The Lost Prophecy Boxset

by D. K. Holmberg

  Jakob had been putting off visiting his brother as the memory of the last visit still woke him at night occasionally. Scottan, once so strong and invincible, reduced to a shadow of what he had been. The madness had completely taken him, and Jakob did not recognize what was left.

  He quickly passed through the palace gate, past several small patches of now fading flowers, and saw the colored leaves of the surrounding shrubbery signaling that the Turning was near. He sighed quietly as he noticed, knowing that winter would soon follow and with it would come the snow that must be shoveled from the paths. He was certain Novan would have him clear around the library.

  Outside the gate, the city was busy.

  He weaved his way around pull carts, the occasional horse, and the throngs of people making their way through the city. His pace was quick knowing his time was short, and he found himself jumping several times to avoid hitting someone. Moving away from the palace grounds, away from the huge fenced-in lawn, the smells of the city overtook the flowers of the gardens. He smelled breads baking before he even passed the bakery, the sweetness of the candy shop that was equally inviting, and roasting meat that wafted out of open-doored inns. He kept up his pace, ignoring the scents. The sounds of people talking were all about him, from small groups of people clustered outside shops, to the sounds of children yelling as they ran through the streets playing. He hurriedly avoided the occasional merchant wagon creaking through the streets, never stopping to wonder what the goods were or whether they were entering or leaving the city. The clang of hammer on metal rang loudly from a blacksmith or silversmith somewhere nearby, but he never saw the shop.

  Gradually, the streetscape changed, and the people thinned as the road took on a different feel. An occasional dead rat dirtied the road, and garbage was scattered in alleys. The streets were lined with filth, mud, and sewage, and other foulness that filled his nostrils. The eastern Srithan section of Chrysia, once vibrant, had been dirty and rundown as long as Jakob had lived in the city.

  The sounds here were different, too, and his step quickened as he passed a brothel. He imagined footsteps behind him, but turning quickly revealed only small children playing in the dirty alleys. He quickened his pace, trying to ignore the uneasiness that threatened to intrude on his thoughts. Unfamiliar echoes came again, behind him, and his heart lurched faster than his footsteps. Another glance back, and again there was no one. He could no longer ignore the feelings he had and found himself nearly running. The strange sounds continued, almost chasing him, and he ran with fear creeping through him.

  The road twisted as it worked its way down a hill. He hurried along it, watching the sun fall lower in the afternoon sky, turning the horizon into an orange and pink canvas. In the distance, he finally saw the small square santrium. The echoes of footsteps chasing him had faded as he left Srithan, but he hadn’t slowed until he was nearly breathless. Nearing the santrium, he could still see how the once clean, white stones were streaked with stains. Little announced it as the santrium, a house of healing for men and women sick with the madness, other than the thick bars crossing the windows.

  He reached the small walkway, weeds and grasses working their way through the stone, and made his way up to the narrow wooden doors. They were once a vibrant blue, but the paint had long since faded and now peeled, exposing the pale pindlewood beneath. Long ago, the building had been well maintained, but it had been many years since the santrium had seen such care.

  The door still opened easily, and as he walked into the small entry hall, the low-hanging ceiling always made him hunch. The wooden floor creaked under his feet, and he paused, letting his eyes adjust to the thin light inside. His heart was only now slowing. There was a strange odor in the air, stool and urine he guessed, and it grew stronger as he stood adjusting.

  “Who do you seek?” a nasal voice asked behind him.

  He turned to find a plump man, long graying hair slicked back and a thick beard to match. His heavy brown burlap robe identified him as one of the Urmahne healers, and Jakob let out his breath. “Scottan Nialsen, sir.”

  The man nodded and started off without saying another word. He led Jakob down the short entry hall and back through the building, turning several times as they passed a number of rooms. Jakob had been to the santrium many times but didn’t think he could have found the room on his own. He had once wondered who the inside of the building confused more, the tenants or the visitors.

  Finally, the man stopped him in front of a door that opened as they neared. A short man, dressed in a brown robe that matched his guide’s, came out, his brow wet and his face tight. Seeing Jakob, he offered a thin smile.

