The Lost Prophecy Boxset

by D. K. Holmberg

  The boy smiled slowly and nodded, placing a long-fingered hand upon her arm for a moment before pushing past her through the open door, rushing in. She felt a tingling warmth where his hand had been and the edge taken off her anxiety.

  A bittersweet smile came to her face as she recognized what he had done for her. He was growing stronger with each year, but the power the children possessed was unlike anything their people knew. She had not decided if some of her people’s fear came from ignorance or jealousy.

  Shoren and Aimielen knew what would follow; they had seen the same cycle in men. Already, the anger threatened to become something worse. And then the children would no longer be safe.

  Aimielen pushed the thoughts away. She would enjoy her family and the unexpected visit.

  “Mother,” Enila said, coming through a door in the back of the room. “Father.” The shirt she wore was striped bright yellow and orange in quieter tones than the children wore, though was still more color than their kind preferred.

  She waved a hand to the room she had come from, motioning to the children. Narsa complied quickly, but Inrii looked at her a moment, his strange eyes seeing something the rest of them could not, before finally nodding and joining his sister, closing the door behind him.

  Enila nodded her head deeply to her father, waiting for him to offer his in return before speaking further. When Shoren nodded, she looked at him and smiled fondly. Enila had always shared a special connection to her father.

  “I would say that it is refreshing to be back in the Tower,” Enila continued. There was a hesitation toward the end as her eyes flickered to the door as she spoke.

  Aimielen smiled at her daughter, hoping to hide the emotion roiling inside her. “We know it is difficult to visit the Tower these days,” she said, choosing her words carefully. She saw the tension in Enila’s posture. It was constant when she was in the Tower and only seemed to worsen with each visit.

  “Not difficult,” Enila said. “Just that it is no longer home.”

  Aimielen frowned. She sensed Shoren’s displeasure near her as well. “You do not miss these walls?” she asked.

  Enila shrugged. “I have been gone a long time now,” she answered, hands rubbing along her sides. “And outside, there is simply more…” As she trailed off, she shrugged again. The tension in her shoulders remained.

  Aimielen did not need her to finish, knowing what her daughter was thinking. Outside the Tower, there was more vibrancy, color. Life. Inside the Tower was quiet, drab, but still home. She sighed, uncertain what to say.

  “The children grow quickly,” Shoren commented.

  Enila smiled then, a twinkle in her eye, and nodded, understanding that he did not comment on their physical growth. Aimielen was pleased he had picked up on that as well. Sometimes, even she underestimated Shoren’s own empathic gifts. Before the children, Aimielen had been the most skilled in that area. Now she paled in comparison.

  “They miss you,” Enila admitted. “I miss you as well.”

  “You are welcome anytime,” Aimielen said.

  “Are we?” Enila asked.

  She could not help but feel Enila’s pain as she asked the question. The Tower was their home and had once been Enila’s as well. These quarters were still assigned to her, though she rarely used them. Now Enila questioned whether she was even welcome within its walls.

  “We are pleased to see you and the children, but there is another reason for your visit,” Shoren said.

  Enila tilted her head as she considered her father. She looked much like Shoren as she stared at him. They shared the same probing eyes and intelligent mind, as well as the determined thrust to the jaw. Once she had shared the same quiet confidence, but that was gone, replaced by a nervous edge.

  “Lisenda is missing,” she said.

  “Lisenda?” Aimielen repeated. She was the first of the children, her mother the first Den’eamiin. “Where would she have gone?”

  Enila looked at her mother. The fear that had edged her words now entered her eyes. “None of us knows,” she admitted.

  “She nears her maturity,” Shoren commented.

  Enila met his eyes and nodded. She watched him for a moment, as if waiting for what he would say next. When he said nothing, she continued. “I had hoped you could help.”

  Aimielen frowned. She knew what Enila asked. Of their kind, only Enila neared her father’s abilities with the fibers. It was strange that she had seen nothing.

