don’t need to state it at all.”

  “You know, then, what this means?”

  “I suspect.”

  “Then know I do not ask lightly.”

  “I know that as well. You wouldn’t risk yourself coming here otherwise.” The man sighed and closed his eyes briefly. “If this must be my burden, so be it,” he said as he opened his eyes. There was steel to his face now.

  “There is another.”

  The man frowned before he nodded, tilting his head expectantly.

  “You have already begun to discover.”

  “Discover what?”

  There came a soft laugh. “A key, one I thought broken. Perhaps... perhaps we are not so lost as I thought.”

  There was something about the voice that was familiar, though Jakob couldn’t quite place it. Where had he heard it?

  The old man frowned. “What is it?”

  Jakob got jostled back and missed what was said next.

  “You will understand in time. For now, this is enough.”

  The old man turned, and his gaze started to drift toward him. “How?” he started.

  Jakob didn’t wait to hear the answer. He hurried off, back toward the storyman and beyond, barely pausing to listen and not daring to look back. He thought about the travels of Jarren Gildeun in the north and now the old man, wondering who this other was and when the old man would leave, a feeling of disappointment hitting him. He would lose his new sword master.

  Finally, he dared a look back but couldn’t see either shape in the alley. He’d thought the old man once of the Ur but now questioned that. The conversation made him wonder if the man had ever been in the guard or if he was simply a man for hire.

  He shrugged the thought off as he neared the square, figuring to ask the man about it the next time he worked with him—if there was a next time. Would the old man be gone the next time he went looking for him in the yard? He hadn’t stayed around listening long enough to know how soon the other needed him to leave. He hoped to have a few more sessions with him.

  The square was even more crowded than the other streets had been as if most of the city tried to squeeze into the city center. The sounds of the musicians and storymen were louder here than on the side streets and the crowds around them were even larger. The minstrels tended to be better and the storymen more compelling at the square. The bakers and meat carts pushed so close together here that they were nearly on top of one another, and the smells melded together so that nothing had its own scent. The fires were brighter here, and tall lanterns hung high over the street, lighting everything with their dancing flames. A larger fire burned brightly in the square center, the Festival Fire. Its flames leaped high above the crowds, and its warmth filled the square. Around the fire were the dancers, each dancing around bands of musicians. He wondered if Braden and Jessila were still dancing.

  Slowly, he weaved his way around the square, shoving his way through as he tried to find the tavern. The Cindernut Tavern, the name itself a taunt to Jakob from when he’d once been harassed by the son of a city councilor, Braden often chose it as a place for them to meet. As he worked his way through the crowd, he could see the tavern’s huge sign several buildings ahead. An image of an oversized cindernut, cracked to reveal the meat within, announced the tavern in a way the fading lettering around it did not.

  Reaching the tavern, he found Braden standing outside, a mug in his hand. Jakob laughed to himself, not surprised that his friend had already started with the ale, and hurried over to him. “Where’s Jessila? Did your dancing scare her off?”

  Braden nodded over the crowd. “She went for her sister,” he said with a wink.

  Jakob groaned and shook his head. He often had to entertain sisters or friends of the ladies Braden danced with. Braden had pushed Marli Mancley on him a number of times lately, and he always felt cotton-mouthed around her.

  “You gave us a long time. Did you forget how to find the tavern?” A taunting glimmer danced in his eyes.

  Jakob looked up at the sign, grimacing, before shaking his head. “There was a storyman—”

  Braden barked a knowing laugh. “The Festival Fire.” Braden nodded, indicating the huge flames leaping at th
e heart of the square. “That’s where we’re to meet them. Jessila said that she wasn’t finished with me!”

  It was Jakob’s turn to laugh as they began to work their way toward the fire. Jessila and Marli Mancley found them in the crowd and paused only long enough to pull them toward the fire. Seeing Marli, he wondered if he could use his aching head as an excuse to stop dancing. Braden looked back at him, shaking his head as if knowing his thoughts, and Jakob knew he had a long night before him.

