CHILD OF DESTINY (The Rising Saga Book 1)

by M. K. Adams

  For now, I’m going to go dark for a while. Hemeti are being brutalised on the streets simply for not knowing anything about Lyvanne’s whereabouts. It appears that the ling’s patience grows thin and I don’t fancy making myself a target should someone see me sending a carrier pigeon again.

  Look after one another. Stay safe. May Iridu shine upon you all.

  I love you,

  Sinjin

  A steady stream of tears made their way down Lyvanne’s face as she finished reading the letter.

  “All of this… to find me?” Lyvanne said through the tears, interrupting the conversation that she realised she had stopped paying attention to long ago.

  The four men looked down at her, a mixture of sympathy and resentment etched across their faces. All but Turiel, who seemed angry more than anything else.

  “The king is a cruel man, child. He will do what he pleases if it means he gets his own way,” Shri’ook said, leaning down to match Lyvanne’s eye level.

  She ignored him and turned her attention to Turiel. “You have to do something, we have to do something. We can’t just let those people die”

  “I agree, but there is only so much we can do with short notice, and even if we gathered all our numbers in one place, we wouldn’t have anywhere near the strength needed to take Astreya,” Turiel replied, sympathy and desperation finding their way into his voice.

  “You’re all supposed to be smart aren’t you? The people who fight for the little people? Why aren’t you fighting?”

  “You speak of things you know nothing about child,” Shri’ook said, his voice growing firm. “The Spring already have plans in motion that cannot be altered. Now, please leave the Annex. We have granted you a decency by allowing you to see the letter, but do not pass on this information to the rest of the camp. That is our duty to do,” Shri’ook pointed her towards the exit, lifting aside part of the hanging wall for her to pass through.

  “I’ll be with you soon,” Turiel said as he watched her turn to leave.

  Lyvanne didn’t want to concede. Every bone in her body was crying out for her to do something, but looking around at the Council of leaders she knew that it wasn’t a battle she was going to win. Find another way, she told herself and stormed out of the Annex. Tears welling in his eyes and anger flushing her cheeks red.

  Chapter 20

  Lyvanne wandered aimlessly through the camp. A few opportunistic men and women tried to get info out of her, but in her trance she just ignored them all. Eventually, she found herself back at her hut. Even there she didn’t feel isolated enough, so she went back to wandering, allowing her feet to guide the way. She didn’t think too hard about where she was going—anywhere but the camp would do.

  Her thoughts slowly turned from sorrow to confusion and through to anger. Her whole life had trained her to be invisible, to find her way when others couldn’t. Now, being invisible was the last thing she wanted. She couldn’t help the people of Astreya if she was invisible. She knew that something had to be done, but nothing came to her. She thought about leaving, about going back to Astreya and finding her friends. At the very least she could get them out of there if she worked hard enough. But she knew that on foot, without the proper supplies or ways of getting into the city, that it would be a futile journey. Besides, if she went back to Astreya and was caught then everything the others had done for her would have been in vain.

  The rain lashed against her face as she passed from the safety of the canopy and out into the woods. She wondered how far she would get before Turiel came to find her, or would he break his promise this soon and forget about her? She pushed the thoughts to the back of her mind, it wasn’t important right now. What did matter was that she needed to find out a way to save as many people in Astreya as she could. She wasn’t going to accomplish that by feeling sorry for herself.

  Her feet carried her further out into the woods, and her brain failed to come up with ideas. Feeling desperate, she knelt on the wet woodland floor. Closing her eyes, she proceeded to do something that she hadn’t done in what was beginning to feel like a lifetime.

  “Dear Angel watching over us, please lend me your sight, please show me what I am to do, show me what is to come.”

  The prayer felt foreign and nostalgic. Her prayers had been answered once before, and whilst it hadn’t been a vision she’d thought she had wanted to see, maybe this time would be different?

  As she had expected, nothing happened. Fool, she thought. No one has ever been visited twice. Regardless, she spoke again.

  “Dear Angel watching over us, please lend me your sight, please show me what I am to do, show me what is to come.”

  Nothing. She changed her approach.

  “Help me!” she shouted, demanding from the Deity just loud enough that any wandering members of The Spring wouldn’t hear her.

  She moved her attention away from the Angel of Destiny, praying to any other God who might be listening. She started with those she was familiar with: The Goddess of Creation, even the God of Death, but neither answered her plea. She wasn’t aware of the formalities of the religion, but she even attempted to reach out to Iridu, the God of the Hemeti people, but again she found herself pounding the ground in frustration.

  Then the idea came to her. She didn’t need the help of anyone else; she could do this entirely alone, without even having to venture back to Astreya. The thought was dark and dangerous. Turiel would be furious if he found out, but she would need to tell him if she pulled it off successfully.

  If they know I’m out in the wilds, she told herself, then they will stop the searches in Astreya. At least she hoped. Either way, she didn’t have many other options. She wrestled with the idea; it was dangerous and would mean that she was putting the lives of the people in the camp in danger. The memories of her nightmares resurfaced, the images of Jocelyn and Turiel being struck down among a burning wood.

