The Threat of Madness (The Lost Prophecy Book 1)

by D. K. Holmberg

  Jakob looked up then, a slow stream of tears starting to roll down his face. He quickly wiped them away. Why wouldn’t Novan attend the ceremony for the priests? Novan had always been friendly with the priests—it was why he was allowed as much freedom as he was—so it seemed strange that he would choose not to attend.

  “Why?”

  Novan let go of his arm and stood. The historian was tall, and the long robes he wore only served to make him appear taller. There was a stoop to his back today that wasn’t there before, a weight upon him that Jakob only guessed at. “The Magi will leave tomorrow. After the attack, they decided to choose quickly. It was to have been a priest,” he said, “but their first choice perished in the blast as well. They’ve chosen another and will be returning to their city. I’m going to observe for as long as I’m allowed.”

  Jakob nodded his head slowly, uncertain how to respond. All along, he had known Novan wouldn’t stay in the city permanently. The man had warned him early that it was not his way, not the way of a historian. It had been so long that Jakob had simply forgotten.

  Then he would be truly alone. “I will help with your arrangements.”

  Novan waved a hand. “There will be no need.”

  “Will you return?” Not when, but if, Jakob knew.

  The tall historian pursed his thin lips and tilted his head in thought. “I may not.”

  He tried not to think about what he would do once Novan was gone. “I’ll be available to you as needed,” he said numbly.

  “I know you will.” He paused and turned to him. “Listen, Jakob. You have lost much, especially recently. You must wonder what the gods have in store for you, must wonder why you are being tested.” The historian put words to Jakob’s fears before pausing, looking at Jakob as the tears streamed forth again. “I have no answers,” he admitted. “But I can teach you how to ask questions, how to observe, and learn from that which exists around us.”

  “What are you saying?” His head still throbbed and there was a slight ringing in his ears, making it difficult for his mind to work through things.

  “You’ve demonstrated a keen eye and a quick mind,” Novan said. “Even Endric says it is so,” he said, almost to himself. “You may come with me, but we must leave with the Magi and would miss the ceremony. I need to accompany them if I am to understand what they intend. They may not have acted nearly as swiftly as was needed.”

  Jakob leaned back again, uncertain what to say, if anything. Novan offered him a familiar face if nothing else.

  Is this what I want for myself?

  He didn’t know, had never known, not like Scottan or Braden.

  If I go, will I become a historian?

  Jakob didn’t know what Novan had in mind for him.

  And if he did go, what of Scottan? What would become of his brother?

  “Know that if you go, your brother will still be cared for,” Novan said, as if reading his thoughts. “The priests will see that he wants for nothing. Your father has always been a faithful servant of the Urmahne.”

  His father was nothing if not faithful to the Urmahne. It was not the same for him; he’d been losing his faith over the years, and his father’s loss was the final blow.

  Novan walked over to Jakob’s door and opened it, pausing at the threshold. “You may find answers to questions you did not know you had,” he said before leaving.

  Jakob wrung his hands. The comment was something his father would have appreciated.

  When Jakob had been escorted back to his father’s room, he saw a dark silk shroud had been placed over the door. Only family was allowed past for the next week. He’d been surprised to learn the priests’ quarters had been essentially unharmed. They were a separate building from the temple, though attached. Many thought they were one and the same, but Jakob knew differently. The explosions had destroyed much of the temple, and the priests were already busy clearing and cleaning that which could be salvaged, with many of the Ur working alongside the priests.

  Jakob’s crying had begun the moment he parted the shroud and stepped into his father’s room. He couldn’t stop them. The smell of incense still hung in the air, and a ceremonial candle stood atop his father’s desk, though it was not one he recognized, too tall and thin to be a Turning candle. A robe lay on his bed, gray and not one Jakob had ever seen him wear, but it all reminded him of his father.

