The Fall Of Celene (The Prophecies of Zanufey Book 2)

by A. Evermore

  Daranarta’s face was impassive, resolute, and she wondered if she was approaching this from the wrong angle.

  ‘You are young,’ Daranarta said, his voice commanding and imperious. ‘You talk of a foe you have met only in your dark dreams. You have not suffered as we have suffered and cannot even begin to comprehend the decisions we have taken and the terrible paths we have trodden to be where we are today.’

  ‘I may be young but I have seen much,’ the words fell from her mouth heavy like stones. The scorched earth of rich green fields where houses had once stood, the blackened remains of people she had once known… ‘I have seen death and have felt the cold hand of desolation, the utter blackness of the heart falling in the Shadowlands. But still I fight because I have to. Baelthrom will not stop until the One Source of All has fallen and all is ruled by Maphraxies.’ Her body trembled with the passion and fire she felt inside.

  ‘You cannot sit here hiding away in your safe haven, pretending this is not your war. He will find you; he will find a way into your world, just as he found his way into Maioria, just as he hunted me in the Shadowlands. Baelthrom is strong and he wields a powerful darker magic that comes from beyond Maioria. It will take all of us united to defeat his armies but still we have a chance,’ she stopped herself abruptly, she was going around in circles.

  ‘His power comes from the Dark Rift torn into our skies,’ Daranarta whispered, looking far away into the middle distance. He turned to regard her for a moment. That sad look in his eyes irritated her now. Would these people not fight for their freedom? She wondered in exasperation. Did they really think they were free?

  ‘Daughter of Zanufey,’ he spoke with a sense of finality, ‘our answer remains the same. The risk of losing ourselves, the elven people, just as our cousins the Ancients have done, is far too great. Our decision is final, we cannot aid you. Take your talk of wars and bloodshed and depart from our tranquil haven never to return, for ours is a life of peace. Whatever gift you have received here, I hope it serves you, but expect no more from us. I bid you safe journey back to Maioria for no further into our land may you step without harm coming to you.’ With that he turned away, that irksome sadness still in his eyes. The elves began to disperse at his gesture.

  ‘What about you other elves? I saw no discussion amongst you?’ she cried, glancing around at them as they gracefully stepped back into the trees. Some turned and looked at her but after a moment shook their heads and turned away. ‘Damn you, man! You cannot hide from the world forever! Don’t you see? Baelthrom will come for you.’

  She stood speechless, breathing heavily and her head pounding. Daranarta did not turn back and a swirling mist soon hid everything from view, even the grass beneath her feet. Anger and despair raged within her and she could not stop the hot tears that fell down her cheeks. She was supposed to be the Raven Queen, messenger of Zanufey, but she had failed at her task for the people would not listen, they had even turned her away.

  If they could not even unite as one how on Maioria could they ever expect to stand against Baelthrom? No wonder they had not been able to stand against his might in the past. Could they not see? Did they not care? The questions echoed around her head. She was trying to force a broken people to war, a people who had suffered much and lost all. She felt suddenly tired, terribly tired, and longed for her bed. The Land of Mists swiftly disappeared around her.

  Chapter 12

  The Immortals Are Coming

  A loud rapping at the door shot her upright wide-eyed in her chair. Cirosa winced in the process, her neck was so stiff it felt broken. The strange wrapped object from the harpy was still in her lap. She hadn’t dared to open it yet. She looked around at her office and tightened her silk robe.

  Damn it! She’d fallen asleep in the chair and now there were visitors. The light of the morning sun spilled through the small window to her left, illuminating the dust in the air. Now it is light perhaps I can catch up on sleep without nightmares, once whoever it is has gone. The distant raven nightmares seemed foolish now. The knock came again. She swiftly stuffed the strange object into a drawer in her desk and smoothed her hair back.

  ‘Yes?’ She said loudly, driving the sleep from her voice and sipping from a glass of water on her desk. Who the hell was it? She hadn’t arranged for any visitors this week. She remembered she’d locked the door from the inside. She dragged her aching back off the chair and went to unlock the door.

  A pale-faced sombre looking priestess peeked up at her. Tamany was her name. Her brown robes matched her eyes and marked her as an advanced novice. Tamany curtsied and spoke quickly when Cirosa frowned.