  You have to, she told herself, trying to banish away the memories of her nightmares. She knew what she had to do. She was going to open her mind to the king’s warlock, let them see her, let them find her.

  Neither option was pleasing, and neither would end without some form of struggle, but Lyvanne had made her decision. This was her fight, not the innocent people living in Astreya. Once the King knew where she was, once the grip on Astreya had been loosed, she could leave the Spring and lead the King away. She could draw the king out into the countryside, sparing everyone.

  The memory of Turiel’s protective spell tickled the back of her mind. She would have to put some distance between them before she could attempt to summon the invader. She wasn’t sure exactly how far she would need to be, but she hoped that there would be some kind of sign or feeling that gave it away once she had gone far enough. Springing to her feet, decision made, she ran further into the woods. Keeping a careful eye on her surroundings, she avoided any sign of patrols throughout the thick grouping of trees, hoping to skip by un-noticed before anyone could stop her or warn Turiel that she was seemingly running away.

  Then she felt it. As she drew deeper into the woods, near the woodland edge Lyvanne stopped as Turiel’s spell disintegrate around her. It was a subtle but new and unmissable feeling. She was free, but Turiel could have felt it too. She needed to act quickly before he came looking for her.

  Taking a few more strides into the woods just to be safe, she cleared away a small patch of leaves and dirt and sat down, legs crossed. The rain had lightened since she left the camp, but it was still coming down, sending trickling streams of water across her face. Closing her eyes, she focused. She had no idea how to do what she wanted, but she knew there must be a way, and so she searched her memories for the feeling that had surrounded the shadow creature. She searched for the energy his magic had exuded, the smell, the sound, everything she could think of. Then she reached out, not with her hands, but with her mind in a way that she wouldn’t have even conceived to be possible a few months ago.

  Her eyes opened in the otherwor
ldly realm she had become so used to over the past few days. Only this time, there were no flames, and she was there alone. The complete darkness surrounding her was foreboding, but there was an element of confidence she had this time that had not been there before. The flames, she presumed were a part of Turiel’s spell or the usual result of someone invading her mind. Regardless, they weren’t there now and everything felt far calmer.

  She sat there in the dark, her every thought reaching out to the being who had only a few nights prior caused her such pain that she thought she might not wake or recover. At first there was nothing there, she was alone in her void. But as she continued, as she strained her mind to find this individual, a response reached back. She couldn’t tell if the response had come from the real world or this one of emptiness, but it was there, small but growing in strength.

  The pain returned with a vengeance. Her instinct was to scream out, but she bit her tongue, knowing that screaming might attract too much attention in the real world and this would all be for nothing. Flames erupted all around her, the heat searing against her exposed skin and she knew she had succeeded.

  Still, she sat there as calmly as the pain would allow, waiting to be joined. Then, like a snake appearing from among the grass, the shadow formed ahead of her.

  “Child,” the shadow spat. “You are foolish to invite me here.”

  The shadow wasted little time advancing on her position, moving faster than it had done the last time it was here.

  “You give yourself up so easily? Why?” it continued.

  There was trepidation in the voice of the shadowy figure as it loomed over her. It was wary of a trap, and rightfully so. Even Lyvanne thought what she was doing might be the worst decision she’d ever made.

  “The king is hurting people,” her voice filled with anger. She wanted to fight this monster, she wanted to cause it pain. “That shall not continue in my name.”

  “Save your king the trouble, hand yourself in,” the demon hissed. It could reach Lyvanne if it wanted to, but chose to glean more information as she seemed willing to give it.

  Lyvanne shook her head violently, tears hiding in the corners of her eyes. “No! I nearly did once, but I’ve seen what your king does, and I wouldn’t want to give him the satisfaction.”

  The demon roared with laughter. “Oh child, you are a true fool if you think you can evade us once we know where you are. We will find you, and I promise you myself that we shall kill every person you’re with.”

  Lyvanne nearly broke off the connection, the vivid memories of her nightmares screaming at her to break it off before it was too late. But she resisted, and the demonic human figure reached out and placed a single finger on her forehead.

  Her world spun out of control, and she was thrown from the fiery void. She awoke in the wood, face first in a pile of leaves and mud. She had done it, she had let in the enemy.

  She looked about her to make sure no one else was around. Nothing felt different, there was no obvious presence watching over her, but she knew it would be there. She didn’t know exactly how the magic worked, or for how long it would continue its hold over her, but there was no going back now. Her only hope now was that the warlock hadn’t been able to see the others, that they were still blissfully unaware of The Spring further back in the woods. It was a fool’s hope perhaps; Turiel had certainly seemed to know a lot about her after he had seen into her mind. But right now that hope was the only thing keeping her from going entirely insane.

  Goosebumps prickled her arms. What if she really had just caused her nightmares to come to fruition? Had she just thrown away the lives of Jocelyn, Turiel and the others? All to save strangers who she didn’t know in Astreya?

  They aren’t strangers, she corrected herself. Your friends live there, she thought, and the people you grew up beside, whether you knew them or not they were your people.