  There were few personal items, but he would take them just the same. The ornamental jewelry belonged to the Urmahne, so he would leave that, as well as the robes and other clothing. A few books were scattered about the room, several on the desk and another under the bed, and so Jakob grabbed those. There was nothing else. Nothing that reminded him of his father, or his family. All he had to show for his loss were the sword and some books.

  His father had changed little over the years, even less since his mother’s death three summers prior. It was now a reminder of sadness and loss.

  Looking around the room for the last time, a thick knot formed in his throat. He ran a hand across the robe lying on the bed, feeling the embroidery hidden in the folds, before finally leaving.

  Outside the room, Braden stood waiting. His brow was furrowed, and a look of concern pained his face. He reached and pushed a strand of dark hair out of his face, shifting uncomfortably on his heels before speaking. “How are you”—he looked around, and seemed to struggle with what to say—“handling this?”

  “Not well.” He could not meet his friend’s eyes and stared at the three books in his arms. They were small and light, and he wondered briefly if they belonged to his father or if they needed to be returned to the library.

  Braden squeezed his arm. Jakob startled with it, and a throbbing pain shot up into his shoulder. An alarmed look crossed Braden’s face before passing. “I’m sorry. Is there anything you need before the ceremony tomorrow?”

  “I’m not going.” He hadn’t known what he would do until now but realized it was true. Regardless of what else he chose, he was not going to the ceremony. He would not taunt the gods further.

  “What? You have to go. The city is preparing—”

  “No. I’m leaving tomorrow. Novan leaves with the Magi and has asked me to come. I’m to be his apprentice.” He paused, glancing back at the shroud on the door. “There’s nothing for me here.”

  “What of your brother?”

  “Scottan is with the healers. There’s nothing more I can do for him.” His brother had been nearly dead for the last year. Nothing of the Scottan he had known remained, nothing but a face Jakob barely recognized. And he didn’t know how much longer he could stand to see him that way. It was too hard the last time. “I’ll miss seeing you, but with the Ur keeping you busy…”

  Braden leaned back against the wall and sighed. “We both leave, then. The Denraen have asked several of the Ur to join them.”

  Jakob felt a moment of reprieve from the sorrow of the last few days. “You’re to be Denraen?”

  Braden nodded, and he struggled to keep from smiling. His blue eyes sparkled. Jakob knew it was something many of the Ur dreamed of, the honor of being chosen as one of the Denraen, to guard the Magi. It was something Scottan would have wanted, and it fit Braden.

  “When?”

  “The Denraen leave with the Magi,” he reminded. “Listen, Jakob, I think you should reconsider. You saw the raiders, what the Ur faced. It could be worse than that if you follow Novan. The Denraen think it could be much worse.”

  “I’ve thought of that,” he said, though had not, not truly. He tried not to remember what the raider attack had been like, the fear he had felt, the sounds of men dying. “I’ll have my sword.” He laughed weakly at the idea of him using the sword in a way that would actually protect anybody.

  Braden didn’t laugh. “You’ll need more than basic sword skills to face the raiders, more than luck to survive.”

  Jakob had almost forgotten he had told Braden about his attack. Almost. “I’ve been practicing. I’ve improved.” His t
ime working with the general had grown his skills quickly.

  Braden frowned but did not say anything before he grabbed Jakob’s arm again. When again, a jolt of pain shot up to his shoulder and his already throbbing head pounded harder. Jakob pulled his arm away and rubbed where Braden had grabbed him.

  “I’m sorry. My head still hurts from the explosion.”

  “It must have been horrible.”

  He had a flashback of the first explosion, the smoke, the acrid smell. All he could do was nod.

  “I should let you mourn.” He froze with a comment upon his lips that went unsaid. Instead, he shook his head. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  When he left, Jakob looked at his father’s room one last time before walking away.

  Jakob found Novan in an unexpected location. The historian was standing in the practice yard talking with the general. It was only the two of them, and they were deep in conversation. The tall historian had to look down at the smaller Denraen, but Endric carried himself with an air of confidence that made the height difference negligible.