  Shoren nodded, the movement, like everything he did, slow and deliberate. “I will search the fibers,” he said. “Though may not have success with Lisenda.”

  Enila’s eyes widened briefly and then flickered toward the room where the children played. “Thank you, Father. Her parents are worried. When Lara could learn nothing from the fibers, she asked for my help. When I could see nothing…”

  “I will do what I can,” he said. Aimielen heard a hint of uncertainty and wondered what it meant. Shoren’s skill with the fibers was unrivaled. “There are other matters we must address, Enila,” Shoren said.

  “I have seen,” Enila admitted.

  “Then you know that time may be growing short.”

  Aimielen frowned again. What was Shoren referring to? This was not something that they had discussed.

  Enila shook her head once. “The fibers are not fixed on this,” she answered.

  “Are you certain? Do you dare take the risk?”

  Enila closed her eyes briefly. “No,” she answered. “I am not certain.”

  Shoren sighed, and an edge to his face softened. Aimielen realized that he had been hoping Enila saw differently than he. “Nor am I. And it worries me. There are those among the council who fear what the children have already become.” He paused, blinking slowly. “There are others who fear what they may yet become.”

  Enila frowned, biting her lip. “I have considered leaving. The others as well,” she admitted.

  Aimielen frowned. “You have already left the Tower!”

  Shoren narrowed his eyes briefly. “Where would you go that you could not be found?” he asked.

  Enila hesitated. “To the lands of the east.”

  Shoren’s grey eyes went unfocused, as if looking elsewhere. “East?” he echoed, still thinking. “There is much there that is unexplored. Much more unexplained,” he said carefully.

  “No!” Aimielen interrupted, shaking her head. She glanced from her daughter to her husband. Neither met her eyes. “The Tower is your home. Those lands are unknown, unexplored. They might not even be safe.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “None have settled the east,” Aimielen argued, her heart pounding faster. She turned to Shoren, hoping to plead with him but saw his stony expression. “What of the strange power in the east?” she asked him. “How can the children be safer there than here?”

  He didn’t answer, and long moments passed before she turned to look at Enila again. Enila flicked her gaze to the back room where the children played before meeting her mother’s eyes. Resignation hovered briefly on her face, passing as it was replaced with a determined expression. Aimielen recognized it, and the anxiety she felt suddenly weakened. She understood why Enila could have such determination, understood the emotion that drove her daughter.

  Suddenly, much of the fight left her.

  “And you have already said they may not be safe here,” Enila said, the hushed words heavy with sadness.

  Aimielen took a deep breath and pushed back the tears that threatened to well in her eyes. “Shoren,” she said, turning to her husband and fighting to maintain her composure. “You must fix this!”

  Shoren laid a long-fingered hand on her arm. She felt the coolness of his touch and wished he could give her the same reassuring sensation Inrii had given. “I will try,” he said.

  Sometimes, she wished she did not know him as well as she did. Aimielen understood what he said and what was left unsaid. He would try, but he did not expect to succeed.

&nbs
p; Chapter Ten

  The sounds of the night drifted through the open window. There was a heaviness to the air, thick with humidity that left a dampness here in Saeline. The scents of dried grasses mixed with a hint of pine blew through the room on a steady breeze. Allay lay awake, unable to sleep.

  He had a vague reassurance that two Denraen stood on the other side of the door, keeping watch. Mendi was in the room next to his, though hers was much smaller. She had two Denraen with her as well. The last Denraen soldier accompanied Mage Rosahd, though Allay hadn't seen the Mage since they had come to the Saeline castle.

  Allay stared at the ceiling. The dinner had been exquisite, a feast befitting a prince, but he noted that the queen and the princess had eaten little. Allay had picked tentatively at his meal before diving in. Were they to poison him, there was little he would be able to do to stop them, though he doubted Queen Theresa intended to poison him. Locken was too compliant to the throne to attempt something like that. He didn't fear for his safety in Saeline, though there might be other kings willing to attempt such a thing.

