Agent of Prophecy

by M. A. Rothman

  He heard creatures scrambling along behind him, struggling through the cascade of loose scree he left behind. He ignored them. Normally he would have attacked them, but somehow he knew that there was no need. That creating the tunnel, that going up, these things were more important.

  The taste of the rock changed after a time. He’d moved from the bedrock he loved to upper rock that tasted bitter and wet. And then he was biting through nothing but disgusting worm-infested soil. He nearly gagged at the taste, and then he broke through the surface and was blinded by the brightest light his eyes had ever seen.

  Mastering My Gifts

  It seemed like every time Arabelle woke, her joints were stiffer. Sometimes she worried that the poison was getting stronger, that Castien’s exercises weren’t enough to completely drive it back each time. But once she got her blood flowing, loosened her limbs, and truly built up a sweat, she always felt one hundred percent herself again.

  It had been nearly six months since her encounter with the dragon, and Arabelle couldn’t wait until the caravan arrived once again at Aubgherle. She wanted to show Castien what she’d achieved, how she’d changed. She was fit, strong, energetic. Tabor was complimenting her reflexes, her speed and agility, and her father even claimed that she was looking happier than he’d ever seen her.

  Now, as she lay on the ground, lifting her bare legs into the air and pointing her toes up and down, she studied her muscles. Her flexing motions no longer showed every fiber like they used to; she’d managed to smooth out some of the ripples.

  She was less satisfied with her arms. When she squeezed her fists she could see the new muscles in her arms tense, even though her arms were strong, they still seemed much too thin.

  She reached under her mattress and pulled out the mirror she’d hidden there. It was ridiculous that she had to keep her mirror a secret, but her father didn’t approve of them—he said they were the tool of vain women and served no useful purpose. Arabelle wasn’t vain; she was simply curious about what others saw that she couldn’t normally see herself.

  And yes, she liked what she saw. Was that so wrong? Her reflection looked back at her with full lips, dark-brown eyes, and rounded cheeks. It was her face, the only one she would ever have, and she liked it. Especially because her father and Tabor said she looked exactly like her mother. She could almost feel a spiritual connection to her mother when she looked at her reflection. For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw a grown woman instead of the young daughter of a Sheikh.

  Arabelle tucked the mirror back under the mattress as Maggie entered to prepare her morning bath.

  Soon Arabelle was soaking in steaming water, the warmth penetrating her tired muscles. Baths felt so much better after a hard workout.

  Maggie brushed Arabelle’s hair. “Milady, why don’t you like having scents in your bathwater anymore?”

  Arabelle stretched her neck and felt a comforting pop. “Because if I need to stalk someone with the intent of spying on them or even killing them, I don’t want any unusual scents to give away my presence.”

  Maggie laughed. “Fine. You needn’t tell me. A princess can keep her secrets.”

  Arabelle kept her eyes closed and smiled. Her life had changed in so many unexpected ways that even her closest companion couldn’t believe the truth.

  She thought once more of the blue-eyed boy who was still somehow hovering above her tent. Silently she wondered whether he might fly down to meet her.

  It was midday, and the caravan had set up near a group of villages on the western edge of the Trimorian valley. A breeze from the northwest carried the sounds of villagers haggling with vendors, and the sounds helped mask the creak of the wooden roof Arabelle rested upon.

  Her heart was beating rapidly. Her adversary was dangerous, and she would have to employ all her skills in order to defeat him.

  She spotted him, but held her crouching position, preparing herself to leap at just the right moment. When he came within reach, she sprang at him soundlessly.

  Tabor merely stepped nimbly to one side and stuck both fingers out in defense.

  Arabelle groaned and rolled to her feet. “What did I do wrong this time?”

  Tabor smiled at her proudly. “Let’s talk about what you did correctly first. It’s a much longer list.”

  She blushed, despite her frustration. “Fine.”

  They began to walk back toward her tent.