  Jakob stood off to the side, waiting, and didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but their conversation carried to him anyway. He wasn’t sure if he should turn away and give the men a little more space or if he should stay. While he debated, something caught his attention and answered the dilemma for him.

  “The Conclave fears delay,” Novan said.

  The general sniffed. “There is no delay.”

  Novan tilted his head slightly and frowned. “I think she would say differently. You’re still here.”

  “I am. As is my duty.”

  Novan laughed and shook his head. “You are stretched thin, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll see the Magi safely back and turn my attention north.”

  “Some think our time is short and that we may already be too late.”

  Endric shook his head. “We’re not.”

  “You’re certain?”

  The general nodded once. “As I can be. I know little more than that, little more than you.”

  Novan sighed. “Then that’s enough. I am sorry this burden must fall to you. She had no one else to ask. If she’s right, and you’re meant to be—”

  Endric cocked his head and flicked his eyes briefly toward Jakob, cutting off Novan. “Perhaps she didn’t look very hard.”

  Novan saw Endric’s gaze and turned toward Jakob and straightened slowly as he carefully looked around. Motioning him over, he said, “Jakob. You know Endric.”

  Jakob nodded as he approached. “I’m sorry. I was told I could find you here, Novan,” he said as he ran a nervous hand through his hair. It was the general more than the historian who intimidated him. He had been such a fool! “I’ve decided,” he said.

  “Of course. And what did you decide?”

  “There’s nothing left for me here. There’s Scottan,” Jakob said hurriedly in explanation, “but he’s with the healers and nothing more than a shell of himself.”

  The historian rested a hand on Jakob’s arm to comfort him, and Jakob saw the general cock an eyebrow at the gesture. Novan was not one who suffered emotion, preferring logic and knowledge, so Jakob knew it was unusual for the historian. He was thankful for it nonetheless.

  “I would be pleased if you come with me,” Novan said, giving his arm a squeeze.

  “With you?” the general interrupted. “Perhaps I may have asked the boy to join the Denraen.”

  Jakob was taken aback, but the general laughed, and he knew it for a joke. Novan looked at Endric seriously though and released his light grip on Jakob’s arm.

  “You would have him?” Novan asked, a strange look on his face.

  The general snorted. “The boy is a quick study. He shows a natural ability with the sword. With time, I could make a Denraen of him.” The general shrugged. “And a good one, at that.”

  Now Jakob was truly taken aback. A natural ability? He wondered if the general was joking again, but there had been a different tone to his voice this time, one that reminded him of how his brother had once appraised a horse.

  Novan smiled strangely. “Good. Then you wouldn’t mind if he continued to work with you while we travel?”

  The general laughed. It was something he did easily, and it seemed out of place on a soldier. “You know I don’t mind teaching those who wish to learn.” He turned to Jakob. “You would wish to continue?”

  Jakob nodded. The times he had spent with the general had left him feeling almost normal over the last few weeks.

  “Excellent,” Novan said. “I fear he may need some basic sword skills where we’re to go.”

  “He’s already beyond basic, Novan,” Endric said. “But if I’m to do this, then I’ll ask something of him.” The general turned to Jakob. “You’ll work with the Denraen, serve as one of my men, while you and Novan ride with us. There are things you cannot learn from books.”

  Novan shook his head. “I think you know how I feel about that.”

  Endric shrugged. “That’s my requirement.”

  Novan looked at Jakob.

  He’d come to the yard thinking he would only have a chance to continue working with Novan, and now he was being given an opportunity to keep studying with the general? What choice did he have?

  He nodded.

  “That is that, then,” Novan said. “He may work with your men when I don’t need him.” He paused and looked at Jakob. “We’ll be leaving soon. Gather whatever belongings you would like to bring and meet me in the plaza.” Novan turned to Endric. “And we will speak more later.”

  Novan walked off leaving Jakob standing alone with Endric. The Denraen general, he reminded himself.

