Benjamin Ford
The Master
of Prophecy
the sequel to
Master of the Scrolls
Copyright © Benjamin Ford 2014
First published 2006
Revised edition published 2014
All rights reserved
Cover illustration copyright by Louis Goss
Novels by Benjamin Ford
Master of the Scrolls
Portrait of Shade
The Master of Prophecy
The Five Tors
A uthor’s Note
This is the sequel to Master of the Scrolls, so if you have picked up this book because you liked the sound of it but have not yet read its predecessor, might I suggest you do so. I have tried to write this sequel so that you do not have to read Master of the Scrolls. However, in reintroducing characters and themes from the original novel, it has been necessary to include some of the plot twists and secrets which, reading The Master of Prophecy first, might spoil your enjoyment should you go on to read Master of the Scrolls afterwards.
The trilogy will conclude with The Master of Time.
P relude
He awakens in the darkness and nearly panics, not knowing where he is, and with barely any recollection of who he is.
But then he remembers: he is safe.
The innocence of the girl shall be the perfect protection against discovery until the time is right, and then, with all the playing pieces carefully positioned, he will strike back at those who wronged him.
But he will first have to learn the divine art of patience.
He possessed such virtue once, but not for countless centuries now.
If he might master the art again, then he would finally have his revenge against she who conspired to destroy him.
P rologue
All Souls Day
2001
Friday
November 2nd
Phil McFadyen lay on the bed in the darkened room, listening to the nocturnal noises from within Snowfield House. Even after nearly a decade and a half living in the otherwise charming cottage in Neville Hill he was not yet accustomed to the always ominous creaking and groaning sounds made by the dwelling as it settled into its own night-time slumber.
Last night he had drifted off to a reasonable state of semi-consciousness, but had been awakened in the early hours by the annoying screeching of a couple of fighting cats somewhere outside, and now he was awake there was little chance of getting back to sleep.
Stifling a yawn, he threw back the duvet and slipped from the bed, taking care not to awaken his wife as she slept peacefully beside him. He envied the way she so effortlessly fell asleep night after night.
In the darkness, he found his way to the door and opened it, wincing as it creaked on its ancient hinges. Thankfully, his wife’s slumber remained undisturbed, and he made his way down to the kitchen.
Soft moonlight filtered through the blinds at the window, and bathed in a pallid golden aurora, Phil switched on the kettle, settled onto a stool beside the breakfast bar and peered out into the November gloom. The constant rain of the past fortnight looked unlikely to abate any time soon, and the incessant thrumming of the deluge outside was beginning to eat away at his usual good cheer.
He could not understand why the rain, annoying though it was, should make him feel quite so irritable and depressed. He had after all been born and bred in the Highlands of Scotland, where such inhospitable weather was far from unusual. He should be used to it, and had indeed lived in such desolation until the death of its owner conspired to terminate his employment at Ravenscreag Hall.
Phil had not been the least bit surprised when Mary Turner’s sole heir had sold the rambling gothic mansion as quickly as she could. As a child, Rachel Schofield had hated the mausoleum-like house, and following the death of her mother and subsequent mysterious disappearance of her daughter, Gloria, fourteen years ago, Rachel had made the announcement of her intention to be rid of the loathsome place.
Over the years of his employment at Ravenscreag Hall as gardener and handyman, Phil had grown to love Mary Turner like a mother, and had no desire to remain as caretaker after her death. When Rachel sold the estate he gave the new owners two weeks’ notice and came down south of the border to stay with Louise Barncroft, an old friend of Gloria’s who had been through almost as much as he had.
How could he possibly forget the incidents of 1987? In the hours immediately following Mary Turner’s death, the spirit of an ancient Seer known as Thaumaturgia Anathemas had seemingly possessed Louise.
Phil might not have believed what had happened, even as he bore witness to the bizarre events, but as a child, the spirit of a man called Peter Neville had possessed him, and though Phil’s childhood recollections were vague they had been reawakened when he encountered Gloria Schofield for the first time. Gloria, it seemed, was the catalyst for the whole chain of events that unfolded. For a short time the spirit of Peter Neville’s murdered cousin, Isabella, had possessed her and their purpose was revealed: they were summoned into the present day to protect Gloria from the machinations of an evil warlock, who over the centuries was variously named Sawyl Gwilym, Vilam and latterly Samuel Wylams, and who had been reincarnated.
Gloria’s personal destiny had been fulfilled shortly after the defeat of the Warlock, when she had disappeared outside the church in Ravenscreag on the day of her wedding. She had apparently jilted her fiancé, Allan Barncroft – himself once possessed as a child – and disappeared to live the remainder of her life with another man identified by Louise as James Trevayne – the man whose spirit had possessed Allan.
Louise had originally despised Phil because she believed Gloria was having an affair with him behind Allan’s back, but she changed her opinion of him upon discovering that it was actually Peter and Isabella, rekindling their own doomed romance from beyond the grave through surrogate bodies. When Allan died from a broken heart a year after Gloria’s disappearance, Phil had been there to comfort her; the friendship blossomed into romance, and the pair were married shortly after.
