The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy

by R. T. Kaelin

  Nundle was terrified of exactly that. The Gods and Goddesses had ignored Broedi in the past.

  “True,” rumbled the hillman. “But it is a chance we must take.”

  Keeping his eyes fixed on the star-littered sky, Tobias muttered, “You were right earlier, you know.” A slight smile crossed his lips.

  “Was I?” mused Broedi, a coy glint to his eyes.

  Tobias’ grin widened a bit.

  “It gets old, you know? You always being right.”

  “I am not always right,” rumbled Broedi. “You forget the tijuli negotiations near Torarik.”

  Tobias dipped his chin to his chest, chuckled gently, and said “Ah, yes. You were very wrong then. I forgot.”

  Nundle was lost again.

  Tobias tapped the side of his pipe against his hand, releasing the cold, spent smoking-leaf ashes from his pipe-bowl. The black residue dispersed and drifted down, reflecting bits of moonlight as they fell. Looking up, he asked, “Now, then, I suppose?”

  With a respectful nod, Broedi said, “Please. If you do not mind. No point in wasting more time.” The hillman placed his own cold pipe in his satchel, stood from the boulder, and lifted his pack over his shoulder. “Let me help you up.”

  “Thank you,” said Tobias as Broedi outstretched his hand.

  Nundle glanced between the two White Lions a few times, blinking and wondering if he had blacked out for a minute and missed something important.

  “Are we leaving? Now?”

  Traveling the night would be dangerous. The road was uneven and the shadows cast by the moon would make their journey treacherous.

  Broedi did not answer him and instead moved off to where Nundle’s horse had wandered off the path, following the trail of grass into the trunks of the forest.

  Suddenly, Nundle felt the crinkling and crackling of the Strands. Staring into the air above the road, he saw white and black Strands pop into existence. In a few moments, the telltale pattern for a port had begun to form.

  Panicking, Nundle shouted, “Broedi!” and reached out to pluck at a number of the Strands in the Weave. After ripping only a few Strands free, the entire pattern fell away. Tobias had not even fought him.

  In a voice brimming with amusement, Tobias said, “That’s rather impressive, Nundle.” Looking over to Broedi, he called, “He’s a true natural.”

  “He is even more talented with Will,” replied the hillman. He had retrieved Nundle’s horse already and was marching back with the chestnut in tow. He did not sound concerned in the least.

  Flustered, Nundle said, “Broedi! He tried to port!”

  “I know,” said the hillman. “This time, let him.”

  Nundle was not sure he had heard correctly.

  “Pardon?!”

  Broedi stopped a few paces away and said, “Tobias is taking us to the Seat of Nelnora. Tonight.”

  Everything suddenly fell into place.

  As Tobias had already been to the Seat of Nelnora when he was first granted his abilities by the Assembly two centuries prior, there was no need to travel overland anymore.

  “Oh,” muttered Nundle. “I had not thought of that.” A cautionary thought suddenly crossed Nundle’s mind. Eyeing Tobias, he asked, “Are you going to trick us and run away?”

  Tobias shook his head and said, “If there’s a chance I can stand before Nelnora again, I will happily take it.” His eyes grew hard. “You have your questions to ask her, I have one—only one—of my own. Now if you don’t mind.” He stared up into the air.

  Again, Nundle felt the crackling of the Strands and watched the glowing white of Air mix with the black of Void. The sound of fabric ripping filled the night and a seven-foot-tall slit appeared in the middle of the path, the world fluttering like two tent flaps on either side.

  Tobias had taken two steps towards the port when Nundle said, “I think I should go first.”

  Broedi looked at him and, sounding mildly surprised, asked, “Why is that?”

  Eyeing the tear in the world, Nundle said, “If Tobias is not being honest with us, and he goes first, he might immediately close the port and then we’ve lost him. Broedi, if you go first, Tobias might close the port and then I’m left here with no idea where you are. But if I go first, and Tobias is trying to trick us, I can at least port myself back here.” He glanced at Tobias and added, “Pardon me for not trusting you, but…well, I don’t yet.”

  Broedi and Tobias exchanged a long look before the tomble White Lion shrugged.

