by James Davis
Atop the wall, gleaming spearheads glistened as rain trickled across their blades, propped against the battlements and waiting for warrior hands to wield them. Those warriors, Hunters of the Hidden Circle sworn to uphold the prophecies of the oracles, lined the walls, armed and armored in direct defiance of the most recent prophecy. Prayers for guidance had been whispered by them all. Doubt had brought them to this point, but faith would see them through, even at the cost of their lives.
On the ground, behind the barred gates, archers stood waiting for the call, shivering despite heavy cloaks and layers of leather armor. The wind had picked up, blowing colder and whipping their cloaks in every direction. Icy rain stabbed at exposed skin, the cold slicing straight to the bone.
Many citizens joined the hunters. They carried weapons of farm implements and polished old swords left behind by generations before. Many more stood bundled in open doorways, shouting for the defenders to lay down their arms and return to their homes. The hunters ignored these protests and maintained their posts. No one was faulted for following Sameska’s edict of passiveness, and no one was forced to renounce it openly. More than a few defenders shook their heads and wrung their hands over the conflict that had seemingly sprung from nowhere. They had known for some time that things were off balance inside the temple. Obeying the instinct to defend themselves felt inherently right.
Elisandrya rode briskly through the streets on a brown mare, feeling the loss of Morningstar deeply. She inspected the north and south gates, observing more battle-ready hunters at both. Messengers had been sent on the fastest steeds to Splondar in the northeast and to Sprynt, the northernmost city of the Blacksaddle Baronies in the south. She knew that aid from either would be unlikely, considering the virulent reputation of the blush, and that any assistance might arrive too late to do any good.
As she rode, several people approached Elisandrya from their homes, pleading for surrender and pointing emphatically at the enraged and strengthening storm above as a sign of Savras’s displeasure, then ducking back into cottages to attend to frightened children. Eli was speechless, newly realizing the damage Sameska’s manipulations had caused and might continue to cause. She stood high in her saddle, looking east down the main road toward the temple, her eyes hopeful.
But she saw no oracles coming to join the defenders, no sign of her sister whose face she both longed and dreaded to see. She sensed the quiet rift between them deepening over the outcome of this battle. She still hoped that at any moment, Dreslya would appear with her fellow oracles, marching in a procession down the main street to solidify the defenses of Brookhollow by uniting sword and spell.
“Without their magic,” she said under her breath, “one needn’t be a prophet to foresee this battle’s conclusion.”
The strident tones of a watchman’s horn split the air, dashing her thoughts apart. Three quick blasts pealed through the thunder and rain from the northern gate, a signal of movement outside; something approached the city under cover of darkness.
Eli patted the hilt of the sword at her side, checked the curve of her borrowed bow, and kicked the shivering mare’s flanks. She took a moment to offer a prayer for guidance, indulging her diminishing doubt and seeking any sign that she had been wrong. Not expecting an answer, she was stunned when an image formed behind her eyes, appearing for an instant and then dissolving, leaving behind an inexplicable sense of calm.
She saw tall waves of wind-blown grass on an endless plain covered in an aura of emerald flame.
The room smelled strongly of cinnamon, concealing the dusty scent of old bones and burned wax. Morgynn had lit several candles with a wave of her hand and the barest of whispers. The aasimar struggled to break free of the enchantment that held him in place. She smiled at his attempts and waited until he seemed satisfied of their futility.
She circled, looking him up and down, admiring his strangely handsome features.
“You chose well, Khaemil,” she said finally, stopping in front of him and exploring the depths of his pearly eyes. “Almost too well.”
“Thank-you, Lady Morgynn,” Khaemil said.
She leaned in close to him, brushing her cheek against his neck and listening to his heartbeat, calm and steady despite the situation. She reached up and touched his cheek, whispering arcane words in a deep voice, her breath warm against his throat.
