Shadows of Prophecy

by Rachel Lee

  “I know.”

  Tess continued to study them. “I wonder if I should put them elsewhere, away from the stones that are still bright.”

  “I don’t know. But…it wasn’t so long ago that most of them glowed brightly, was it?”

  “No.” The word conveyed all the worry she was feeling. “He makes progress in his plans.”

  The wind howled with sudden outrage, as if in answer.

  “If,” Tom said slowly, “evil can rage, then cannot good stop it?”

  “How?” Tess asked, slipping the colored stones back into the pouch and tucking it once again within her tunic. “For the most part, the times Sara and I used our powers were…accidental.”

  “Except for the cleansing of Lantav Glassidor,” Sara said with a shudder, remembering the way the man’s flesh had burned as her blood had fallen on it. “But that time it was as if I was guided from without.”

  Tess nodded. “I felt the same. Something came over me.”

  “The same happened at the Eshkar, the broken statues of the gods. I have only a vague memory of what I did.”

  Tom spoke. “You appeared to be filled with lightning, Sara. Blue lightning. Your hair even stood away from your body. And when you said ‘Be gone from this place,’ the attackers actually vanished.” He shook his head. “I have seen wonders I thought could never be. And yet they have happened. The rules we have always abided by have changed somehow. The limits of our world have shifted.”

  Tess closed her eyes, fruit forgotten in her lap. With conscious effort, she sought out the oily dark presence at the back of her mind and pushed it back even further, squeezing it down in size and shape. She gasped as a pain seemed to lance through her head but never ceased her effort. The darkling presence continued to shrink, even as she began to perspire heavily from the effort.

  Heat seemed to fill her body, all of it directed against that cold spot of darkness, as if it would burn it away. Even her brain seemed to grow hot, and distantly she was aware that she was gasping.

  But the darkness continued to shrink, growing smaller and smaller until, with a small sound, it vanished.

  “Tess? Tess, what’s wrong?”

  She opened her eyes and found both Tom and Sara bent over her. The world seemed to swim a bit, and she realized all of a sudden that her hands were aching from her death grip on the arms of chair. Finger by finger, she forced herself to let go.

  “Tess?” Sara’s face was close, twisted with fear and concern. “Tess, are you all right?”

  “Aye….” It was little more than a sigh. “I got rid of him.”

  “Who? Who did you get rid of?”

  “The presence.”

  Sara gasped and dropped to her knees beside Tess’s chair. “How did you do it?”

  “I shrank him until he was gone.”

  “But how did you know how to do that?”

  Tess shook her head. “I don’t know. I wish I did.” Her thoughts turned toward what had happened in the temple and her encounter with Elanor. Perhaps the goddess had imparted some knowledge to her.

  Looking down at her hands, she saw that not only were they healed, but the scars were gone, as well. She turned them slowly, looking at them from every angle.

  Deep within, she knew with utter certainty that some kind of knowledge had been passed to her in the temple. But what? And how was she to use it?

  Her tutelage was far from over.

  Just then, as if coming from a long distance, crystalline music began to approach, nearer and nearer, until it filled the air and drowned out even the bitter wind. Sara ran to the door and opened it, heedless of the cold.

  She looked out, then turned to Tess and Tom. “Come,” she said, an awed smile on her face. “Come. Anahar sings.”

  And sing she did. The top-most melody only barely dipped within the range of Tom’s hearing, yet as he turned his head, he could see the Anari in the streets swaying to the city’s song. Beneath that melody, a trio of perfect voices weaved and danced with each other. More voices joined, some rumbling so deeply that Tom could only feel them in his bones, others sighing and sparkling throughout the middle, until it seemed the air was alive with song and light.

  And oh, the light! Tom watched as reds and violets, blues and greens, danced with yellows and other colors yet to be named, for he had no doubt that never had they been seen before this day. The sky was alive with pinpoints of light that grew into balls, then receded to make room for others, the whole a perfectly choreographed tapestry that filled his heart with joy.