  “Is he...” Jakob was unable to finish the question. He looked at the healer and turned to his guide, realizing that the man had already started away.

  The healer shook his head and ran a thick hand through greasy hair. “No better, I am afraid. I do not think he is any worse, either.”

  Jakob shifted himself so that he could see through the small window in the door, thick bars of black iron filtering his view. Scottan lay motionless on the narrow bed, no sheets covering him and his body unclothed. He’d been told that none in the santrium were allowed anything they could use to hurt themselves. Scottan’s once-muscular body was wasting, a starving man.

  He turned to look at the healer. “What does he do?” His voice was hoarse. His eyes welled with tears, filled with sadness for his brother he couldn’t help. It was like this each time he visited and part of the reason he visited so infrequently.

  The healer shook his head again slightly. The movement gave life to the man’s extra chins, and they jiggled with life his eyes did not convey. “He does not eat, and he barely sleeps. When he does, he talks, using words he creates. He seems to see others in his room and speaks to them. Sometimes, we understand, mostly we do not.”

  Jakob shivered. Scottan had been like this for over a year. It had started slowly, first visions others didn’t share, then the babbling and the strange words. Progressing quickly, his captain had sought help after finding him talking to himself one morning, speaking words none could understand. His father had helped find him a place in the santrium; his connections with the church getting the care Scottan needed. Little had helped.

  “Does he still scream out?” The screams had started later after he had given up talking to himself. It was the way of the madness.

  A shrug from the healer, his thick shoulders barely rising. “Sometimes,” he answered, unconcerned.

  “Will he ever...” Jakob already knew the answer.

  “None have ever improved, but the gods may choose to spare him,” the fat healer spoke, his deep voice almost soothing if not for the message it conveyed. “I cannot predict.”

  “May I go in?” He hadn’t been able to sit next to Scottan at his last visit. His brother had been too agitated then, and they were trying to get him to keep down a mixture of herbs to calm him.

  A nod and the healer opened the door. Jakob slipped in and stepped over to where Scottan lay on the low bed. His brother’s golden hair, so much like their mother’s, was long and disheveled, and it had been many days since he’d been shaved. He knelt beside the bed, trying to avoid the many stains on the wooden floor, and reached for Scottan’s hand.

  “Scottan,” he spoke softly. “Scottan, it’s Jakob.”

  His brother didn’t move, but he opened his eyes and stared at the low ceiling.

  How to talk to him? He was never sure how to treat Scottan, always choosing to talk as if he understood.

  “The Denraen have come with Magi.” Jakob stopped, not knowing what else to say. “And it’s nearly the Turning.”

  Scottan screamed. It was ear-splitting, and the suddenness of it made Jakob drop his brother’s hand. He stopped as abruptly as he had started, and Jakob quickly grabbed his hand and patted, trying to soothe him. Scottan began mumbling, and his breaths came quick and ragged. Jakob couldn’t understand what he said, and he wondered if this was what th
e fat healer meant by created words. The scream caused Jakob’s head to throb again, slow pounding at the back of his skull. Focusing on his brother, he ignored it.

  Jakob knelt there for long moments, patting his brother’s hand, trying to calm him, while Scottan mumbled the unintelligible words. Jakob raised his free hand to massage his temple. It didn’t help his head, and it ached deeper, almost buzzing with pain. He decided to leave before he needed the healers’ help as well.

  Standing, he dusted himself off and leaned down to kiss his brother on the forehead. Scottan stopped mumbling and closed his eyes. Jakob sighed and turned toward the door. As he did, Scottan caught his arm with a grip reminiscent of his old strength.

  “Jakob!” He sat up suddenly, and his eyes opened wide. “Detu finri et neamiin!” The words hung in the air, almost a meaning to them, before Scottan relaxed his grip, sinking back to the bed, and his eyes closed once more.

  Jakob smoothed his brother’s hair. Scottan had known him. There was that much, at least. A knock on the door before it opened startled him from his thoughts, and he turned to see the fat healer opening the door.