  ‘Master Freydel is here, High Priestess.’

  Cirosa sighed but kept her face straight. ‘Well, send him in then, I have at most half an hour.’

  Tamany inclined her head and swiftly shut the door. Cirosa went back to her desk and sat down on the chair, trying to make herself as presentable as possible in her night robe. Moments later there came a single wrap.

  ‘Come in,’ Cirosa smoothed her scowl as best she could.

  Freydel entered. There were dark circles under his eyes and his usually well-kept and neat beard was unkempt, as was his hair. He was dressed in his riding clothes; a white shirt and tan-coloured woven breaches, his woollen cloak draped over one arm, his thick wooden staff in the other.

  What does the old fool want now… Cirosa thought, saying nothing. She purposefully looked from the stack of papers on her desk awaiting her attention and then back to the worried face of Freydel.

  Freydel ignored her looks, sniffed the air with a wrinkled nose and looked about him with a faint frown. Her stomach fluttered, could he feel the strange object the Harpy had given her? He was a Master Wizard, some said he was the best in all Known Maioria, surely he could feel something. Her heart began to pound. So it was magical, whatever it was. Still, she had done nothing wrong, despite feeling guilty.

  ‘What is it, Freydel,’ she tried to sound exasperated as she sought to throw his mind off the strange power of the hidden object.

  Freydel shrugged and stepped towards her. ‘She has been gone the whole night and still no word. Not even scrying gets anywhere but an empty ocean,’ Freydel gripped and released his staff as he spoke.

  ‘I assume you mean Issa. So we can also assume she has failed?’ Cirosa barely managed to keep the excitement out of her voice.

  Freydel shot her look but she kept her gaze steady and her face blank. He looked away and tugged on his beard. ‘It is too soon, surely.’

  Cirosa sighed in exasperation, ‘Well how long do we give it? A week? A month? Maybe when Keteth comes here and tells us himself?’

  ‘You did not feel it then?’ Freydel raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Feel what?’ Cirosa snapped, hiding the horrible feeling that was rising in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘In the Flow, a surge of magic greater than any I have ever felt,’ Freydel’s voice fell soft and his amber eyes were wide with wonder.

  Cirosa bit her lip and tasted the sour taste of blood just as that same blood drained from her face. It does not mean anything yet!

  ‘Oh, that!’ she smirked. ‘There was a tremor, who didn’t feel it, huh?’

  But Freydel didn’t seem to be listening. ‘I should call together the Wizards’ Circle. It is dangerous and it has been a long time, but this is special, important. Maybe they will know more. Unfortunately at the time I was sleeping.’

  ‘Well is Keteth dead or not?’ Cirosa demanded, too tired for this nonsense and her patience was slipping. The Wizards’ Circle, a bunch of outdated old men waffling on about magic. She yawned at the thought.

  Freydel looked at her, ‘I don’t know, something has happened, something big, but what I do not know. It may be that someone has died, to release that amount of magic… But I cannot know who.’

  Cirosa could not keep the smile from curling the corners of her lips. Issa was no trained magic wielder, not enough to match Keteth in any case.

/>   Freydel smiled with her, ‘Let us hope Keteth is dead.’

  She smiled harder to hide the grimace.

  ‘Well, we must never be too hasty to jump to conclusions,’ Cirosa said. ‘It is highly unlikely that Issa is “the Chosen One” she wants us all to believe she is. In these dark days people are desperate for a saviour, a tipping of the balance of this war in our favour. You know what the commoners are like, they jump up and grab at anything vaguely fitting the prophecy.’ Freydel frowned and shifted uncomfortably but she ignored him. ‘Do not forget that there are many versions of “the prophecies”, as well you know.’

  ‘Oh?’ Freydel raised an eyebrow, ‘I do not recall that many versions.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cirosa said firmly as she racked her tired brain, ‘for example, despite what Mother Urula may have said, let us not forget the Dark Prince of Davono. Now what was it he said again… hmmm, something like, “beware the raven caller, for they have been sent to destroy us”.’