  Chapter Six

  “How was the festival?” Novan asked, thumbing through a thick book across the table from Jakob. It was a volume he had flipped through himself but had not really read, something else on the War of Confusion.

  Jakob yawned. He had not been sleeping well. Every time he fell asleep, strange dreams met him. Last night, he’d dreamed of the man from the Turning Festival and the strange hollow sensation he had felt. In the dream, the man had seen him staring and reached for him. Jakob had resisted, afraid even in his dreams, and was pushed away by someone else. He hadn’t seen the person, but whoever it was smelled of roses in bloom and had a voice like the woman he’d overheard speaking at the festival. After he had been pushed, he landed on a grassy hillside where golden eyes stared at him in the darkness, and he could feel a strangely reassuring presence nearby. Jakob had jerked awake after that and had been unable to sleep afterward.

  The dreams had been coming more often, each night stranger. He worried what it meant. Scottan had visions before the madness took him. After that, his brother had never been the same. Was the same thing happening to him or were these just dreams?

  He pushed the thoughts away, yawning again. “It was a typical Turning Festival,” he answered, and rubbed his eyes. He had danced a bit with Marli last night, enough to placate Braden, before excusing himself to wander the square. Braden had been preoccupied and had not resisted much.

  “You’re tired.”

  “I didn’t sleep well.”

  Novan cocked his head at the comment and arched an eyebrow. “What did you see?”

  Even the mundane required a report, he thought with a sigh. Novan considered it part of his training. So he began, telling him of leaving the library for the city gates, the meeting Braden, and wandering past the sweet carts. Jakob could recall the sweet smells easily and smiled at the memory of a choco treat he’d purchased later in the evening.

  He debated whether to tell him about the strange man but finally decided Novan would want to know. “There was something strange next. A man came toward me, dressed all in black, with his hood pulled forward,” he started. Remaining hooded during the festival was uncommon, but not typically something to comment on. “Something about how he looked at me, the feeling I had with it...” He shivered as he remembered.

  “Tell me what you remember,” Novan encouraged.

  “I remember little,” Jakob answered honestly. Novan frowned, but he continued. “I feel as if my mind was clouded. His gaze was intense. Heavy.” Novan arched an eyebrow at the last. “I felt fear, hopelessness, and then it was gone.” He looked up to Novan, shrugging. “I know you’ve taught me better, but it’s all I can recall. I’m sorry.”

  Novan exhaled slowly in a deep sigh, spreading his hands out before him. “You have done fine, better than many who catch that man’s gaze, in fact.” Novan paused for a long moment, and Jakob looked at the historian’s thin face, wondering if he would continue. “He is the High Priest of Deshmahne. Few realize he visited last night. You did well in sensing him.”

  There was a slight strain in his voice as he spoke, an edge to it that Jakob had never heard from the historian. Concern? “Why? Is it true they have abilities like the Magi?” Few heard of the Deshmahne without hearing about the power of their priests.

  “Not like the Magi,” Novan answered. “Different, though powerful in other ways. They are not born with their powers like the Magi. They are learned, and in some cases, borrowed.”

  Jakob waited for Novan to elaborate, but he did not. Something the old man had said came back to him. “What do you mean that I did well to sense him?”

  “Some are sensitive to them,” he said, then quickly added, “I cannot explain why,” anticipating Jakob’s question. “I suspect you were somehow sensitized by your father. The priests of Urmahne have learned to sense a Deshmahne priest. It is how I learned the High Priest had come to the city.”

  “Where did he come from?” Jakob asked. At least he need not worry about reporting to his father. The Urmahne knew.

  Novan arched his eyebrow. “That’s the real question,” he said. “Little is known about the High Priest other than rumor. The Deshmahne were once thought a cult, something to be dismissed. Little more than barbarians blaspheming the Urmahne. Yet they gained influence. With influence came credibility and something more.” He sat in silence, collecting his thoughts. “Doubt. What if following the teachings of the Urmahne isn’t the path to the gods? Could the Deshmahne speak the truth? These questions went unanswered.”

  “How did the Deshmahne gain influence?” Jakob had read little of the Deshmahne, and the one time he had asked his father, he had been sent away.