  “He has a point, you know. Very well thought out.”

  “True,” agreed Broedi. Turning to Nundle, he nodded. “You first, then, Nundle. Then Tobias. I will follow with your horse.”

  With a short nod, Nundle said, “Good, then.” Spinning in place, he took a single step toward the port when it struck him where he was about to go. Stopping, he looked at Tobias and asked, “Where exactly does this lead?”

  Tobias said, “The plaza before Nelnora’s temple. A simple place, truly. A few plain buildings, nothing like you might expect from a city of a Goddess.”

  Broedi swiveled his head and peered at Tobias, his face expressionless.

  Nodding, Nundle said, “Good enough.”

  He turned and took a number of confident steps toward the port. Upon reaching the tear, he reached out, grasped the right half of the port’s flap, and drew it aside to stare at the nothingness inside. The expected cold, tingling sensation ran up his arm. Taking a deep breath, he put his foot through, felt his boot settle on a hard, flat surface, and stepped through.

  It was dusk again, the sky still red from a sun not yet set.

  As he looked around him to get his bearings, his mouth fell open.

  Grand, majestic buildings of white, polished marble towered over him. Steeples of sparkling crystalline glass rose from the edifices, stretching impossibly high into the sky and reminding Nundle of the great spires in the City of the Strands. Yet rather than the nine colors of the Strands, these twisting, giant helixes were as clear as pure ice, catching the last rays of the setting sun and scattering them about the sprawling plaza within which he stood. Little arcs of tiny rainbows danced everywhere.

  “Oh my…”

  The words came out as a whispered breath.

  Nundle took a few hesitant steps forward, mesmerized by the glorious cityscape surrounding him. He spun in place, finding that he stood at the foot of a vast set of white steps leading up to the most extraordinary structure here. A massive dome of faceted crystal or cut glass rested atop white columns standing guard in an enormous circle. It was as if a giant diamond, sparkling pink and light orange in the sunset, sat perched atop an immense stand, on display for the world.

  Gawking, Nundle wondered if Tobias had sent him to the wrong place. There was nothing simple about this place.

  A voice behind him muttered in disappointment, “Oh, Hells.”

  Nundle jumped and whirled around to find Tobias standing next to the port and staring at him.

  The tomble said with a small grin, “I was truly hoping to catch your expression when I stepped through.” He eyed the colossal buildings, asking, “Impressive, isn’t it?” A certain sense of wonderment filled his voice, along with a quiet and surprising hint of bitterness.

  Peering back at the dome, Nundle replied, “Most impressive, sir.”

  With a touch of exasperation, Tobias said, “Nundle. Stop that. Just Tobias.”

  “Yes, si—I mean, yes, Tobias.” Shaking his head in awe, he added, “This place is amazing.”

  “I do not think it has changed since I first saw it,” muttered Tobias.

  Broedi’s deep voice echoed the thought.

  “It does look the same.”

  Nundle glanced back to find the hillman through the port, Nundle’s horse trailing him. The little chestnut looked quite out of place in the stark plaza, white buildings, and glass spires. The animal dropped his head to the white stone ground in search for grass and huffed disappointedly.

&nbs
p; The chestnut had brought him from Lakeborough, through the open grasslands of the Southlands and to Storm Island. Then from Huntersfield, across the Foothills Duchy, and to the tomble villages. Now, the horse stood at the foot of the stairs leading to the Prime Temple of the Goddess of Nelnora.

  “Traveler.”

  The word slipped from Nundle’s mouth.

  Broedi eyed him.

  “Pardon?”

  Nundle grinned and repeated, “Traveler.” He pointed to the chestnut. “That’s his name.”

  Broedi glanced at the horse and gave a short nod of approval.

  “A good name.”

  Tobias completely ignored the quick exchange, his gaze dancing along the edges of the plaza.

  “Something’s wrong here…”

  “Do you sense something I cannot?” asked Broedi, looking about the open area. “I see nothing.”

  “That’s the problem. Where are Nelnora’s servants? Where are the divina? Every other time I have been here, this plaza was full. Now it is as though—” He cut off, his gaze locking onto something behind Nundle. Broedi, too was staring.

