The Lost Prophecy Boxset

by D. K. Holmberg

  Richard said nothing more to him, ignoring him completely.

  Allay considered trying a different approach, but what could he say that would influence his father? His father seemed… far away. Unapproachable. Allay’s words had fallen on deaf ears. His father’s decision had been made. Or something—or someone—had made it for him.

  He turned and motioned to Mendi to leave.

  As he did, he cast another glance toward his father. A part of him wanted the man he remembered from years ago—the man who had taught him and his brother about Gom Aaldia, who had played with them, laughed with them, even the man who had been tough on them—to return. But perhaps it was better that he didn’t. It was easier this way to leave, and to return to another king who might be better suited to lead even if it meant defeating his father.

  They made their way through the camp unobstructed and without a chaperone. At the edge of the camp, he hesitated, something making him turn his attention back.

  In addition to the tents of maroon and blue and brown—all his father’s colors—he noted black tents in the distance, at the edge of the camp. Allay frowned, studying them, wondering what those colors might represent. As he did, he noted movement on that side of the camp from the north.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  Could they be Deshmahne?

  Had his father formalized a relationship with them? Was that what he’d meant about the Deshmahne serving as he commanded?

  It seemed his father was farther gone than he had realized. Perhaps Gom Aaldia was farther gone than he had realized.

  If so, was there anything that he could do to reestablish peace?

  Mendi touched his hand, and he took hers into his.

  What was there for him to do?

  “Return to Locken,” she suggested.

  “And then what?”

  “I… I don’t know.”

  Neither did Allay.

  Chapter Thirty

  Alriyn opened the door to the huge room slowly. The four Denraen nodded to him as he passed, just as those who were stationed along the hall had nodded to him. The bright metal of their breastplates reflected the small light of the room, attracting his eyes. He could faintly smell the oil they had used to polish them. His gaze moved quickly to their swords, and he nodded back, relieved somewhat by their presence, though he knew they would be of little help if any trouble returned.

  Worry played in his mind as he found Karrin sitting carefully near one end of the bed. She was clad in a simple white gown, which he knew to be the same gown she had worn for the past several days. He worried about her, knowing she had been under much stress lately. His eyes moved from her back to the bed. It had been brought up especially for Bothar.

  Alriyn walked over to it and smiled briefly at Karrin as he approached. She was the only other Mage in the room. Daguin looked little better, though the deep blue and purple bruises on his face had faded some in the last day. They had been lucky to find him.

  Endric had found him, really. The man had done just as he had vowed and searched until all the injured Magi had been discovered. The Elder Mage had been found bound and gagged in one of the lower cellar rooms, his arms and legs tied, and the same burn marks upon his ankles as they’d found on Efrain and all of the others they had discovered. These brands were what the Deshmahne used to steal power from the Magi.

  So many had been lost.

  Alriyn wondered if they had been meant to find him, wondering why the Deshmahne had not just killed the Mage. But then he decided it made sense that they would be that cruel, to leave him barely alive. It was surely more heartless to leave him suffering as they had. He wondered too about the brand around Daguin’s ankles. He had touched them once and found them cold. Looking upon the man, he could almost feel the Mage’s energy seeping from the wounds, keeping the scars from healing properly. It seemed impossible that something could drain the Mage of his abilities, his energy, yet these brands seemed to do just that.

  They had tried to heal him as best they could, but with little luck so far. None could seem to figure out what kept the wounds open. Some Deshmahne evil, but he could not figure out how to cure it. It was the same for all the Magi they had found.

  “He is little better,” Karrin told him. “He stirs occasionally, but little else.”

  Alriyn nodded. It had been the same the last few days.

  “The rest of the city?”

  “They are gone. We’ve suppressed them. The Deshmahne are gone and Jostephon is imprisoned,” Alriyn said. It had taken the Magi working with the Denraen, but they had stopped the Deshmahne in the city. Now, there were dozens of tattooed men under Endric’s guard, but out of the city.

  “What now?” Karrin asked him.

  He had no answer. Responsibility now fell to him. Leadership was not something he had ever sought, yet it was now thrust into his lap. Always the scholar, never the leader, he was now forced to be something he had never intended to be. Yet he could entrust the safety of the Magi to no one else.

  “There is much to be done,” he answered. “We must decide as a whole,” he told her. “The Eldest has gone to the Deshmahne, and it puts the mahne at risk. We must be ready. We must protect the mahne,” he said, his words echoing those of the goddess, still uncertain what the Deshmahne could gain by acquiring the ancient text, and still uncertain what else they might have been after in the city.

  “What of Roelle and the apprentices?” Karrin asked.

  Roelle had been gone for a long time, and he had heard little from her. He hoped she would find her way back home. “We must entrust them to the gods,” he said. “And await Isandra’s return.”

  Isandra stared at the bars of her cell. Her head throbbed, and weakness threatened to overwhelm her. How long had it been since she was placed into this cell?

  Days. Maybe weeks.

  Too long.