  The old man stood casually, an unreadable expression on his face as he watched Novan depart. “You can learn much from that one,” Endric finally said. He shook his head briefly as if to clear it. “Find me after we camp in the evening. The other men will know where I am,” he finished before he, too, turned and left, leaving Jakob alone in the practice yard.

  In the distance, near the ruins of the temple, a low, smoky haze clung to the ground. Jakob could smell the char and ash, and as it clogged his nostrils, the throbbing pain in his head returned. He turned from the sight as a tear welled again in his eyes, and he wiped it away angrily.

  It really was time for him to leave.

  Chapter Eight

  They rode for a long time the first day, the Denraen pushing them hard for reasons Jakob didn’t fully understand.

  Surrounded by Denraen, with two Magi further up in the procession, the departure was somewhat surreal. But Jakob did not let his thoughts dwell on it now, knowing there would be time later. He could not see Braden among the riders, though given the sheer number, he was not surprised, and struggled only to keep his borrowed horse next to Novan as they rode.

  They traveled west, crossing grassy plains that gently rolled ever onward, and quickly passed beyond the lands Jakob knew. Their path skirted quietly around several small towns that he could barely make out in the distance. They stuck to the road mostly but seemed unconcerned about leaving it at times to cut across country. He saw a few people pass by as they traveled, farmers mostly, and none who followed. They kept a good pace, not so fast that the horses fatigued, but crossed ground quickly enough.

  Novan was quiet, keeping to himself and occasionally riding ahead for a short time before returning to ride alongside Jakob. He suspected the historian rode up by the Magi, but he wasn’t sure, having been unable to see from his vantage among the Denraen. There was little talk from the men around him. The Denraen were either very serious in their duties or were uncomfortable talking around him and Novan. Perhaps it was a little of both, he decided.

  Over time, they veered along a northern road, and the grassy plains eventually started to merge with a smattering of trees. It was about this time that two things happened. First, the sun dipped low in the sky, low enough that long shadows of the stunted trees stretched across the road.
The other was a little more unsettling. There was the feeling of a presence such that the hairs on the back of Jakob’s neck stood on end. It was the feeling that something followed them, watching them. It was a strange gnawing on his senses, a tickle to his mind, yet he couldn’t see anything awry.

  As the day grew darker and they showed no signs of slowing, he found himself turning and staring off to each side of them, looking hard into the distance. He couldn’t shake the feeling of something following them. It was almost like an itch in his mind he couldn’t scratch.

  Novan must have sensed his unease. “What is it?” It was the first time he’d spoken in several hours.

  “I don’t know. It feels as though something’s following us,” he answered.

  Novan glanced around, staring into the growing darkness before shaking his head. “Unlikely,” he said. “The Denraen have scouts all around us, so someone following would be quickly found.”

  Jakob shook his head. “Then it’s probably nothing.”

  A strange frown turned on Novan’s lips, and he nodded. “Or perhaps it is something,” the historian suggested. “We pass near an old ruin, one lost so long ago following the destruction that there are no records of what it was.”

  Jakob followed the historian’s gaze but saw nothing but clumps of rock in the distance. “That? That was a city?”

  Novan snorted before looking back to Jakob. “One day, your own beloved Chrysia may know the same fate.” He watched as the rock fell farther and farther into the distance. “There’s a power to walking among those rocks, a sense of time, the weight of history. I would give much to know their story.”

  Novan’s voice had taken on a faraway quality and Jakob smiled, wishing he knew a passion like the historian had for the past. Neither spoke any more about the strange sensation, but it never really faded. But Jakob managed to push it to the back of his mind.

  It seemed another hour passed before the call came back for them to stop for the night. It was atop a small rise and gave a good view of the landscape around them. Defensible, he suspected, knowing little of such things but knowing a party of their size would be unable to hide. Better to see what was coming. He still felt strange eyes were watching them and was thankful for the vantage.