  “When you started following me,” Tabor began, “I purposely walked through a crowd so that you would lose track of me. For a long while, I couldn’t see you. Only minutes ago did I spot you watching me. Do you realize what that means, Princess? It means you managed to make me think you had lost track of me, when in fact it was I who had lost track of you. That is a very difficult thing.”

  Arabelle’s blush deepened.

  “And another thing. Your movement in the shadows was impressive. I’m not sure how you managed it, but you were practically invisible, blending into your surroundings as deftly as an elf.”

  She laughed out loud. Thank you, Castien.

  “Now, as to what you did wrong…”

  Arabelle braced herself.

  “You didn’t pay attention to the light, Princess. Whether it’s sunlight, moonlight, or a torch, light casts shadows, and shadows can give your position away.”

  Arabelle smacked herself on the forehead. “How stupid of me. The sun was behind me and you saw my shadow as you passed underneath me.”

  Tabor winked. “Like I said before, if you weren’t our princess, you would make a very fine soldier.” He frowned. “No—you are too smart for a common soldier. You would be an officer.”

  “An officer who will never make that mistake again.”

  Tabor chuckled. “Of that I’m sure.”

  They arrived at her tent, and Tabor checked the inside before opening the flap for her to enter.

  “Tabor, can you make sure nobody disturbs me until it’s time for supper? I would like to rest.”

  Tabor nodded. “As you wish, Princess. Have a good afternoon’s nap.”

  Arabelle wore the veiled headwrap that Maggie had given her as she ground a large handful of red-threaded Tishkakh leaves in her mortar, following the instructions in the book Castien had given her. The dried leaves turned into sand-like particles, and then a fine powder. She poured the powder into a silk bag.

  She then moved on to a different kind of leaf, and took the same approach, with slight modifications suggested by Castien’s book. She filled another bag with a potent powder and pulled the drawstring to cinch it closed.

  Maggie had woven her a belt to which all these bags could be attached. The handmaiden had also modified Arabelle’s clothes by adding hidden pockets for small items and inserting invisible slits that would allow the princess to instantly reach her mother’s daggers, which were strapped to each thigh. Maggie made it clear that she felt the princess was inviting danger by arming herself so, but at the same time, she did get wrapped up in the excitement of it all. Arabelle knew she would be lost without her friend’s help.

  When Arabelle had ground the next set of leaves, she took a wooden straw, acquired from Madam Mizner, and stuffed a tiny piece of cotton into one end. To test the device, she lifted her veil, put the straw to her lips and blew as hard as she could.

  The plug of cotton flew out the other end of the straw.

  She smiled as she collected another wad of cotton and plugged the end of the straw once more. This time she dribbled her freshly powdered leaves into the open end and sealed it with beeswax.

  When she had filled her pouches and straws with potent powders that caused all manner of pleasant and unpleasant effects, she leaned back and surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction.

  For the first time, she began to feel like she was nearly prepared to face whatever her destiny placed in her way.

  Arabelle was in Madam Mizmer’s stall, working on a stew. The princess had asked for permission to try out what she called “my own recip
es,” and although the look on the motherly cook’s face suggested a lack of confidence that any of these recipes would be edible, she had set aside a charcoal grill specifically for Arabelle’s use.

  At the moment, Arabelle shared the woman’s doubt. As she stirred her pot and smelled the steam rising from it, she felt a combination of revulsion and panic.

  Alexandra came up behind her. “What, uh… what did you put in it, Princess?” she asked politely.

  “Well,” said Arabelle, “I like pickled onions and raspberries, so I started with those and then just… added some other things.”

  Alexandra smiled uncomfortably. “Well, you’ve certainly created something unique.”

  “‘Unique’ is a polite way of saying horrible.”

  Alexandra shook her head quickly. “Oh, no, sometimes you can’t predict such things. When will it be done?”

  Arabelle took a whiff of the brewing concoction—and cringed. “I think it needs more time. I’ll just continue stirring a while.”

