by James Davis
“Elisandrya.”
“Yes. You’ve been asleep for quite some time. I’m surprised to see you awake after the beating you took, and had obviously taken before. You lied to me when you said you were all right.”
“I never said I was all right, just that I would survive.” His wan smile belied the pain in his aching body. “I guess I was right, eh?”
“Just barely,” she murmured, and leaned forward to check the bandages on his leg.
Quin’s hand shot forward and grabbed her wrist, holding it inches above the injury. He looked at her in confusion and alarm. Eli froze, shocked by his reaction, but his grip relaxed as he realized her intent. He waited quietly while she inspected the wound.
“I don’t think it’s fractured, but the skin was broken and the bone is surely bruised. You were lucky. If the mastiff had held a moment longer, it could’ve been much worse.”
An awkward silence came between them as Eli sat back and stoked the fire. Quin looked away, and she felt sorry for him. Though they were strangers to one another, despite fighting for their lives together, he seemed more vulnerable than she’d imagined. It did not seem a trait he was comfortable with. She knew herself that independence breeds a tough skin until broken by circumstance or injury. Not wanting to rely on others seemed a trait they shared.
“I’m sor—” he began.
“No need for apologies. I’d have reacted much the same had our situations been reversed.” She turned to look at him. “Trust is a hard thing to come by.”
“Indeed,” he answered quietly.
Returning her attention to the fire, she changed the subject.
“How did you know how to seal the temple like that?”
“I’ve seen its like before.” He pushed himself to a sitting position as he spoke, wincing. “Demon cults, usually. Their priests are fanatical about recruiting new followers into the fold, but not very attached when it comes to enacting suicide pacts for their unholy masters. When the time for poison, bleeding, or flames comes, measures are taken to ensure the souls reach their intended destination.
“Stone blocks, or locked or guarded doors keep the followers inside, while the priest himself escapes, extolling the virtues of spreading the faith.”
Elisandrya shuddered, shocked that such practices occurred in the lands she knew so well.
“I gather you’ve traveled in many lands, then?”
“I’ve seen my share, yes.”
His answer was guarded, but he seemed more comfortable speaking to her. She sensed a common liking for the freedom of the open road.
“You’re traveling south now?”
“Possibly,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Why do you ask?”
She looked at him then, confused about how to answer. She had not thought about explaining Sameska’s prophecy before that moment, or how to explain such a thing to someone outside the Hidden Circle’s faith. She had witnessed unpleasant reactions before, in Derlusk a few times, when people were confronted with the idea of divinations and her faith’s confidence in their knowledge of the future.
There was something in Quin, though, that she could not describe, a feeling bordering on contradiction that made him hard to place. It intrigued her, unlike most of the gruff men she had known throughout her life. Somehow, deep within, she knew Savras had guided her, but the implications of that feeling only disturbed her more. She dreaded what the future might hold for her people. Taking a deep breath and trusting instinct, she chose her path and forged ahead with the truth.
“Two evenings ago, my order gathered at the Temple of the Hidden Circle in Brookhollow, south of here, to heed the prophecies of the high oracle. Recent events, such as plague and this unseasonable chill, made the gathering an event surrounded by ill omens, but when the high oracle began to speak …” she hesitated. “We were told of a man like you.”
She poured out the tale that had set her to riding through the storm. Quin did not so much as blink as she spoke. She considered it a testament to his self-control that he took in the story of prophecy, plague, and dark magic without renouncing her as completely insane.
Stained glass rattled in the leaded frame of the dome above Dreslya as the storm hovered to the north of Brookhollow, growling and increasing its intensity. Though the high shutters had been closed against the wind, she still shivered in the chill that permeated the temple in spite of all attempts to make things seem normal.
She stared at the base of Savras’s statue, unable to pull her gaze away from the streaks of brown that had dried into the stone after Nivael’s strange and gruesome death. Until then, only the old and infirm had been threatened by the fatality of the blush. Denial now filled the halls of the temple like a hushed secret thrashing against constraints—unspoken, but known and feared.
Candles had been lit along the walls. They added to the shadows and whispers that crawled and floated from one person to the next, scurrying away to hide as Sameska and the oracles walked by, making their way to the inner chamber behind the sanctuary. Dreslya had not been summoned to gather with the others, but Baertah had arrived at her chamber to escort her to the sanctuary. Sameska desired her presence, he’d told her. She had no doubt what the high oracle wished to address.
“Tragic, is it not?”
Dreslya jumped, looking up from the dried remains of Nivael’s blood to find Sameska at her side.
“Do not be so frightened, child. Surely you have nothing to fear here? Nothing to hide, perhaps?”
Shaken and somewhat uncomfortable under Sameska’s scrutiny, Dres did not reply. Whatever the high oracle had called her for was most likely already known. Dres had no desire to play Sameska’s game of rhetorical questions. Though she and the other oracles were priestesses and clerics of Savras, his was predominantly a faith of diviners and wizardly magic. Though able to call upon his power in prayer and meditation, it was in the Weave of magic where their true strengths lay.
Noting Dreslya’s refusal to take her bait, Sameska continued more directly.