  “Can you see it?” he yelled to Sara.

  “See what?” she yelled back, and only then did Tom realize how loud the sound around them had become.

  “The lights in the sky,” he replied, pointing. “Every color of the rainbow, and many that no rainbow has ever dared to dream, dancing in the sky.”

  “I’m sorry, my love,” Sara said, shaking her head as she looked up. “I do not see it.”

  “Nor I,” Tess said. She looked at her hands, watching her fingers flick in a pattern that matched the music, as if she were forming it herself. “But I feel it.”

  Cilla ran up to them, her arms wrapped around her chest as if she were hugging herself, her face almost split open by a transcendent smile.

  “I have heard it!” she exclaimed. “I have heard the song of Anahar!”

  Tom watched as Sara and Tess hugged her, then introduced her to him. Her eyes lit on the leather across his face for only a moment; then she opened her arms and hugged him, too.

  “You are the man who brings joy to the heart of my sister,” Cilla said. “For that, you are my brother.”

  “I am honored to meet you, as well,” Tom said, unsure of how else to respond. Glancing over Cilla’s shoulder at Sara, he awkwardly returned the hug. When Sara merely smiled, he gave way to the joy of the moment and hugged Cilla tightly. “And if you are Lady Sara’s sister, then you are my sister, as well.”

  “You must come with me,” Cilla said, stepping away. “There is so much more to hear. For when Anahar sings, every Tel plays its own song. I want to hear them all! Come! Hurry!”

  She skipped away, leaving them in her wake, but they quickly caught up. As they entered the neighborhood of Sharwahi-Tel, the song indeed changed. The colors in the sky were more muted, and rusty tans and greens seemed to dominate the spectrum. This was no song of celebration, but instead a song of strength and power, of struggle and conflict, and the promise of ultimate victory.

  “Sharwahi-Tel is the closest to Bozandar,” Cilla said, her smile dimming. “Long have they suffered under the boot of the slavers, and long have they struggled. Anahar sings for them of more fighting. And yet…”

  “Yes,” Tom said. “And yet she promises them freedom if they persevere.”

  “Exactly,” Cilla replied, her smile returning. “I had heard that Anahar sang differently to each Tel, but I did not know that each received a message and a promise. Now I must hear them all!”

  Tel by Tel, they made their way through the city. In some, the songs seemed almost as a loving mother’s tender scold, urging them to join with their kinsmen. In others, the city sang of their proud history and their duty to preserve those rich traditions. Finally, for she had saved her own Tel for last, they approached the Monabi dwellings.

  They sensed it at the same moment, their smiles dropping as one, their bodies halting almost as if they had blindly walked into a wall.

  For Monabi-Tel, Anahar wept.

  The song was that of an old woman whose husband lies gravely ill, or a man burying his brother. As Tom looked up, he saw the barren colors of the desert, burned out by the harsh sun, fading toward a twilight almost devoid of hope for the morrow. Only one crystalline voice, one pinpoint of light, spoke of joy, and even that was a joy dimmed by sorrow.

  But not sorrow. For as Tom focused on that single voice and the harmonies that surrounded it, he saw at the fringes not sorrow, but anger. A deep anger that stretched to the soul’s very
quick, seething within and against itself.

  He felt Sara move beside him and turned to see her take Cilla in her arms, watched as the heavy tears rolled down the Anari woman’s face.

  “I have finally heard Anahar sing,” Cilla said softly. “And for my kinsmen, she sings of grief.”

  “Aye,” Tom said. “Grief and betrayal.”

  “Yes,” Tess said, as if his words had crystallized her own thoughts. “Betrayal.”

  “What have I done?” Cilla cried out, as if hoping the song would answer her. “Has Monabi-Tel not served the hope and joy of the Anari with its every breath? Have we not sojourned among the stones, answering their call whene’er we felt it? Why do you judge us, oh Anahar? Why?”

  “Two wolves stalk the one,” Tom said, the words forming in the deepest echoes of his heart. “For the one wolf stalks them all.”