Though the Hoarite could not resist her spell, something reacted to her magic, blurring her attempt to see his thoughts. Shadows cloaked her mind’s eye like dark clouds in front of a high sun—faint beams of light sought to blind her in a celestial radiance. Through the bright and the dark she could choose wandering thoughts, fleeting emotions in a sea of experience, but only those floating near the surface. The depths of the aasimar’s spirit shut out her dissecting sight, shifting and swimming in a pitch black fog that eluded her intrusive magic.
“Mysterious, aren’t we, pretty one?” she said, withdrawing her hand and dismissing the spell. “No matter. Your secrets are unimportant. Though I am intrigued by the paradigm.
“Shadows and light,” she said thoughtfully. “And only the barest hint of a man beneath them.”
“The Pale Sisters have retreated, Lady Morgynn,” Khaemil reported from the window, “but the storm is dissipating without the priests, far more quickly than it should. The tower could be in danger soon.”
Unnaturally loud thunder roared in the sky outside, punctuating his words as stones shook and dust fell from the ceiling. Multicolored lightning ripped through the clouds, casting an eerie glow across the shadurakul’s deep black skin. He tapped his claws anxiously on the stone window sill.
“Worry not, all will be well. Besides,” she replied sardonically, “we have a guest to entertain. A guest who’d have been wise to move on after slaying that oaf of an ogre for us, and even wiser to have ignored this prophecy business.”
She moved closer to Quin again, gazing at his eyes and face, sniffing slightly and noting the faint lines of old scars running across his neck and disappearing beneath his breastplate.
“I sense no hero in you, Hoarite. There is cruelty lurking behind those angelic eyes of yours, a coldness that belies any trace of charity or goodwill you might possess. Even the name your mind reveals is a lie, isn’t it? Quinsareth? A term in Old Mulhorandi, is it not? Meaning ‘falsehood,’ I believe.” She smiled, realizing some private humor, and added, “How quaint.”
She studied his reaction though his pale eyes revealed little.
“Was it the girl who brought you here, I wonder? Oh yes, I know of her, this Elisandrya. I have tasted her name on the lips of two men now who reached the end of their time in the last few days.” She thrilled to hear a slight change in Quin’s pulse, momentary but telling. She traced a fingernail across the ancient designs in his armor, following the symbols and letters of an alphabet she did not recognize as she continued. “A hunter for the oracles of Savras, a warrior for her people, brave and beautiful, brash and wild. What a monster she must think you, eh?”
Then she leaned close again, breathing heavily against his ear. “You might have been better counseled to have pursued a darker mistress.”
His eyes drifted to the floor and his sword, so close, lying against the deep pile of bones along the nearby wall. Skulls from Jhareat’s last days leered at him with empty sockets and grins that never waned. She stepped aside, allowing him to see the weapon he so desperately wished to wield.
“Or was it the prophecy that guided your steps, aasimar?”
His gaze went to her at the words. Turning, she looked over her shoulder at him, searching for some spark of emotion in his eyes. Pleased to have his full attention, she coyly brushed a strand of dark hair from her face and drew a long dagger from her belt. She licked her lips and wiped absently at imagined spots on the blade.
“I imagine the old witch of Brookhollow must have spun quite a tale. Even now they hide in their temple, trusting in her words while steeped in the stench of plague and fear.” She
raised an eyebrow and regarded him conspiratorially. “Want to hear a secret?”
Thunder again shook the walls, sending bones to clatter on the floor as the dusty piles shifted. Morgynn’s eyes sparkled in dancing shadows as the candles died one by one, deepening the darkness of the chamber.
Horses pranced in place and snorted impatiently as Eli rode past, churning through the muddy puddles along the sides of the cobbled streets. Riders watched with grim countenances, holding back their steeds and awaiting the next call of the watchman’s horn, the one that would send them to battle.
Elisandrya pulled hard on the reins, stopping at the wall and looking up to the nervous face of the young hornblower. Dismounting and ascending the ladder, she expected to see the worst beyond the wall. Though she tried to shove images of massive armies and mounted cavalry out of her mind, they marched in her thoughts anyway. The unlikelihood of such a force in the Reach was not enough to quell anxious fear, that passing terror that grips all warriors before combat and pushes them to exceed their own expectations.