  He heard his door opening, and looked up, feeling a moment of hope. Was Mendi sneaking in?

  A dark figure stood outlined in the doorway, a sword in hand.

  Not Mendi.

  Allay sprang from his bed.

  Had Theresa lulled him into believing there wouldn’t be an assassination attempt in Saeline? Perhaps they preferred a bloodier end to him than a simple poisoning. Maybe he’d inadvertently avoided the poison they’d intended for him.

  Allay dove toward the figure in the doorway, rolling as he did. He had trained with some of the best fighters in hand-to-hand combat within Gomald but had never used it for his own safety.

  He drove his fist into the attacker’s stomach. And missed.

  Where he had expected to find the attacker, there was nothing.

  Allay rolled again, coming up to a crouch with his hands in front of him in a protective stance. It was the stance he’d been taught when first learning to fight. He and Theodror had often sparred together, practicing their fighting skills on each other. It always angered their mother, but their father had laughed at their foolishness. After her death, they no longer sparred, much like his father no longer laughed.

  Allay kicked, but the attacker danced away from it.

  The sword swung down, and Allay twisted, barely moving out of the way.

  He was at a disadvantage without a weapon.

  He surveyed his room and found a chair near the back wall. He grabbed it by its back, swinging it at his attacker.

  The attacker caught the chair with the sword, and the chair splintered. He now guessed his attacker was a man, but who? One of Theresa’s soldiers? He was swift with his movements and deft with his sword.

  It left Allay with a handhold of the back of the chair and nothing else. He swung this at his attacker, connecting with the side of his head, mostly through luck.

  Allay ducked the next attack, sweeping up with the chair piece like a shovel. The motion knocked the sword out of his attacker’s hand.

  The man jumped higher in the air than Allay would've expected possible. When he landed, he pummeled his fists into both sides of Allay's head.

  He crumpled, pain shooting through his head, spots flashing across his vision.

  Allay blinked, and looked up, wanting to see his attacker before he died. He noted the height, the hint of a beard on his chin, and the long dark hair tied back behind his head.

  “Rosahd?” he croaked.

  Rosahd’s hands gripped Allay’s throat. “You are a foolish child. But you will be useful. This way, it will appear as if Saeline had you killed. It will serve to unify the rest of your country against Locken and his plans.”

  Allay struggled, trying to kick, but Rosahd had positioned himself in such a way that Allay could barely move. The Mage was heavier than he looked and stronger than he should be.

  Rosahd’s hands gripped Allay's throat, suffocating him.

  His breaths came raggedly, and his vision began to spot for a different reason.

  Allay’s struggles failed. If he didn’t call out—or do something—he would die.

  As he began to fade, Rosahd sagged on top of Allay, his grip relaxing.

  Allay coughed, barely able to take a breath with Rosahd’s weight on top of him. With a final heave of strength, he threw the Mage off him, taking a gasping breath.

  Mendi stood over him, holding Rosahd’s sword, a troubled expression on her face. He knew she wondered the same thing he did: Why would one of the Magi attack him?

  Mendi dropped the sword and crouched in front of Allay, running her fingers along his neck, his scalp, before stepping back. “Nothing to worry about,” she said.

  “Other than a Mage attacking me and trying to kill me?” Allay asked.

  “Yes. That was unexpected,” Mendi said.

  Allay tried to laugh, but his throat hurt. “Unexpected seems an understatement.”

  Mendi made her way toward the fallen Mage and pulled up the sleeves of his tunic. Her breath caught.

  Allay crawled over to see what had drawn her attention.

  On Rosahd’s arms were the distinct markings he recognized as Deshmahne.

  “This shouldn't be,” Mendi said. “They shouldn't be able to convert the Magi.”

  “You saw the influence they had in the city,” Allay said. His throat hurt to talk, but the pain lessened with each breath. “We knew they had reached the Denraen. It was only a matter of time before they somehow reached the Magi.” Allay coughed again. “What happened to the Denraen? How was he able to get in here?”