  * * * *

  Archer watched as the Anari rose to the music that seemed to roll out of the city like waves on the sea from a distant storm. Some were exultant, while others seemed to straighten their backs with a newfound pride. Only Ratha and Giri seemed immune to the spirit stirring among their kinsmen.

  “Anahar sings,” Archer said to them. “I have not heard her song in age beyond age. She calls your brothers and sisters to your side.”

  “That she does,” Giri said, his face impassive as the stone upon which he sat. “She calls them to die.”

  “Come, now,” Archer said. “Despair does not an army make nor a battle win. Even the bitter cold has been washed away by her song. Unless I be deaf to the portents of this world, the song of Anahar brings hope where we had naught but a wish when the sun rose this morning.”

  “Hope?” Giri said, turning to Archer with anger in his eyes. “Will hope train the thousands who will soon arrive? Will hope arm them? Will hope feed them on the march? I pray thee, my Lord, speak not of hope where Anari sweat and blood must soon flow in rivers. This is not a time for hope. This is a time to kill.”

  Giri rose and stalked away, his fists clenched. Archer turned to Ratha, concern creasing his brow. “Your brother has never spoken thus, my friend. There is an ice in his eyes that concerns me.”

  “Yes,” Ratha said. “There is. And if you see not that same ice in my own eyes, then you know nothing of us. You have taught us to fight, my Lord. You have taught us to be brave and cold and hard. Our lives you have saved, but our souls you could not. For what we have become, what we must make of our people in this time, is alien to the Anari. Surely you should know this. You made us thus.”

  Archer studied Ratha’s face, words warring within him as he sought a response. Yes, the Anari had been created a race of peace. And yes, he had played a role in that. He and the Ilduin had overstepped themselves, taking for their own conceit a power reserved to the gods. Yet what they had created was a beauty, and a blessing to this world.

  “You speak the truth, my friend,” Archer said. “I was there in the time of creating your people. The Ilduin and I wished to grace this world with a gift beyond measure, a people of such beauty and purity that all could aspire to their model. Our sin was pride, Ratha, and greatly have we paid for that. But that beauty—your beauty—endures.”

  “That beauty has made us sheep among lions,” Ratha said. “Because we lacked the will to shed blood, our daughters have been made into whores and our sons into beasts of burden. Oh, great beauty have you created, my Lord. A beauty so great that we are bought and sold as trinkets and cattle.”

  “How long have you hated me thus?” Archer asked, the anger rising in his belly like a white flame.

  “I do not hate you,” Ratha said. His eyes fell, and his shoulders slumped. “I do not hate you. I am sorry, Lord Archer. My heart is heavy, and war reigns within me. I ought not to make war on the one who has given my brother and me our freedom. I spoke in anger, my Lord. Please forgive me.”

  Archer looked at him and saw the rippling knots in his shoulders. Ratha and his brother had not started this war for freedom, but their training and experience had set them apart in this time of preparation. Chosen among their people, they bore the yoke of leadership, and it hung heavy and awkward upon them. It was, he realized, a yoke for which he had not prepared them.

  “There is nothing to forgive,” Archer said, extending his hand. “Save this. It grieves me that you call me your Lord and not your friend.”

  Ratha managed a grim smile as he took Archer’s hand. “I would that I could call you a friend, and I am honored that you see me thus. But right now, Lord Archer, I have no friends. For I can be no friend when too many for whom my heart would rejoice are soon to fall. A foot soldier can ill afford friends and a commander even less. The business upon us is a hard one, and Giri and I must harden ourselves to it. We owe our people no less.”

  “Then I pray that your heart will soften,” Archer said, shaking his head. “For there is no comfort in iron, and a cold heart cannot find joy.”

  Ratha released his hand and turned to follow his brother. But for a moment, he looked back at Archer.

  “If a cold heart cannot find joy,” he said, “at least it cannot grieve.”