  Twisting around, Nundle saw a tall, pale figure in a white tunic, maroon breeches, and a short, cylindrical black hat gliding down the steps. Without a doubt, it was a divina, one of the servant race created by the Gods and Goddesses after the Locking. While at the Strand Academies, Nundle had studied with a number of divina who had left the service of the Gods.

  The divina descending the stairs had white hair with a faint bluish tint flowing from under the black hat, high cheekbones framing his white, iris-less eyes, and a tiny, firm smile on his lips. Stopping three steps from the plaza, he said, “Welcome.” His voice echoed as if he spoke from a deep well.

  With evident surprise, Tobias said, “Tenerva?”

  “It is I,” replied the divina, bowing at the waist. He held the position for a moment, and then straightened. “Blessings, Tobias Donngord of Butterfield Crag.”

  Nundle’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. Butterfield Crag was not too far from Deepwell. He wondered how it was he had never heard of the Donngord family.

  Shifting slightly to face Broedi, Tenerva repeated the bow and said, “Blessings, Broedikurja Kynsipitka of Vuori Sumun.” Turning to face Nundle, he added, “And blessings Nundle Babblebrook of Deepwell.”

  Nundle gaped at the divina.

  “You know who I am?”

  Tenerva smiled.

  “Certainly. Her Eminence has been watching you for a long time, Nundle Babblebrook.”

  Nundle was speechless.

  Sweeping his arm around, gesturing toward the temple, the divina said, “Please follow me, her Eminence is waiting for you.” He began marching up the stairs.

  Broedi rumbled, “She is?”

  Tenerva stopped, turned around, and said, “She has been expecting you for some time now.”

  Tobias stepped forward and asked, “Has she now? And just—”

  “Please,” interjected Tenerva. “No questions here. We must get inside as quickly as possible.” He looked to Broedi. “But not the horse. Leave it and I will send someone to tend to its needs.” He resumed striding noiselessly up the stairs.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Tobias followed, an anxious expression etched on his face.

  Nundle glanced back to his horse as Broedi dropped the reins and asked, “Will he be okay?”

  Broedi eyed him and said, “We are standing in the Seat of Nelnora. I doubt Traveler will come to harm here.” Leaning down, he added softly, “Let us do the talking, little one. Unless she asks you a direct question, remain silent. Do you understand?”

  The thought that he was about to meet The Watcher of the World already made him uneasy. The suggestion that he might speak to her terrified him.

  “For once, you do not need to worry about me opening my mouth.”

  Broedi gave a short nod.

  “Good.”

  With that, Broedi began to stride after Tenerva and Tobias.

  Nundle hesitated and glanced back at his horse. Traveler stared back with his big, brown, orbed eyes. Flashing a nervous smile, Nundle said, “Wish me luck.”

  Shaking his head, Nundle turned and hurried up the stairs after Broedi, mumbling, “Gods, I’m talking to a horse.”

  Chapter 17: Fallen

  14th of the Turn of Luraana, 4999

  From afar, Gobas almost looked like the large, sturdy city it had once been, a citadel of dirty, tan stone rising from the flat, brown prairielands. Yet the blanket of haze that hung low in the sky, hovering over ruined walls and buildings, told a different story. In much of the Borderlands, when a person had passed to Maeana’s realm, a death shroud was draped over the body, a thin, gauzy cloth covering the person head to foot. To Tiliah, the layer of smoke over Gobas was the city’s death shroud.

  Sitting on the back of their shared horse, she peered over Rhohn’s shoulder at the ruined, still-smoking capital and wondered how there was anything left that could burn.

  The city was two miles away, yet the acrid stench of burning wood and smoldering tar was thick in the air. They had first noticed the foulness at midday and suffered as it grew steadily more potent as they neared the city. As close as they were now, the scent of roasting meat mingled with the smoke. Oligurts were in the city now and—if the tales were to be believed—roasting and eating anything that had once been alive. Anything.

  It was madness to be this close to Gobas, but Rhohn had insisted in seeing the capital before they continued east. Tiliah had argued at the absence of wisdom in his decision, but eventually dropped her protests. Rhohn had been determined to come.