“Why did you not inform us immediately of your sister’s absence and purpose?”
“I merely found a note, High Oracle. I did not open the town gates for her. She was gone and nothing could be done.”
“The tone in your voice seems to say otherwise, child.”
She drew out the last word, as if to emphasize Dreslya’s place in the order of things. Sameska was not accustomed to accepting even a hint of insolence from her lessers.
Dres quavered beneath what she now observed as madness in Sameska’s eyes. Where there had once been an admittedly haughty yet wise countenance was now a fanatical dementia. Dark circles sagged beneath the high oracle’s eyes and her face was drawn and tense.
“My tone does not change the fact, High Oracle. Elisandrya made her own decision.”
“A decision that you knew about! A decision that threatens the lives of us all, that denies the very will of Savras and his prophecy!”
Sameska was livid, shaking with rage, more emotional than Dreslya had ever seen her. The young oracle looked away hopelessly, lost in confusion and knowing full well that reason was a futile tactic at this point. She could hear Baertah huffing in wordless and derisive agreement to Sameska’s accusations, and she could almost feel his sneer of self-righteousness burning into the back of her head.
Straightening her robes and fixing her disheveled hair, Sameska softened her stare to a mild look of stern command.
“We have gathered here for five generations to venerate the teachings of Savras, to be carriers of truth and visions of what may come. You have kept truth from your sisters, and this is not acceptable.
“Dreslya Loethe, I banish you from attending the Council of the Hidden Circle this night, and until such time as your wayward sister returns to Brookhollow to face judgment before her peers. As Elisandrya is most likely already the victim of her own actions, I do not expect to see you at the council again.”
Sameska turned away and disappeared be
hind the curtained alcove at the edge of the altar’s dais, slamming the inner chamber’s door behind her.
Dreslya’s quiet fears for her sister were revealed in Sameska’s words. She wept, heedless of Baertah’s rolling eyes and disinterested sigh as he left her alone in the sanctuary. She was more alone than he knew. She felt the final loss of her family descend on her shoulders and bear her to the floor.
Quin glanced toward Elisandrya as she gathered her equipment, checking arrows and bowstrings for dampness. She didn’t look up at him as she fidgeted with her pack. He’d wandered to the edge of the road after her confession about the prophecy, unable to speak for the tempest that raged within him. He did not blame this warrior woman who’d helped him and fought by his side. Faith in and of itself was not an offense to him. This high oracle and so-called prophecy, however, he could not entirely accept. He didn’t—couldn’t—believe it.
Eli stood and kicked at the dying remnants of their campfire, the embers hissing as the wet soil smothered them. He watched as she double-checked her sword and her newly repaired bow. She chanced a look toward him, and he turned away, afraid that she might misunderstand his sudden silence. Still afraid that she might fear him.
Quietly she approached him from behind. Clearing her throat, she spoke first, breaking the awful quiet.
“You do not plan to continue on to Littlewater, do you?”
Quin shook his head slowly and fixed his gaze south along the curve of the Low Road. Though he was curious to know why he was being sought by Littlewater’s guards, it was obvious they were not the reason he was called to the region. Elisandrya’s tale of prophecy had proven that.
He held his tongue. He had seen towns disappear because of prophecy and complacent faith. The ruins of Char were still fresh in his mind, the blackened bones on ancient pews. The bloodied gates in Logfell were not far from his thoughts either.
His wounds still ached, having grown stiff while he rested. He needed the healing winds of the shadowalk to prepare him for what lay ahead. Sleep had returned the mystical current of darkness to his spirit, allowing him access to that supernatural ability. Despite his desire to feel whole again, the warrior woman stood behind him, her eyes full of questions.
He felt obligated to explain himself to her, for saving his life and tending to his wounds. He sensed a kindred spirit in her, a love of the road and a desire to act rather than wait for things to get better. She had defied her elders in coming to find him. He owed her as much as he could summon himself to admit.
Turning to face her, he forgot much of what he’d thought to say as their eyes met.
“I am no champion—barely a Hoarite, and certainly no priest. I am led by an oath I made long ago, and I place no weight in dangerous prophecies. I have been called ghostwalker, but this is just as often an insult as a description.”
“What are you saying?”
He leveled his gaze once again to the south, narrowing his eyes and collecting his thoughts.
“I think this Sameska has endangered her people by giving them a false hope when they should be arming themselves against whatever lurks in those trees.” He looked back to her. “And I’m saying that you feel the same way, otherwise you would not be here.” Though his words were presumptuous considering the short time they had spent together, he felt confident they were true and awaited her response.
“Fair enough. What do you propose we do about it?”
His lips curved in a grim smile. “We’re going to Brookhollow.”
“But that will only strengthen Sameska’s stance against defending the city. With your arrival there, the prophecy may go unopposed.”
He placed a hand on her shoulder and his smile grew broader, a mischievous light dancing in his strange eyes. “Humor me.”
His sudden change in demeanor startled her, and she looked at him curiously. Though dark forces seemed gathered against all she knew, she waited in his pearly gaze. He could not help but be astounded by her.