  “Many a king now listen to the Deshmahne,” Novan said. “There was a time when they listened to the Magi, but that is no longer. The Deshmahne claim power from the gods. There are some who would call this a virtue.” Novan paused. “Claims of power would have been enough, but the High Priest has demonstrated it to these men. They listen when he speaks.”

  “Did the High Priest come here to convert Chrysia?” Jakob asked.

  Novan shook his head. “That’s not something he would need to be present for. I fear this is something else, something worse. He’s searching for something.”

  Jakob frowned, thinking of what he’d overheard. Could that be what the woman had been speaking about to the old man?

  Looking out over the practice yard, the grass now dry and brown and bare in places where men had trampled out its life, Jakob worried. Was he too early for the old man, or was he late? He’d found the old man in the practice yard at the same time each day, but the overheard conversation from last night left him with questions.

  Jakob had begun to look forward to his time in the yard and the lessons. Now he wondered if he had seen the last of his instructor.

  He walked over to the covered rack of wooden swords and grabbed one, hefting its weight and ignoring the ache in his arm and his head. The sensation was familiar now, ever since the attack upon the Ur, but other than a mild discomfort, it didn’t seem to affect him or slow him. Moving to a now-familiar place on the lawn, he crouched into his starting stance before swinging the sword through the catahs he knew, methodically moving from one to the next, always thinking of their defense as the old man had taught him.

  He smiled to himself as he moved, knowing that he was more fluid now than he had been and remembering how jerky and cumbersome the movements had first seemed. He could tell an improvement, if only slight, and was pleased because it had only been a few weeks. It was something he knew Braden would understand; strangely, he had not yet told Braden of his time spent in the practice yard.

  Moving through the catahs again, he changed them this time, trying to anticipate a defense and counter it before swinging in an imaginary attack again. He felt a drop of sweat work its way down his brow as his breaths began to grow heavier. His head began to ache, buzzing almost, as he worked. His sword work may have improved slightly, but his conditioning left much to be desired.

  Finally, he stopped and looked around the yard and realized that it was still empty. He decided that the old man wasn’t going to come today and walked back to the rack when he heard the old man’s voice from behind him.

  “Giving up on me, boy?” the old man asked, his voice rough and the accent still untraceable.

  Jakob spun quickly, surprised, confident that no one had been in the yard only moments before. The old man stood casually before him, his dirtied shirt slung over his shoulder
, baring his scarred and tattooed chest. The pale scars looked grislier in the overcast light, and Jakob looked up quickly so as not to stare. The old man seemed unperturbed.

  “I wasn’t sure if you were coming,” he answered.

  The old man looked at him strangely for a long moment before answering. “You’re early.” It was all he said, but Jakob felt as if there was a question left unasked.

  He looked back toward the library, unsure how to answer, as the old man slid past him to grab a wooden sword. “Today is three-one,” the man explained, moving into their usual places and tossing his dirty shirt to the ground.

  Jakob moved to stand next to him, readying his stance and watched as the old man demonstrated the movements of the catah. Knowing that he would next be expected to replicate them, Jakob tried to concentrate in spite of the tired buzzing in his head.

  The old man finished the movement, and Jakob followed, working cautiously through the unfamiliar stances, swinging his sword deliberately as he struggled to remember what he had seen. Each day, it was the same, but each day, he forced himself to remember the new movements as he was shown more.

  “Good,” the old man offered. “Now the defense.”

  Jakob was expected to offer the attack, moving through the catah as the old man demonstrated how to fend off the advance. The second time through the catah was always easier, and he began to feel how the sword was meant to move—the flow to the movement, in spite of meeting the resistance the old man offered. Finishing the catah, the defense was always shown twice, giving him the opportunity to again work on his attack, and he moved quickly through the motions one more time, his wooden sword moving faster now and the smack of wood on wood more rapid.

  As he finished, Jakob moved into the defense. He always struggled with the defense, finding that the old man could move too quickly for him, and he was always trying to hurry to catch the next swing of the wooden blade, but feeling as if he was just a hair too slow. It was how he acquired his bruises each day.