  She’d long ago realized that she was not escaping. What would her sister do without her? The two of them had been inseparable since birth, though Karrin always tried to lead. Coming north had been Isandra’s way of proving herself as capable as Karrin.

  What had she done wrong?

  Denraen had died because of her desire to come north. Alriyn had encouraged it, and his small council had gone along, wanting evidence that perhaps they needed to follow the ancient tradition, but she had been the one willing to make the journey.

  It should have been a simple journey, but it had been anything but simple.

  She wrapped her arms around her legs, staring at the cell. There hadn’t even been any movement for the last day.

  Had they left her here to die?

  She no longer heard Wendiy moaning down the hall. She suspected that meant the woman had died. She prayed daily to the gods, hoping for some respite, and did so again now, thinking that there had to be something she could do that would gain their favor. The gods wouldn’t want the Deshmahne wandering the north so freely, would they?

  Her stomach rumbled, and she tried not to think about it. Doing so didn’t change anything. She was starved, only the broth and occasional slice of bread sustaining her. Even her hunger did little to distract from the steady wasting of her power.

  As she had done too often, she touched the branding on her ankles.

  It was cold—too cold—and she could almost feel it as her abilities wasted away.

  How much longer would she be able to hold on? What would she become without her Mageborn abilities?

  Not an Elder on the Council. That was lost to her now.

  A door opened and closed, and Isandra glanced up.

  Could it be food coming?

  She heard a steady thumping of feet along the stone and recognized the familiar gait.

  When Longtree appeared at the door to her cell, he smiled.

  “Have you come to release me?” she asked, feigning confidence she didn’t feel. She wouldn’t let Longtree see her beaten, even if she felt that way.

  “Not now.”

  “
Then why have you come? Did your master give you permission?”

  “Permission? I rule in the city now that the High Priest has led the attack south. And I promised what I would do to you when your power was gone.”

  Was her power gone? She no longer knew.

  And what was this about an attack?

  “What do you think to do?” she asked.

  He leaned toward the cell. Were she closer, she would bang his head against the bars the way she had the last time. Maybe this time, she’d brain him enough that he’d release her. “I will take your life and watch you take your last breath.”

  She turned away from him, not willing to give him the pleasure of her disgust. “Go away.”

  There was silence for a while, and she thought he left, but then she heard the jingling of metal—the distinct sound of keys. One was fitted into the lock of the cell, and he pulled the door open.

  Longtree came toward her, and she finally looked up. He wore an open look of disgust, but there was something mixed in with it, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Now, I’ll do to you what I did to my other keeper.”

  Isandra feared what he might do. As he neared, she could feel an energy to him, one that he hadn’t possessed before. Had the Deshmahne granted him strength as they had so many others?

  He leaned toward her, and she grabbed his neck.

  The suddenness startled Longtree.

  Isandra was weakened, but seeing this man, she felt a surge of anger and revulsion. It gave her strength that she didn’t know she had.

  She squeezed.

  Longtree jerked back, trying to get free, but she held onto him tightly. There was no escaping the pressure of her grip, and she had no intention of releasing him before he passed out.

  He kicked at her, catching her in the ribs.

  Isandra squeezed harder.

  Another kick, this time catching her thigh.

  She clenched her jaw, fighting back the pain, and twisted while squeezing.

  There came a crack, and he dropped.

  Isandra fell backward, away from Longtree. He didn’t move.

  She watched, waiting to see if he breathed, but there was no sign of his chest rising.

  Had she killed him?

  Her heart hammered, but she was unable to find any remorse.

  When he still didn’t move, she struggled to stand. She nudged him with her foot, and he remained still.

  She’d broken his neck.

  Isandra let out a shaky breath.

  The door to her cell remained open, and she started toward it. She paused at the door and returned to grab the keys to the cell from Longtree’s pocket before making her way down the row of cells. She’d need them if she intended to free any others.

  She need not have bothered. The other cells were empty.

  Where had they taken Wendiy?

  They hadn’t. She was gone. Dead.

  Isandra drew upon what strength she still had, and hurried down the hall. She reached the door and practically dragged herself up the stairs. At the top, she carefully pushed the door open.

  The hall was empty.

  Making her way through the halls, she encountered a few servants, all of who glanced at her but made no attempt to stop her, before finding the door leading out into the city.

  The street was awash with chaos.

  Mounted soldiers marched through the streets, most making their way toward the southern gate. It was the same way she’d come into the city.

  She couldn’t go that way, not if it meant risking herself to others like Longtree. Not if it meant recapture. Besides, not only did she no longer have her Mageborn ability, she had killed. Could she really return to Vasha?

  Isandra knew that she would have to. The Council had to know what had happened here. The Denraen had to know what they faced.

  First, she had to escape Rondalin.

  She went the only way it seemed she could go and not find soldiers. She went north.