“Fine. But we must get moving quickly,” she said. “It’s almost three days to Brookhollow without horses or magic. With your injuries, we should try to get close to Littlewater so I can—”
“No,” he said. “We don’t need horses.”
Quinsareth felt the situation fully and knew what they had to do. He could not leave her in the middle of the road, but the alternative felt almost shameful to him, exposing her to terrible dangers despite the necessity. He closed his eyes, reaching within himself until the shadow responded.
“Take my hand,” he said.
Hesitantly, she agreed, and the world around them turned dark, wavering as the world beneath their world became visible in an array of shadows. He heard her whisper a quiet prayer as she stood closer to him, leaning into him. Though her prayer was finished and she did not speak, Quin still heard her voice somehow. In disbelief, he listened to what he assumed were her thoughts, quoting the words of her high oracle as she gazed on the blackened landscape of the shadow realm.
He shall walk on a road of shadow.
“How can this be?” he whispered.
The ground beneath them blurred, disappearing as they proceeded into a world of darkness that swallowed their steps.
The inner chamber of the Hidden Circle represented the pinnacle of the history of the order since its founding in Brookhollow. It was lit by several waist-high columns. On top of each, a pool of glowing water shimmered like quicksilver. The floors were of rift marble, an especially hard stone whose mixture of swirling and geometric patterns was unique to the dwarf realm from which it had come.
In the center of the circular room lay a pool of placid water, a divining pool drained and filled daily by the savants. Most were aware that the pool was filled only as a formality, as it had not been used in years. Unlike her predecessors, Sameska did not approve of anyone displaying their powers in her presence, despite the Council of the Hidden Circle’s long-held traditions.
The whole of the room was topped in a dome, a smaller version of that in the primary sanctuary. Its walls were carved with thousands of concentric circular patterns like ripples in a rainstorm. Their similarity to the unceasing storms outside was not lost on anyone in attendance.
Sameska sat in the polished oak chair at the head of the circle and glowered disapprovingly at her lessers. The twenty remaining oracles sat before their leader, avoiding her stare and deciding how best to continue their controversial inquiry into the fate of the other towns along the Qurth’s border. In light of the edict against Brookhollow’s resistance, none knew how to suggest that perhaps they could request aid from outside allies.
Sameska had all but accused them of blasphemy.
One young woman finally spoke, staring at her hands and attempting to resolve the situation calmly.
“We do not doubt you, High Oracle, or the words of Savras …”
“Questions of this nature are the very soul of doubt, are they not?”
The high oracle’s voice had risen. Her eyes darted from one young woman to the next, seeking dissidence among them, alert to whispers and accusing eyes. Sameska had slept only fitfully since the evening of her chilling prophecy. Her nightmares had become amplified by her own fears. Her adamancy to stay the course, though, had been bolstered. There was no other way, in her mind, no doubt whatsoever—none that she might share with these rivals, in any case.
These girls are little better than Dreslya in hiding their obvious contempt and jealousy, she thought. What do they know of prophecy? Of true divination?
She stared through the door as if it were transparent, knowing that the statue still stood, stained with blood and tainted by death. She imagined its single eye upon her, the eye of Savras, dimmed in red and unblinking.
“Forgive us, High Oracle,” another said, “we are afraid and our own spells have shown us nothing. Anything within the borders of the forest is invisible to us. We seek your sight and wisdom in these trying times, nothing more.”
All stared at Sameska�
�s back nervously. She had turned around completely in her chair, staring at the closed doors while wringing her hands and mumbling incoherently.
The words flitted through her mind, weaving between her thoughts and imagined horrors until she realized she had actually heard them. She spun back around, narrowing her eyes at them, wondering if they had heard her, seen what she’d seen beyond the door. She felt it still—Savras’s lidless gaze on her back—and she shuddered.
“What to say?” she whispered to herself, staring at their frightened and confused faces. Her mind teetered on the edge of inspiration, chasing the spark of her own reasoning through the fog of numerous thoughts that assailed her weary consciousness. She stretched herself straighter in her chair, grasping its arms and clawing absently at the smooth wood.
“Pardon, High Oracle?” the same woman asked quietly, a note of pity creeping into her voice.
Sameska held her breath, tensing as the answer revealed itself to her.
“The ruins of Jhareat,” she said finally, formulating her words carefully so as not to reveal more than she felt prudent. “Beyond the edges of the Qurth, deep in the forest, lies Jhareat and its single tower. Do you remember its tale?”
Several in the room were visibly relieved by the high oracle’s suddenly lucid voice as they recalled the story. It was a tale that most of them had heard as children, first gazing upon the walls of the Hidden Circle’s sanctuary. A few nodded, sagelike, while most listened attentively, curious as to the nature of Sameska’s obscure reference.
“All the oracles who came before us divined the history of this realm—the land, the forest, and the ruins that lay scattered across the fields and buried in the grip of the Qurth. The legends that they discovered decorate the walls of our sanctuary as reminders of history and how tenuous our survival is in this land if we lack foresight.
“Evil ruled within the walls of Jhareat in ancient times, during the days of the Shoon Dynasties.”