Gripping the battlements, she peered into the dark, blinking past sheets of rain and racing lightning. What she saw in the distance was unlike anything she expected.
Bobbing slightly, teetering from left to right along what could have been an invisible horizon, were tiny lights, some closer and closing, others following behind. Some would blink out for a few moments and reappear, closer and more distinct as if jumping across miles in the space of a few heartbeats. Small flickers of green flame, swinging in time to a steady march, all converged toward the walls of Brookhollow.
“Should we sound the alarm, Lady Elisandrya? Prepare for battle?” The young watchman was shaking, though from fear or cold she could not tell.
“Not yet.” Something was familiar about those green flames, and her brief vision a few moments ago did not fully explain the faint memory those lights sparked within her. “Wait until we can assess what we’re actually seeing, then gauge the threat and decide.”
The watchman nodded though he clearly disagreed. He was not a hunter, as Eli could see from his armor and bearing, but one of the city watch, a volunteer from among Brookhollow’s citizens. She was glad to know that not everyone had abandoned the hunters for defying the oracles, and clapped the young man on the shoulder in reassurance, flashing him a calm smile and nodding.
The nearest flame winked out, then reappeared less than a hundred yards from the gates. Those on the wall could make out the robes and cloak of a figure walking against the wind and rain, holding a crooked staff from which hung a lantern, swinging in step and radiating a flickering emerald light. Eli immediately recognized the garb of the Ghedia, the light and dark brown robes of the druidic shamans that wandered the Reach.
Stepping within the light of the hooded lanterns of the watchmen, the figure pulled its hood back slightly, revealing a wrist that bore several bone and wood bracelets. Eli was pleased to see the stoic face of Lesani. She patted the watchman on the shoulder and ordered the signal for “all is well.” Two sharp notes issued from the horn, followed by a mumbling curiosity from the warriors below.
Eli called down to the gatekeepers. “Open the gates!”
“No need!” came Lesani’s quick reply, the accent of the Shaaran tongue thick in her speech. The Ghedia approached the gate and stroked the old wood, tracing the grain with a practiced hand and whispering a familiar spell. The gate rippled at her touch, the wood responding to the wild nature of her magic. Lesani turned and planted the crooked staff in the thick mud, leaving a green beacon for the others following in the darkness. Stepping over the iron braces across the lower portion of the gates, she melded through the awakened wood. The druid looked into the astonished eyes of the gate guards and smiled. “Save your arms for your weapons. No need to make a fuss over me.” She glanced up on the wall. “Elisandrya!”
Eli leaped down the ladder to embrace her old friend. “It is good to see you, Lesani,” she said over the surprised Ghedia’s shoulders. “It has been too long.”
“No such thing as too long or too short, child. We meet when and where we are supposed to.” She stood back and held Eli’s shoulders, then took a cursory look around. “Though I admit I’m glad we meet in this world rather than the next, considering the times.”
Elisandrya’s smile waned slightly. Lesani’s words weighed heavily on the hunter’s shoulders. They stepped away from the gates, arm in arm, pulling hoods and cloaks tighter against the rain to speak of recent events.
“When the blush first came in the north, I thought little of it. Plague comes and goes—it is the way of things.” Lesani’s voice took on the tone of long-past nights spent around the Ghedia campfires, telling tales of dangerous times. Eli shivered, remembering the dark morals of many of those stories. “But this time, the storms began, the cold winds. Early autumns have been known, even winters, but nature seemed too much at war with itself.
“My auguries showed dark magic at work, a prophecy of ending.” She looked at Eli from within her hood, rain dripping from its edges. “That seeing brought me here, Elisandrya, and as many of my order who would follow. What is happening here?”
Eli stared at Lesani’s wise face, hearing the words from someone she trusted. Ending. She looked around at warriors huddled against the rain, facing a storm that hid whatever evil crawled toward the walls. She stared at the locked doors and shadowed faces of those who refused to take part in their defense.