  Mendi shook her head. “He killed them.”

  “All of them?”

  Mendi nodded.

  Allay offered a silent prayer. The Denraen had been reserved, but they had been good men. They had come south, had faced the Deshmahne, and had protected him. Now they were gone.

  Somehow, they had to get word to Endric.

  Yet… there was no one who could. He and Mendi had to reach Gomald, and there was nothing he could do otherwise.

  Allay took a few slow breaths. His throat was raw, painful, but not as painful as the questions that he now had.

  What did it mean that the Magi had converted to the Deshmahne?

  What did it mean that one of the Magi was able—and willing—to kill?

  “We should—”

  “Leave,” Mendi said. “I don't feel comfortable waiting until morning. When they find a dead Mage here and the dead Denraen…” She dropped the sword and stood, turning to the door. “They’re already suspicious of our intent here. They’re going to think you instigated this attack. They will use that to further their own plans.”

  “I don't think they intend to—or want to—attack Thealon.”

  Mendi’s mouth pressed into a thin line as she concentrated. Pale moonlight reflected off her face. “Perhaps not, but I think it's best if we depart now. Before anyone awakens. Before anything else happens. You need to get to Gomald.”

  “Need?”

  She nodded but said nothing more.

  Allay stood. His legs were weak, and his head throbbed from where Rosahd had punched him. He hurt more from an attack from a Mage than he ever had when he had wrestled with his brother. That seemed unthinkable to him.

  And yet there it was. He had been beaten by a Mage.

  Sighing, he looked to Mendi. “We can go, but I'm not sure that getting to Gomald is the right thing to do anymore.”

  “Where else would we go? What else should we do?” She glanced at the bloody form of Rosahd lying face down on the ground. “Your father plans to attack. Your brother is gone. There is a rebellion. And Deshmahne roam Gom Aaldia. You’re needed in the city. That is the way you regain control of Gomald and restore the peace.”

  She was right. As usual.

  Allay looked around the room, checking to see if there was anything he needed to grab and take with him, but found nothing. There was something he coul
d do, though.

  He went to the table, grabbed a sheet of paper, and quickly wrote a note that he pinned to Rosahd’s body. It was an explanation, and a plea to send word to Endric. The general needed to know what happened and needed to know about the number of Deshmahne roaming Gom Aaldia. Allay wasn’t sure Theresa would act on the note, but he remembered that Locken had studied with the Denraen, and hoped he retained some loyalty toward them.

  Once that was done, he stood. It was time for them to head toward his home, to see if he could find a way to stop an unnecessary war.

  Why did he still feel as if there would be nothing he could do?

  Chapter Eleven

  The Deshmahne soldier sitting before her reminded Roelle of Endric. It was strange coming to Rondalin and sit before a man who might have attempted to kill her were he to know that she was one of the Magi. If he knew she’d fought the Deshmahne before, he might attack her. Yet he appeared to be nothing more than a soldier, though one as tattooed as any of the Deshmahne she’d met.

  It was a strange dichotomy; so different from the angry and violent Deshmahne she'd faced. It was enough to make her almost believe these men could be reformed in some way, that they could see that their violence was not a way to the gods, that maybe they could see that the way to the gods was through finding peace.

  It was almost enough for her to believe that they sought power in order to protect those without it. Almost enough to think they would be willing to fight to stop the groeliin. Maybe that was the reason behind the movement she’d seen.

  The man’s gaze drifted to the half-open sack containing the groeliin head. Every so often he would look at it, and then pull his gaze away. He’d said nothing for long moments after she’d opened the sack.

  Finally, he said, “You killed one of these creatures?”

  Roelle leaned forward, forcing him to meet her eyes. “We've killed several. And they're moving. This is what's coming south. This is the reason the people have come to Rondalin for help. We’re hopeful that is what your men prepare for.”