  Reaching the gate, she found it lightly guarded and snuck through, disappearing along the street of the shantytown outside the wall. She would go north, out of the city, until it was safe to turn south again. As she did, Isandra prayed she wouldn’t find Deshmahne, and she prayed that her strength wouldn’t fail her, but mostly, she prayed to the gods, seeking their favor. It felt as if she had fallen out of it.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Locken looked behind them. The wind whipped hard this day, and he was glad he did not have his standard flying. The sound of it snapping in this wind would have been more than his mind could bear. It was for the best anyway, he knew. They were not here for conquest, were not here to conquer. They were only here to stop Richard and drive him back. He had left the banners down out of respect for Thealon.

  In the distance, he could make out two horses riding hard toward them. The prince and his friend returned. The scouts had warned him. He wondered if the boy had any news that would be of use.

  A boy no longer, I suppose.

  “It is the prince,” Lonn spoke.

  He looked over to his friend. The man looked older than he had before they left, but he supposed he did too. The ride and their worries would do that to them.

  They waited quietly as the two neared, eventually hailing them. Robden came up then, looking to Locken. He stood silent with the two other men, waiting for the prince’s arrival. Robden trusted the prince, hoped for his ascension to the throne.

  That may be easiest, he thought.

  He let the thought go as the prince neared.

  “My father is one day’s march from here,” the prince announced.

  Locken nodded. He had heard as much.

  “He thinks to gain the Tower,” the prince continued.

  Locken nodded again. More news that he had heard.

  He watched as Allay shook his head. “I could not persuade him otherwise. I tried, but he won’t listen.” The prince hesitated. “There’s another thing.”

  “What did you see?” Lonn asked.

  “Deshmahne were camped with him.”

  Could Richard have formalized that connection more than Locken had realized? What did that mean?

  “Was his advisor with him?” Robden asked quietly.

  “It was only my father.”

  “It’s good he was not. If he had been there, I doubt you would be here now,” Robden said.

  Locken wondered for a moment but then moved past the thought. “It starts soon, son,” he told Allay.

  The prince nodded. “I know.”

  “Before it does, we need to know where your allegiance lies,” Locken said.

  The words seemed loud. Treason is always loud.

  “The Deshmahne can’t rule in Gom Aaldia. We will need all of Gom Aaldia to unite against them, and we will need Thealon to help. We need peace.”

  “There may not be peace for a while,” he said with a sigh. War would come soon. He’d never expected to see, but had trained his whole life as if he would. “If he’s a day out, then we’ll meet Richard tomorrow. We have to stop him before he reaches Thealon.”

  He prayed silently to the gods for answers, for help. He hoped they listened.

  Richard looked out upon the plains. The wind whipped at his hair. They were nearly there. Jeslen and Paylig looked at him expectantly. They awaited their orders, but they were orders he was still hesitant to give.

  “We are two days from Thealon,” he began. “Two days from the Tower.” The words seemed sourer today than they ever had. The Tower meant the gods. That was what he wanted… wasn’t it?

  There had been another motivation before.

  He knew there had, but that was long ago and a distant memory.

  One of his region kings began to speak, but Richard didn’t hear him. His thoughts drifted instead to his son. Allay had come to him, his slave in tow. The heir to Gom Aaldia bringing his slave with him! He spat with the thought.

  He wasn’t sure what his boy had intended, but he had seemed insistent that he stop t
he army’s march immediately. He remembered threatening his son and sending him away. There could be no stop of the march, he knew. Was it Allay he was upset with, or himself?

  Now, he regretted what he had said. Allay was his oldest son now. His successor when he was gone. He should have kept him near, yet he had let his anger get in the way of reason.

  And then the Deshmahne camped with them had departed, chasing after rumors of Denraen. The Magi wouldn’t send their soldiers after him, would they?

  Had that been why Allay had come to him? Had he intended to warn him of the coming attack?

  No. The boy had come to persuade him to abort the attack on Thealon. The Tower would be his! That was what he wanted.

  Wasn’t it?

  “My scouts to the south report troop movement ahead,” he heard.

  “What was that?” he asked, shaken from his thoughts.

  “To the south. An army moves,” Jeslen answered.

  An army? He had heard nothing of an army to the south.

  Locken? he wondered.

  “What standard flies?” he asked.

  “The scouts report that no banner was raised,” Jeslen said.

  No banner? That would not be Locken. He was too proud not to fly his standard.

  “It is likely Thealon troops, then. The Ur,” he answered.

  Jeslen and Paylig nodded. “What will you have us do?” Paylig asked.

  Richard looked out over the plains. The sun was bright and a gentle breeze pulled slightly, waving the long blades of grass. Raime still had not returned, but Richard knew he would suffer the man’s anger if he did not keep to their plan. “We keep moving,” he answered. “It’s two days to Thealon,” he began. “And they do not have an army that can stop us.”

  He knew the words to be true. He was not worried about Thealon. No, it was the missing kings that worried him. Where was Locken? Where was Robden? It angered him that they had heard nothing. Nothing! Both men had large enough armies that stories of their movement would surely have spread across the land. He should have at least heard rumors of the men. But nothing? What did it mean?