“A prophecy has been given to us,” she began, but she felt contradiction blurring the lines of what she’d seen and what she knew. She shook her head, trying to put the words together. “No, not a prophecy. Something else. Something wrong.”
Lightning raced above them. Lesani waited patiently, her eyes understanding. Eli felt comfort in those eyes, knowing that all she’d ever been was known to that wise countenance.
“Sameska lied to us. To me,” she said, borrowing the confidence she saw in Lesani. “She gave us a prophecy that told us to lie down, to do nothing and that all would be well. Before this vision, Targris was attacked and Logfell had already fallen.” Her eyes darkened, looked knowingly into Lesani’s as she repeated the word. “Before.”
“Ah,” Lesani nodded, realization hardening her features. “A vision out of joint, like your parents.”
Eli stared at those who stood with her, controlling the rage she felt at hearing another confirm her own knowledge. Lesani did not push the subject, for which Eli was grateful. They’d had that conversation many times in years past.
Both considered the import of the other’s tale while more of the Ghedia gathered around them, stepping through the gates and exchanging greetings with one another. More than twenty nomadic shamans arrived, with several more still making their way toward Brookhollow. They awaited the attention of their sister Lesani, who was the initiator of the green flame.
Lesani quietly apologized that so few of the Ghedia had gathered, remarking that many still held ancient grudges against the Savrathan bordertowns.
“I understand,” Eli replied. “We are glad to accept any assistance at all. We still haven’t heard anything from the oracles themselves.”
“In your youth, I remember, you wouldn’t have wished to hear another word from those oracles ever again,” Lesani said, pulling her hood back to meet Eli’s gaze despite the rain. “I imagine it is more your sister that concerns you.”
Elisandrya nodded. She hadn’t mentioned Dreslya, still hoping her sister would appear to stand with her.
“I’m worried about Dres, I admit.”
“Now that’s odd. As I recall, Dreslya was the worrier.” Lesani smiled. “Should I speak with this Sameska? Perhaps she can be persuaded to see things differently?”
Eli’s face darkened and she looked at the ground, avoiding the looming silhouette of the temple to her right.
“That would be wasted breath, I’m afraid,” she said coldly. “Sameska is lost to a madness of fear. Seeing a Ghedia in the temple might ser
ve only to strengthen that fear.”
“I see,” Lesani replied, then added, “I’m sorry Eli. I should have listened with better ears when you were younger. You were right, then and now. Take strength from that.”
Lesani turned to address her sisters. Elisandrya walked to the nearby street corner, staring toward the eastern gates though she could not see them, and felt ashamed for her people. She imagined how they must look in the eyes of the Ghedia, whose forebears had counseled long ago against the evils of abandoning the tribal lifestyle of the Shaar for this northern stretch of land.
As she stood in the pounding rain, staring sightlessly east, an odd noise filled the air. Quiet, almost whispering at first, it began to grow, droning deeply in her ears and filling her heart with a primal dread that chilled far more than any wind or rain. On the heels of the noise, three sharp horn blasts echoed through the storm once again, this time from the west, causing her stomach to lurch as the horn’s urgent call faded.
“Let him answer, Khaemil,” she said without looking at her servant. “I’m curious to hear his thoughts.”
Quin felt his jaw loosen as Khaemil whispered and altered the spell that held him, allowing him to speak. He saw the anxious look in Morgynn’s eyes, waiting for him to ask with baited breath for her secrets and intrigues. He didn’t much care, but her talkativeness kept her focused on him so he decided to play along.
“The plague, perhaps? Or the storm? Your secrets aren’t very well hidden.”
Morgynn smiled all the wider, enjoying herself. “I suppose I could have been more subtle concerning the blush and the storms, but I really saw no need in the end.” Her matter-of-fact tone was confident and proud as she continued. “I thought you might have guessed it all by now. You see, I am the prophecy.”
Quin narrowed his eyes at her words, curious at this strange news, but not truly surprised. The ramifications of her claim, however incredulous, reverberated in his mind.