  At that moment Zoe came running into the stall. “Slavers! Uh, slaves!” She was panting for breath. “They escaped!”

  Arabelle knelt in front of her. “Zoe, calm down and take a breath. What are you trying to say?”

  Zoe breathed deeply several times, but still she babbled with wide-eyed excitement. “A bunch of slaves escaped from slavers and one of our scouting parties found them and brought them in. One of them is a baby dwarf with a teeny-tiny beard!”

  “I would like to see that,” said the princess. “Can you take me there?”

  Zoe jumped up and down. “Of course, Princess!”

  Arabelle looked at Alexandra, then glanced at her stew. “Could you, uh…”

  Alexandra nodded. “You know what I think? I think it might get better if we take it off the grill. Perhaps it just needs to cool.”

  “Yes,” said Arabelle. “Thank you, Alexandra, I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

  Secretly she hoped that when she returned, the stew would be nowhere to be found.

  The slaves were a ragtag group, emaciated, dressed in torn rags. They were being served soldiers’ rations, which they devoured as if they hadn’t eaten in years. Tabor was with them, talking with a dwarf and a grizzled old man.

  “The tunnel we found led us into the woods,” said the man, “and luckily my sense of the seasons and recollection of the caravan’s schedule helped us stumble in the right direction.”

  Tabor scratched his beard. “It’s an amazing story. I’ve rarely heard of a slave escaping, and certainly not in a large group like this. Wasn’t the exit to the mines guarded?”

  The grizzled man and the dwarf looked at each other for an instant before the man replied. “As I said, our taskmaster left us unsupervised with our tools during rest periods. I suppose they were confident we would never find our way through the maze. Luckily we had Grisham here.” The man patted the little dwarf on the shoulder. “He felt air movement and followed it to a ventilation hole—perhaps long-forgotten or even naturally occurring. We knew the ogre couldn’t fit into it, and we rarely even saw a human slaver, so I was confident they knew not of it. So we decided to use our pickaxes to break our chain, and we climbed the shaft, and here we are.”

  Arabelle shivered. How terrifying it must have been to be trapped deep underground for days on end, with almost no hope of escape.

  Tabor examined the slave collar still clamped around the man’s neck. As he rotated it a bit, the man winced. His skin was raw beneath the metal.

  Tabor turned to one of his soldiers. “Get the blacksmith. I want the collars off these men now.”

  The grizzled slave was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. “Bless you, sir. Bless you.” He actually grabbed Tabor’s hand and kissed the back of it—much to Tabor’s obvious discomfort.

  Tabor knelt down to face the dwarf eye to eye. “And why do you not have a collar?” he asked.

  The man opened his mouth to answer, but Tabor raised his hand for silence, insisting on a response from the dwarf.

  The dwarf shrugged. “I was lucky. When my slave collar was first clamped on, I heard a crack. I knew that sound from my father’s smithy—it’s the sound that fatigued iron gives when bent or strained beyond the metal’s capacity. I actually feared that the metal might break one day, and that I would be punished for it. But when the time came to escape, I took advantage. A simple tap of a hammer at just the right spot, and the metal shattered.”

  Arabelle had little experience with dwarfs, but this one seemed very cautious in his words and mannerisms. Perhaps he was simply scared and tired, though she got the impression he wasn’t one to feel sorry for himself. Clearly he was a hardened survivor. All these men were.

  Tabor stood to address all of the former slaves. “Men, please accept my sympathy for the trials you’ve unjustly endured. I congratulate you on your fortitude and bravery in escaping these foul slavers. For now you will stay here with us, and we will ensure that you are fed and clothed.

  “However, I cannot yet let you walk freely throughout the caravan. I will talk to each one of you individually, and if I am satisfied with your story, I will consult with our leader and make arrangements for you. If I am not satisfied with your story, you will be deposited with the Protector of the next town we stop in, and you will be their concern.”

  The former slaves nodded in appreciation and expressed their gratitude.