  Freydel’s brow furrowed deeply, ‘Yes, that is true, but the Dark Prince is named aptly; he was a black magic delver, a traitor to his own race, and everyone suspected him to be a necromancer actually in league with Baelthrom.’

  ‘It does not change or lessen what he said, and besides, any of the prophets could be proven to be mad, or traitorous for that matter!’ Cirosa replied.

  Freydel continued to frown but there was a hint of uncertainty in his tired eyes.

  ‘And what about Keteth himself?’ Cirosa grabbed a hold of Freydel’s uncertainty and pushed it further. All I have to do is sow the seeds of doubt. It is so easy to fool people, so easy to control them. All one has to do is push a little this way or that, make them think what you want them to think…

  ‘He was once a man,’ Cirosa continued, ‘and did he not write in his unfinished works, The Pathway of the Dead, “I have seen the death of death, the death of us all in the eyes of Zanufey’s chosen…” she kept her voice silken smooth and leant forward on her desk, her eyes wide and innocent as Freydel looked at her. He looked away, nodded and then wearily melted into the seat beside her desk. Cirosa scowled, she had not said he could sit, but again he did not notice.

  ‘Keteth the man was mad, we all know that. Keteth the beast is insane,’ Freydel said, rubbing his eyes with finger and thumb.

  ‘Well there are more examples that we have talked about before, though I would have to dig them out to again to remember.’ The stupid fool thinks he knows more about the prophecies than I do. ‘There are endless reams of boring prophecies and they often contradict one another. You do not get into my position within The Temple without ceaseless study of these things,’ Cirosa said confidently, reminding the wizard of her status. ‘I can show you if you like, I still have all my old books and notes. One thing they all prove is that nothing has been set and sealed in stone.’

  Freydel shifted and scowled irritably. ‘It is well known you do not believe in the prophecies, you have stated publicly yourself. Still, Issa was adamant she had dreams and visions wherein some god-like being spoke to her in the form of a woman robed and hooded in the stars. But, prophecies aside, what was this vision you had? You mentioned the goddess spoke to you too some time ago, about the testing of Zanufey’s chosen one?’

  Cirosa’s heart leapt. Here was an opportunity to fly. In all her years the goddess had never spoken to her, always her voice was silent, an absent deity in her cold and empty life. She had even admitted it to Freydel once in her darkest moments when she had first come to Celene. What a fool she had been! Never should she have let that truth be known.

  No, the goddess had never spoken to her, not even in a dream. But many claimed they had been spoken to and this wench claimed it too. It was a bitter pill to swallow. The goddess had given her beauty and ambition and endurance; it was more than most people had. But gratitude was not one of her traits, in fact she scorned it. Gratitude only kept you from striving, for reaching for more. For who wants more when they are content and grateful? And that is why she would survive where most people perished. She had cunning and foresight and, whatever the task ahead, no matter what the cost or how it was achieved, she always succeeded.

  ‘Yes she did,’ Cirosa smiled wide and indulged, ‘it was one of those heavy prophetic dreams, the first of many more to come no doubt. A tall figure with an air of mystery told me to send the young woman to Keteth to prove her strength. The woman-child I was then shown had long black hair, like Issa. I had not even met Issa yet.’

  It wasn’t a total lie, it was more an embellishment of the truth, an interpretation if you like, Cirosa reasoned. After all, were the priests and priestesses not taught in their very first lessons to search within to find the true meaning of their dreams and visions? She had had a strange dream wherein she saw a dark-haired girl fighting a white monster, but no voice had she heard, and no direction given.

  ‘And what did this goddess look like, her voice sound like?’ Freydel asked.

  She felt her face flush hot with anger. Did he not believe her?

  A young grey-robed priestess, the mark of the beginning novice and lowest rank, knocked and entered the room without waiting for an answer. It was Efren and she was busy looking down at the mop and bucket she carried. Terror swept across her red cheeks as her eyes settled on Cirosa.

  ‘I’m so sorry, High Priestess,’ she stammered, ‘I’m assigned to clean your office in the early hours. Always the rooms are empty.’