  Archer watched Ratha hurry after Giri. A sadness beyond words settled upon his heart. And, for the first time in a river of years, he felt tears sting his eyes. His friend had spoken bitter truth. He and the Ilduin had not created beauty but sheep for the slaughter. And in order to become more than that, they had to give up the very essence of what they had been.

  How foolish, that he had thought himself ready to take the mantle of the gods and shape a race of men. So much of this war was due to his own failures. So much blood on his hands.

  Perhaps Ratha was right. Perhaps a cold heart was better. For his own heart felt only grief and shame.

  18

  The song of Anahar pealed throughout the day and into the night. All activity stopped as the Anari listened to the call, for call it was. The clan mothers had decided, and Anahar had approved. During the next days, the ranks of the Anari army swelled as men and women answered the summons, some even having escaped from slavery.

  The song had driven back the bitter winter from the valley, so that those who could not find shelter within the city, for the numbers were so great, made camp around the edges of the town. At night the valley twinkled with countless fires and was filled with the songs of those who had come to fight.

  Not since the days when the temple had been built had so many gathered here in common purpose.

  Among them was Nagari, brother of Cilla. He had no more been able to resist the call than any of his brothers, but his purpose in answering it was different.

  He crept among the camps, listening to the talk of war, and began to anticipate the coins he would receive from Bozandar for this information.

  Finally, finding a fire far from anyone who knew him, he settled down to share a little ale with a group of men who were laughing with excitement, apparently having no notion of the horror that lay ahead.

  Nagari knew. He had seen what the Bonzandar army could do. He had seen villages laid to waste and the hacked bodies of those who had sought to resist. More, he had lately glimpsed something dark and ugly that lay behind the armies of Bozandar. Something that made them stronger and more fearsome—and utterly merciless.

  He had no desire to cast himself on a Bozandari sword any more than he would offer himself into slavery.

  He had found a way to survive the conquest of his people, and though Anahar, most sacred of cities, might call him to join his kindred, he knew there was no future in that direction.

  Shivering against an odd chill, he scooted close to the fire and tried to remain deaf to the men around him, who would soon be wanting to know his clan and why he was not with them.

  But even this was only a temporary escape. Sooner or later he would have to visit Monabi-Tel and see his sister. If he failed to do so and someone had recognized him as he wandered this encampment, questions would be raised.

  But for now he
quaffed another mug of ale to quiet his tumbling, unhappy thoughts. To force himself to remember that he would gain by what he had learned tonight. To remind himself that Cilla was safe, although she did not know it, only because of him.

  For Cilla was a beautiful woman, and the slave traders would have seized her long since except for the invisible protection of Bozandar that Nagari had won for her.

  He was, he told himself as the ale calmed his anxiety, a good man who had done only what was necessary to protect his sister and himself and their parents. He had sacrificed much and would never be recognized for the good man he was.

  Sighing, he drained his mug and tossed a few silver coins to the men who had shared their fire and ale with him.

  “I must go to my Tel now,” he said. “Many thanks.”

  They bade him good-night with the smiles of those who thought war was going to be both exciting and good. Nagari knew otherwise but could see no point in arguing. After all, Anahar had summoned them.

  Anahar. As he approached the city proper, he felt a shiver of awe. The Bozandari had more than once attempted to eradicate this city. Each time the populace melted away and the old city remained indestructible. Newer buildings could be felled, but not the heart of Anahar.

  The Anari claimed that the art of building the city had been lost and hence they could build nothing so indestructible for Bozandar, though they still worked great beauties in stone for their new masters.

  But Anahar, O Anahar…There was naught like the heart of Anahar in the entire world.

  Nagari suspected the secrets of its building were not as lost as the master stoneworkers claimed, but of this he said nothing to his masters. The secrets that had gone into the building of the heart of Anahar were also the heart of the Anari, and this Nagari would never betray.

  He was just approaching Monabi-Tel’s quarters in the city when he heard his name called.

  “Nagari Monabi.”

  Something prickled along his spine and made him quicken his step as if he had not heard.

  “Nagari Monabi!”