  “We must let him rest now.”

  Jakob looked back once more at his brother who lay sleeping, his breathing now regular. Turning away, he followed the fat healer as he led him away from the room and back out of the santrium. The healer left him at the door without a word.

  He stepped from the once-blue doors into the fading light of the afternoon. Pausing only once to look back as he crested the hill, he prayed silently to the nameless gods for his brother as he had many times in the past. It was the only time he now prayed. Maybe his lack of faith was the reason the gods hadn’t healed Scottan.

  Starting back again, he hurried through the city to the palace grounds. He felt a general unease as he moved through Srithan and was relieved when he neared the palace gate.

  A sudden shout caused him to tense.

  As he turned, Braden jogged toward him, his muscular form highlighted by his tight-fitting breeches and tunic, yelling his name. “Where were you coming from?”

  Jakob sighed, breathing deeply to slow his heart. He nodded down the street, toward the eastern part of the city. “The santrium. Scottan. Novan has kept me in the dark regarding the Magi. I haven’t seen you, either. Is the guard busy?”

  “More than usual. Raids have increased.”

  “Have you been on patrol?”

  “Some. And the Denraen train with us. I’m allowed to work with them. No one knows when they will hold the Choosing.” He paused, a slow grin coming to his face. “I’ll be ready for tomorrow, though. The Ur gave me time away.”

  Jakob groaned, thinking of what he’d have to do to keep Braden in check during the festival. “I haven’t found new clothes for it.”

  “Me, neither, but it doesn’t matter! Don’t be surprised when I’m at your door early.”

  Tired or not, Braden would be at his door at nearly first light; his friend didn’t take festivals lightly. Braden looked up at the sky, seeming to note the fading sun. “I need to hurry. Make sure you’re ready for the Mancleys!”

  Braden hurried away from him and toward Srithan, and Jakob wondered how much longer their friendship would sustain. Braden continued to rise within the Ur, and Jakob... he didn’t know what he would end up doing. He served Novan for now, but how much longer would that last?

  Chapter Five

  The night was cool, and a light breeze pulled at his cloak, his hair, at everything. The weather was quite different from yesterday, and it seemed autumn was finally arriving. Jakob shivered and pulled his cloak more tightly around him. Next to him, Braden seemed not to notice. His brightly colored festival clothes went uncovered, the reds, greens, and oranges muted in the waning light. Braden was not the only one dressed brightly, people all along the busy streets wore their own decorative clothes, some more elaborate than others. Jakob let his remain hidden beneath his cloak, sacrificing a festive appearance for warmth.

  “Come, Jakob, I can smell it,” Braden urged, hurrying his steps.

  Jakob sniffed and followed after, trying not to lose his friend. There were many smells in the air tonight. The Turning Festival brought the scent of savory meats steaming in the night air mixed with the sweet smell of choco and humay and fresh bread. The candies were traditional for the festival, and all who made such things sold them along the streets, each with different shapes and textures, but all tasted sweet. A haze of smoke surrounded nearly everything as the night was bright from a hundred cook fires and lanterns. Another scent caught his nose, faint, but more pungent, and he wondered briefly what it was, but forgot about it as he hurried to keep up with Braden.

  Tinkling bells and conversation surrounded them as they walked, a flurry of noise that made conversation with Braden nearly impossible. All around them were other sounds, as well, storymen telling tales new and old, their voices rising and falling with the excitement of each scene, and musicians playing filuit and harp and guitran.

  They worked their way through the busy street, avoiding people crowded around the minstrels, jugglers, and dancers, and tried to stay clear of the hawkers selling the meats and candy. The smells were tempting, but the cost was high. In the distance, the noise grew louder, if possible, as they neared the square. It was the heart of the festival and where Braden led him each year.

  A man moving toward them caught his attention. Dressed differently from all others in the crowd, he wore a deep black cloak with the hood pulled over his head. Eyes could almost be imagined underneath the hood, catching the light from dozens of fires and gleaming with the reflection. As Jakob stared, those eyes seemed to catch him and held him, the gaze iron-hard.