  On seeing Cirosa’s dark expression she swiftly left on silent feet, the door not so much as making a click as she shut it. The priests and priestesses were afraid of Cirosa, and she would not have had it any other way. It was easy to rule people who feared you, things got done a lot quicker and you got what you wanted most of the time. Efren had given her a good reason to forget Freydel’s question. Cirosa shoved herself to standing and began sorting through the papers, ignoring the obvious fact that she still wore her night gown.

  ‘I have to get on, look at all these papers. Come back to me when you know for definite what has transpired. Nothing of interest has happened here apart from the usual tremors,’ she engrossed herself in a particular sheet signed with an illegible almost child-like signature, the signature of the Oracle. ‘You know your own way out,’ she said dismissively, pretending not to notice Freydel.

  ‘The tremors were magical,’ Freydel mumbled as he dragged himself upright with his staff. But he did not say more, clearly being too tired to pursue matters further, much to Cirosa’s relief. He made his way to the door and turned as he grasped the handle.

  ‘There is something else you might like to know, or not.’

  She looked at him above the sheet of paper she held and raised an eyebrow. It better be quick.

  ‘Rance somehow learned of where Issa was going before he understood fully what was going on. As you know, we had tried keep what was occurring as close to our chests as possible, lest the enemy discover what we were trying to do. Maybe one of the priests or priestesses that were with us that day mentioned it to him.’

  ‘Oh? What of it?’ Cirosa cut him off and tried to sound uninterested but her heart was pounding. What had her buffoon of a former lover gone and done now? It was obvious Rance had taking a liking to the wench the way he was falling all over her at the Midsummer Celebrations. Issa had bewitched everyone!

  ‘Apparently he took a boat and went to find her, even before she left!’

  Cirosa slammed the paper down. ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Arla told me she had seen him.’

  ‘Curse the girl,’ but Cirosa knew Arla never lied. Where was that feral child anyway? She always seemed to disappear when she was needed and reappear when she was most unwelcome. ‘Well, has he returned?’

  ‘We have not heard hide nor hair since he left a day ago,’ Freydel shook his head. ‘Keteth has been close to Celene recently, probably since Issa arrived. All fishermen and traders have been extra cautious, some choosing to not leave port. I cannot help but worry.’


  ‘Rance is an excellent sailor, I doubt he will be gone for much longer,’ but despite her dismissive words her stomach still twisted.

  ‘Maybe,’ Freydel said and opened the door. He paused, shivered then sniffed and frowned again as he looked about the room. Cirosa held her breath. On seeing nothing he shrugged and closed the door behind him.

  Cirosa sighed in relief once he had gone and fell back in the chair with her eyes closed. Rance you complete idiot! What on earth did he think he could do anyway? If Issa wanted to prove she was the chosen one, then no one should try and stop the wench. She opened her eyes. Her gaze was immediately drawn down to the drawer where the object was hidden. It drove all thoughts of Rance from her mind. She stared at the smooth varnished wood and black iron handle shaped into a scroll for a long time.

  Was something given to her from so foul a beast as a harpy really worth looking at? It could be cursed or poisoned or worse. The Immortal Lord’s Gifts… I should throw it into the ocean immediately. She lunged for the drawer handle and then paused abruptly, chewing on her lip. She didn’t want to touch it and yet somehow she had to. She grasped the handle and pulled open the drawer. The bundle was small and wrapped in old tan-coloured cloth.

  Harmless thing. She sat back and stared at it. It may be nothing, just rags… But why would a harpy give me rags? It is too heavy to be nothing. Slowly she reached down and grasped the bundle, lifting it into her lap gently as if it were a kitten. She couldn’t really feel its power other than an unsettling yet intriguing feeling. It was heavy and dense for its size.

  This is foolishness!

  She unceremoniously opened the cloths and stared down at the object in her lap. The fist-sized red bloodstone was set within a thick blackish gold amulet attached to a heavy chain of the same metal. The bloodstone began to give off the faintest dark glow under her gaze and, even without magical skills, she could feel the unnatural and otherworldly magic that seeped from it. A heavy power that was both corrupt and alluring, like stolen gold. She gingerly touched the bloodstone and drew back with a gasp when it warmed to her touch. She hastily covered it up and threw it back into the drawer, slamming it shut.