The fact that Louise already had a daughter by a married man simply did not matter to Phil: he had been by Louise’s side when the angry wife confronted her, as he had been by her side at Glory’s birth. He had always been the father Glory might otherwise have never had, and after his marriage to Louise, Phil legally adopted the girl. She felt so much like his natural daughter that most of the time he actually forgot she was not.
When finally fathering a child of their own, some men might have lost interest in a child sired by another. Not so Phil: when Louise gave birth to the twins, Byron and Bryony, he loved all three children equally, and knew that would never change.
He made his cup of tea, and as he sat reminiscing about all the wonderful and equally strange events that had befallen him during his lifetime, Phil’s attention further wandered and instead of peering into the gloomy garden through the window, he focussed on his reflection.
He smiled at himself. He knew how lucky he was to have met and married Louise. They shared secrets they might not have chosen to reveal to anyone else, because nobody else would have believed either of them.
Louise and Phil came to believe that in death Allan and Gloria were reunited, and in some small way it gave them comfort to think that each could attain the happiness life had conspired to rob them of.
At times like this, when his mind was blank and calm, despite his sense of peace Phil felt bereft. His task done, Peter Neville was gone – and Phil felt as though a great chunk was missing from his soul. He had once told Louis
e this, and she in turn confided that at times she felt the same way following the sudden appearance and almost immediate departure of Thaumaturgia’s spirit. She had scant recollection of her brief possession, but still felt a sudden great emptiness. They both confessed they had no desire to have the invasive spirits inhabit their bodies again, but although Phil knew Louise was sincere in that declaration, he himself was not.
Though recollection remained vague concerning his possession by Peter’s spirit, enough fragmented images remained in his memory to rekindle an obscure desire to be as one with Peter once more.
As he stared at his reflection in the window, Phil’s vision blurred and the image seemed to shift focus. For a moment, it was not his face staring back.
He shook his head fearfully.
No. It was not possible.
The image vanished, and he relaxed a little.
Exhaustion was making him see things that were not there. Stifling a yawn, he drained his cup and slowly made his way back up to the bedroom. A good night’s sleep was what he needed, and he hoped he was now tired enough to be able to ignore the nocturnal sounds of the house.
Louise was still snoring gently as he re-entered the bedroom, and as he slipped once more beneath the bedclothes she snuggled against him. He hugged her comfortingly and closed his eyes, and within seconds was sound asleep, a curious smile on his lips.
*
Matthew Silverthorne parked his red Ford Fiesta on the grass verge opposite the gates that led into the grounds of the house, and reached into the briefcase that was perched on the passenger seat, withdrawing the details of the property he had come to view. Casting a cursory glance at the paperwork in his hand, he then looked up through the rain at the eight-foot high stone walls, overgrown to the point of collapse with vast tendrils of ivy and Virginia creeper, whose leaves had turned red with the onset of autumn and now littered the ground. He smiled, relieved to find himself in the right place.
Four Oaks had not been the easiest place to find. The country lanes around this area of Sussex were notoriously narrow, winding incessantly around the hills, criss-crossing the valleys, and passing through numerous villages until he was hopelessly lost.
For nearly an hour, Matthew had driven endlessly around in circles until he found himself in the village of Neville Hill for the third time. Tired and growing more irritable by the minute, he swallowed his pride and stopped to ask for directions to get to the village of Elendale.
The sad looking man he had spoken to was patient and helpful, pointing out on the map exactly where he was while giving him implicit instructions on which turning to take on leaving the village. Ten minutes later Matthew found himself on the other side of Wicca Hill in Elendale, whereupon, having decided the inhabitants hereabouts to be a friendly bunch, he had stopped once more to ask for directions to get to the house itself.
The old woman he had spoken to on the kerb outside Elendale’s public house, The Green Woman Inn, gave him a rather odd look when asked if she knew how to get to Four Oaks. It was almost as if she had been expecting him to ask that exact question, just not at this particular time. She had though given him the pertinent information, and now, five minutes later, here he was.
Matthew flicked idly through the half dozen sheets of paper, glancing with renewed interest at the photographs of the house now he had finally reached his destination.
The original advertisement in the property section of his local paper in Portsmouth had instantly caught his eye, not least because it was rather odd to find a property so near to London advertised so far away. Curiously drawn to the house, it had almost been as though it called out to him from the smudged black and white photograph. Though not especially beautiful, it was nonetheless a striking house, and possessed an aura that Matthew found impossible to quantify with a description. All he knew, when he flicked open the property guide four days ago and saw the advert, was that he had to visit the house. He had telephoned the Crowborough number, spoken to a man named Max Revenant, and arranged a viewing for today.
Fastening the briefcase and shoving it unceremoniously beneath the passenger seat, Matthew switched off the engine, opened the door and put up his umbrella before stepping out into the rain. Visiting an empty gothic mansion on a cold, wet autumn day would not sit well with his weak chest.