  He shivered and clutched his cloak more tightly around him again but still felt the rise of goose pimples on his arms. His mouth went dry, and he tried to move his tongue to wet his suddenly parched lips, but could not.

  The sounds around him faded, and the smoky haze thickened. His head suddenly throbbed with a strange slow pulsation, deep drumming echoing through his mind. Jakob felt pulled to the man by his gaze and tried to look away but found that he could not. He shivered again and wondered if this man was a Mage.

  Fear welled up within him, unbidden, and with it was a deep hopelessness. He had never known such emptiness, and it was overwhelming. The sense of worthlessness, a feeling of uselessness, overcame him, and he nearly staggered. Darkness began to surround him, black darker than night crowding in from his periphery, and something pulled at him, a compulsion pulling him toward the hooded man. The night faded so that all he saw was the flickering light of the man’s eyes, and Jakob went forward, pulled as if on a rope.

  “Jakob!”

  He heard his name distantly, and a hand caught his sleeve, turning him around. He shook his head, and the heaviness slowly lifted. Braden smiled at him, laughing.

  “Are you leaving me?” Braden asked, a wide grin spreading across his face.

  Jakob laughed dryly, trying to match his friend’s smile. He glanced back, but the man was gone. A shiver passed through him as he thought about him. The emptiness he’d felt was slowly filling, and he forced happier thoughts back into his mind; it was the Turning Festival. It was a night to celebrate, to eat and dance with friends and strangers, to celebrate the harvest and the bounty the gods provided.

  Turning back to Braden, preparing to ask his friend if he had felt the surge of strange emotions, too, he realized another person stood with them. “Jessila,” he acknowledged, smiling at her.

  “Jakob.” Her thick black hair fell in waves down her shoulders, and her face seemed a pale white in the night. Lips were full and wine red as she smiled, looking back to Braden. A bright yellow and red dress fell to her ankles, accentuating her figure. She smelled of lilacs, and Jakob saw several dried leaves arranged in her hair.

  “I was asking Jessila where her sister was while you were trying to wander off,” Braden told him, nudging him in the ribs.

  “She’s
somewhere,” Jessila answered demurely. Her soft voice was barely audible, and Braden had leaned close to listen. Jessila seemed not to mind. “I saw you and Jakob, and with all the people, I worried I wouldn’t find you again. How about a dance?”

  Braden looked over at him. “May we?”

  “First, you worry I’m leaving you, and now, you’re leaving me!” The hollow feeling was nothing but a memory now, the happiness of the sounds and smells of the festival overtaking him. The beats and musical sounds around him swept him up, lifting his mood once again.

  Braden laughed and grabbed Jessila’s hand. “My lady,” he started, bowing slightly. The gesture brought color to her cheeks and she smiled. “Would you care to dance with me?” She nodded quickly, and they started off. “I’ll find you in the square. Near the Cindernut Tavern,” he called over his shoulder before hurrying off with Jessila.

  Jakob watched them disappear, smiling at his friend and his fortune before starting forward on his own. He wound his way through the crowd after losing sight of Braden, occasionally pausing to listen to the minstrels and enjoy the songs. He moved slowly forward with the flow of the people before stopping to listen to a storyman.

  “A tale from east of the valley!” the storyman bellowed, his voice carrying. “Jarren Gildeun was barely twenty summers old when he made his first journey!”

  “No one has ever been east of the valley,” a voice called from the crowd. The man laughed as he said it, and others joined him, but it didn’t deter the storyman.

  “Jarren Gildeun was barely twenty when he made his first journey,” the storyman repeated. “A journey unlike any other he had made, longer and more arduous!”

  Jakob slid forward, curious to hear. He always enjoyed stories of Jarren Gildeun, real or not. He was the hero of many stories, and Jakob had once tried to read as many as possible. There had been a time when he couldn’t get enough of those stories. When he was younger, he had even wanted to be Jarren, though Scottan had been more like the man. Well... maybe a part of him still wanted that.