  Whispering in his ear, Tiliah said gently, “I’m sorry, Mud Man.”

  Rhohn did not respond. And other than the muscles twitching beneath his scarred cheek and neck, he did not move.

  Tiliah leaned back and kept quiet. She did not know the man with whom she was traveling well, but she knew enough to understand that this was hard for him to see. He had spoken fondly of his time in Gobas.

  Scanning the plains around her, looking north, south, and west, she searched for any hint of movement. By the grace of Greya, they had yet to see a single Sudashian since their harrowing encounter with the razorfiend two days past. She prayed Ketus would continue to grace them with his luck.

  With her arms around Rhohn’s midsection, she shifted her weight, trying to move so that the mare’s sharp backbone was not digging into her rear. It was a futile attempt and she knew it. Short of finding a saddle or walking, the horse’s spine was destined to plague her.

  As she moved, her hand grazed the burlap sack resting in Rhohn’s lap. She immediately pulled it away and tried to suppress the involuntary shiver that ran through her. In the sack of the dried meat lay the nobleman’s pouch. Within the pouch rested the smooth, oblong, black stone. The mere thought of the obsidian jewel triggered a trembling chill deep within her soul for reasons unknown. She loathed the stone. She despised its very existence, even if she could not name why.

  In the days since her rescue, she had asked Rhohn numerous times to leave the stone behind, but he refused, insisting they could sell it once free of the war-torn Borderlands. His promise to split with her whatever coin they received for the gem tempered her desire to rip the pouch from him and toss it into the grass. If they could sell it, if she could make it back to Demetus, and if she were able to find her family, her share would help take them away from the misery of the refugee camps.

  She closed her eyes and frowned. Countless “ifs” stood between her and a sweet outcome.

  Mere days after Zecus had left Demetus all those turns past, Tiliah had followed, determined to track down Zecus and convince him to come back. The wellbeing of the Alsher family was infinitely more important than her brother’s lofty ideals of defending their homeland. It was foolish for him to think he could fight the Sudashians. Zecus was no soldier. Far from it.

  For weeks, she traveled alone, backtracking her family’s earlier
journey east, walking against the wave of people fleeing the invasion. It was a difficult and ultimately fruitless journey. She reached Gobas having never caught her brother on the road. She moved past the gates, into the city, hoping he had delayed a day or two within the capital, and aimlessly wandered the crowded streets.

  Hope fled quickly.

  Countless people packed Gobas, all huddling inside the walls for protection. She had a better chance finding a puddle of water in Summer. Dejected, she readied herself to continue west, back to their family home in Drysa.

  As she was leaving, a large group of battle-weary Dust Men rode into the city. As they trotted past, she thought she heard one of them mention Drysa. She turned and hurried after the men, following them to the Dust Men headquarters. She arrived well after the soldiers had passed through the barracks’ gate, leaving her on the outside, looking in. She begged the guard to let her in, but they refused. Frustrated, she stood in place, staring through the gates when three wounded men were carried out and through the streets on flat litters.

  Thinking she might get an answer from one of the hurt men, she followed the group to an open pavilion filled with countless injured soldiers and citizens alike. Stunned, she marched up and down the lines of the wounded in a daze. Women and men scurried about the rows of people, trying to aid as best they could, but there were simply too many that needed aid. Without thought, Tiliah volunteered to help, doing whatever was asked of her. Over the course of the next few weeks, she learned how to treat all sorts of grotesque injuries and maladies.

  When Lord Nizeman assumed control and ordered Gobas evacuated, Dust Men swept through the streets, forcing everyone capable of walking to leave the city. It had taken two soldiers to drag her from the pavilion as she kicked and screamed, leaving a good number of patients behind. Their faces haunted her dreams. She began to take a deep breath as a precursor to a sigh, but smelled the roasted meat odor again and nearly gagged.

  Biting down hard and swallowing the bile in her throat, she shoved the past away. Dwelling on the dead would not help her get back to her family.

  Rhohn abruptly broke their shared silence, speaking in a soft, stunned tone.