  She wondered if she had even done enough, had the warlock seen enough that he could tell where she was? How did that part of the magic even work? There were so many questions that she now realised she should have asked Turiel before she attempted this. There was still time, she believed, if she was going to leave the camp once Jocelyn returned she could lure the king away from The Spring and if Turiel would teach her she might have all the knowledge she needed. But she would be alone and after what she had done she wasn’t even sure if Turiel would want to teach her.

  The thought of being alone in the world was a sobering one. Her time in the sewers, on the run from the king, was the only time she could ever recall being truly alone, and it wasn’t exactly a memory she was fond of. She wondered how she would fair out in the wilds without Turiel and Jocelyn by her side. The thought was intimidating, but at the same time the idea of having adventures similar to the ones Turiel had been on excited her. Maybe she would be able to fight the king in her own way?

  The journey back to camp was a quiet one. The rain continued to fall, causing a pitter patter on the leaves and ground, but other than that all was quiet. Lyvanne had purposefully walked slow, hoping that any remnants of the warlock’s presence would have drifted away, leaving her free to re-enter the camp. Either way she wasn’t sure.

  Back at camp everyone present had been gathered around the various campfires with the Council spread out to match.

  Lyvanne stumbled slowly through a thicket at the border of camp. Turiel was the first to see her. He met her eyes and as a single tear rolled slowly down her cheek. Through welling eyes the concern spread across Turiel’s face.

  Intermission

  The king was not a cruel man. At least not in Merrick’s view of the world. Yes the king had his significant flaws, but what rich snob living in luxury across The Rive didn’t? Heck, as far as Merrick was concerned, the commoners, and worse the Hemeti, were plagued with flaws. If he had the power the king had then there would have been a culling of some kind a long time ago. That would solve any supposed hunger issues.

  Merrick was known by many names throughout the king’s Castle. His proper title of Royal Advisor perhaps being the least used of them all. Some called him Weasel, others joked that he was the king’s “petty assistant” who was only around to do his dirty work, whilst others whispered less savoury comments in the shadows of the castle walls. But one thing he was not known as, was someone who would be late and that wasn’t something that was about to change as he purposefully strode through the various corridors of the palace. The antechamber of the throne room was accessible by two doors, the first of which was most obviously via the throne room itself, but the king was less than happy with anyone other than guards being present in that room if he was not there himself. A fact which had always made Merrick chuckle, as he thought about the peasantry who kept the room clean, who to the king must have been little more than fairies and pixie dust.

  “Good morning, my Lord,” a few people mused as he passed them in the corridors. He ignored all but the nobles, to whom he returned their gesture with a slight nod of the head and a feigned smile. He had nothing to gain from their friendship; he would never rise higher than he already had done. To properly piss off a noble was often worth more trouble than the seemingly polite gesture would cost to keep them at bay.

  The king had called an emergency meeting of the Royal Council, not a rare occurrence anymore, but Merrick’s personal chambers and working chamber alike were on the other side of the castle’s central palace. Residency in the palace itself was about as much clout as he could boast, many more people who worked within the king’s castle had to journey in from the Upper level of Astreya. A tedious and time-consuming effort, Merrick had decided a long time ago, but the more council sessions that were called, the more frustrated he grew with even his accommodation.

  This will have to change soon, he thought to himself as he turned onto the final corridor that would lead him towards the antechamber. The door that led inside, a large oak door reinforced with iron as was the case with most doors in the palace, was guarded on either side by
two men in elaborate red and gold plated armour. The pair were wielding large halberds that reached almost to the ceiling above their heads. “Impractical” was the word Merrick had used when the king first installed the order for halberds to Sir Peribald, the Commander of the Dauntless, the king’s personal regiment of soldiers.

  Seeing Merrick’s arrival one of the guards, likely the junior of the two, turned and unbolted the door, allowing the Royal Advisor to pass through.

  “Welcome, my Lord,” The other said, as though he was passing into some kind of welcoming party. Merrick ignored him.

  Making his way into the antechamber Merrick was pleased to find that, as usual, he was the first to arrive. As a result of his unfortunate working accommodation, Merrick made it his mission to figure out the quickest routes through the Palace, even through the greater grounds of the entire castle itself. So far that mission had proved more than fruitful.

  The antechamber was small, built entirely for private meetings such as these. Enough room to fit maybe a dozen people in, including the six seats that surrounded the large mahogany table in the centre of the room. Like everything else the king owned, the antechamber had been elaborately decorated. The mahogany table was encrusted with gold trimmings, and the surface was engraved with an old and outdated map of Astreya (An aged gift of a previous monarch). It gave the king great pleasure to repeatedly point out that the boundaries of his Kingdom has seen much expansion since the map was first made. Upon the walls were hung the skins and pelts of various animals from far off countries and paintings crafted by the finest artists the Kingdom had to offer.

  “Good day Merrick,” said the ancient and ragged voice of an old man.

  Merrick turned and sure enough there was Lord Bullard, Commander of the king’s Army and the only man on the royal council who Merrick could just about stand, making his way into the room.

  “Good day, Lord Bullard,” Merrick replied with his distinct high voice. The two were on first name terms, but Merrick always showed respect to his elder of many years.