  “In the meantime,” said Tabor with a small smile, “eat up. I’ve never seen anyone take such pleasure in consuming soldiers’ rations.”

  As Arabelle stirred her next batch of stew, she sniffed it warily. This time Alexandra was teaching her one of Madam Mizner’s recipe, but she was still afraid that somehow she’d produce something less than edible.

  “Princess,” said Alexandra, “trust me. I know you dislike raw onions, but when they’re browned, they change flavors and will enhance the stew.”

  “What about the celery?” Arabelle asked. “I can’t imagine their flavor ever being palatable no matter what you do to them. I hate celery.”

  Alexandra laughed. “That’s why I didn’t have you chop it fine. We will take out the chunks after it’s done its job. Your stew will be the better for it.”

  Arabelle frowned at the simmering kettle. “I’d rather eat mealworms than celery.”

  “Then we will have to try that next time.”

  Arabelle looked at her friend in shock.

  Alexandra laughed. “I’m just teasing you, Princess. Just stick close to my mother’s recipe. It will turn out better than your first batch.”

  Arabelle crinkled her nose. Even mealworm stew would have turned out better than her first batch.

  Tabor stepped into the tent and sniffed the air. “Anything available for me to try?”

  “Princess, shall we give him some of your first stew?” Alexandra asked mischievously.

  Arabelle turned to her aghast. “I thought Zoe took that to feed the sheep.”

  “She did, but they wouldn’t eat it.”

  Tabor chuckled. “Maybe I’m sorry I asked.”

  Arabelle gave Tabor her best glare. “That remark has just earned you the role of taste-tester. Grab a bowl.”

  Tabor looked into the kettle nervously. But he picked up a wooden bowl and handed it to her. “I am your willing subject.”

  She ladled out a bowlful and even garnished it with some slivers of spring onion like she’d seen Madam Mizmer do. As she handed it to Tabor, she watched his reaction closely.

  He sniffed the bowl, picked up a spoon, and took a very tentative sample. His stone-like expression betrayed no emotion.

  But then he went for a second spoonful.

  That means at least he didn’t despise it!

  After several spoonfuls, Arabelle grew impatient.

  “Well? What do you think?”

  Tabor gingerly wiped his lips and gave a burp of satisfaction. “It could use more celery.”

  Alexandra laughed. “Ha! I told you.”


  Arabelle shot her a sideways look.

  Tabor scooped up the last of his bowl and stood. “Don’t worry, Princess. I promise that your future husband will grow fat on a stew such as that. Just add celery to it, it would give it some fiber, which is good for everyone.”

  Arabelle felt herself warm with pride. She was an actual cook, who had made an actual stew… that tasted good? She was suddenly eager to serve this stew to as many people as possible.

  A thought struck her, and she looked up at Tabor. “Do you think I could feed this to the escaped slaves?” She remembered how much they’d appreciated cold rations, but men who’d been through such hardships deserved a hot meal.

  Tabor smiled, and Arabelle almost thought she saw his eyes glisten with moisture. “My dear princess, that is a very kind gesture. Your mother would be proud.” He looked into the pot. “However, you hardly have enough here for more than a serving or two.”

  Arabelle frowned. That was true. “Perhaps I could bring some to the dwarf child? He seemed so out of place with the rest of the slaves, and we have almost no other dwarfs in the caravan. He’s practically all alone.”

  Tabor nodded his approval. “Yes, he’s very different than the rest. I’ve spoken with him, and he’s led a tragic life. I can only pray things improve for him from now on.”

  Arabelle began ladling her stew into a smaller container. “Then perhaps my stew will be a good start!”

  As Arabelle entered the tent where the young dwarf had been put up, she found he wasn’t alone. The soldier, Oda, was there.

  “Just remember,” Oda was saying, “us dwarfs be takin’ care of our own. Never let it be said Oda Rockfist didn’t lend a hand to a fellow dwarf, even a clanless one. When yer ready, we can talk further.”