Locking the door, Matthew pocketed the keys and stood beside his car, peering up through the tall wrought iron gates to where he could just make out parts of the house, nestling amongst a copse of trees at the far end of the twisting inclined driveway. Most of the trees were relatively short compared with the two immense old oaks that seemed to stand guard imperiously at the entrance just beyond the gates. From across the road, Matthew could see the gnarled bark of the trunks that were wider than his car and so tall, that even craning his neck backwards he found it difficult to see the tops of the trees. Their branches spread out over the top of the stone wall, dripping large droplets of water to join the incessant rain, blotting out much of the murky grey sky, and he wondered exactly how old the massive oaks were.
He crossed the road, narrowly avoiding a collision with a middle-aged man on a pushbike, who berated him vociferously for failing to observe any oncoming traffic before attempting to cross the road. Matthew chose to ignore him after muttering an insincere apology, deciding it would not do to get further embroiled in an argument with someone who was clearly belligerent and spoiling for a fight. Still cursing about crass stupidity and the rudeness of the youth of today, the middle aged man peddled away furiously, leaving Matthew alone with his thoughts once more.
He rattled the gates, half expecting them to open up invitingly before him, and was a little upset when the heavy chain and padlock remained obstinately secure.
‘Hello,’ called a sibilant male voice from behind, startling him out of his reverie. ‘Are you Matthew Silverthorne?’
Matthew turned to see a slightly overweight, black-haired young man, plodding along the road towards him. He peered past the approaching man, whom he guessed was about thirty, looking for some kind of transport, but there was no car, no bike, nothing. The man seemed to have appeared from nowhere, which Matthew found a little disconcerting, but he put the thought from his mind as the stranger held out a slightly podgy hand.
‘I’m Max Revenant,’ he continued with a smile, ‘from Ashdene Estate Agency. You are Matthew Silverthorne, I take it?’
Matthew nodded, returning the man’s smile.
Dressed impeccably in a black pin-stripe suit, pale lilac shirt and a violently purple tie that whilst hideous seemed to suit him, Max Revenant did not seem unduly bothered by the rain, and when Matthew grasped his hand, he was slightly surprised that Max did not actually appear to be even remotely damp. He reasoned that the estate agent had probably been sheltering beneath some of the plentiful trees. ‘I most certainly am Matthew Silverthorne,’ he said, rather taken with Max’s cheery disposition.
‘I tried to telephone you this morning, Mr Silverthorne,’ Max added, rescuing his hand from Matthew’s lingering grasp. ‘I’m afraid you may have had a wasted journey. Four Oaks has received an offer well in excess of the asking price, which the vendor is on the verge of accepting.’
Matthew’s face fell in an instant. ‘Oh!’ he gasped. His disappointment at this news was all too apparent.
Max continued to smile. ‘All is not lost, however. The vendor has instructed me to show you the house anyway, and you are free to put in an offer. He is unwilling to haggle, and whoever makes the best offer gets the house.’
‘I see.’ Matthew pursed his lips. ‘I may have to pass on this property; you see, the asking price was really my upper limit that I can afford. Selling my house in Portsmouth won’t be a problem, because the property market there is hot at the moment, but I won’t make enough on that sale to match what the other purchaser has offered.’ He turned away from the wrought iron gates with a despondent sigh. It was a terrible shame. Somehow, he felt he had been destined to purchase the house
; clearly, he was mistaken in that belief. ‘I’m sorry to have dragged you out here for no reason, Mr Revenant.’
Max’s smile faltered slightly. ‘It seems a shame for you to have travelled all this way and then not see the house up close,’ he said loudly as Matthew began crossing the lane to return to his parked car. ‘Why don’t I show you the house anyway?’
Matthew turned as he reached his Ford Fiesta. Max’s offer was incredibly tempting. The house still called out to him. It was tantalizingly close, but he figured he was more clued up on how the avaricious young estate agent’s mind was working than even Max himself was, and so he reluctantly shook his head as he unlocked and opened the driver’s side door. ‘I don’t think that’s necessary, but thanks anyway. I’m afraid Four Oaks is just not meant to be my home.’
‘But-’
Matthew slammed shut his car door, blocking out Max’s desperate plea. He did not need to hear what the other man was saying, for he could guess the gist of it. Estate agents on the verge of losing a sale were all the same.
In fact, car salesmen were cast from the same mould – that was how three months ago he had come to spend a couple of thousand pounds more on his new car than he had intended. The car salesman had used his glib tongue and – all credit to him – his best sales pitch to lure Matthew into purchasing the Fiesta, which he had to admit he now loved.
He was not about to make the same mistake with Four Oaks, however. There was simply no way he could afford to make the repayments on a mortgage as large as the one he would need in order to match any offer the other purchaser had made. It did occur to Matthew that Max might have invented the other purchaser in order to bump up the price, which would explain his desperation. As such, he half expected to find Max banging on the window, and he was a little disappointed to see the estate agent walking away.
The Master of Prophecy (The Sawyl Gwilym Chronicles Book 2) Page 1
