Prophecy's Ruin (Broken Well Trilogy)

by Sam Bowring

  ‘Shadowdreams,’ said Losara.

  ‘Yes. With the Cloud running throughout Skygrip, there isn’t a night that shadowdreams don’t visit my sleep – but they are strongest here, between earth and sky. Would you like to see?’

  ‘Yes,’ Losara had whispered, fascinated. ‘Master,’ he added quickly.

  ‘Then come,’ said Battu, leading Losara to stand before the Breath.

  Losara had reached out to touch it, but Battu seized his hand. ‘Stupid boy! You do not have the skill to do this by yourself!’ Losara cried out at the Shadowdreamer’s grip and Battu relaxed it. ‘You must hold my hand as we go in,’ he said. ‘Don’t try this by yourself, until I tell you otherwise. Are you ready?’

  Losara nodded. Holding the boy’s pale little hand in his own, Battu led him into the Cloud.

  A fine sheet of moisture coated Losara instantly. He blinked, but couldn’t see. Darkness moved against his skin like slow wind. It didn’t occur to him to be afraid; instead, wonder filled him. So this was where the dreams came from. He’d always had them, as far back as he could remember in his short life. He’d always known them for what they were – reflections, half-truths, memories, possibilities, dim and half-remembered. How he’d known, exactly, did not seem to matter. Had someone told him, right at the beginning? He had an impression of whiskers and scales.

  From somewhere beside him came Battu’s voice. ‘Breathe it in, boy.’

  Losara breathed, and darkness suffused his body and mind. A moment later he could no longer feel his physical form, but seemed to float without a body. He spun, disoriented, but the presence of Battu hovered nearby, holding him steady against the tumbling eddies. Somewhere Losara heard a tumultuous noise, far away yet all around, there, but impossible to listen to.

  Do you hear that? came Battu’s thought.

  Yes.

  It’s the sound of the world from beginning to end. Don’t listen too hard or you will be lost. Just drift.

  A heady ecstasy coursed through Losara. Images rose out of the void to catch him, like bubbles. He shadowdreamed . . .

  . . . he’s older now, sailing alone across black waters. Ahead is darkness like a great cave mouth swallowing the sea. He rows towards it, the splashing of his oars the only sound . . .

  . . . sharks are swimming side by side as they hurry after prey. One male leads, the biggest of the pack. A hunted serpent rounds on the male, flaring spiked frill and baring fangs. The male attacks, all snapping jaws and swiping tail, and soon the serpent is dead. The big male gorges himself on bands of its flesh while the other sharks circle uneasily. Their leader is strong, but he takes more than he needs, and he shares his mind with another . . .

  . . . an old mage with golden hair stands above a gravestone, incanting uneasily, performing a spell that makes him afraid . . .

  . . . a blond woman with pointed ears runs through a forest into a clearing. A man is there, tall and bare-chested, chopping wood with a huge axe. He drops the tool when he sees her and she runs happily into his arms. He swings her around, laughing . . .

  . . . the city of the Graka, high in the Bentemoth Mountains where the air is thin and the temperature freezing. Graka emerge from caves onto stone platforms, four of them carrying a casket between them, beating their wings to rise into the sky . . .

  . . . a little boy with black hair runs through dry mud streets. Behind him come three older boys, chasing him with sticks . . .

  . . . Battu, now the Shadowdreamer’s Apprentice, raises a hand and points. Three men begin screaming, and die painfully . . .

  . . . And then a scene of the present, of himself, of his other self . . .

  •

  Bel bounded down the Open Tower staircase three steps at a time. At six years old he was physically strong in a way that Losara had never been. His face was round and friendly with some slight freckling on his nose. His Sprite eyes were amber flecked with gold, sparkling infectiously. Losara had no such eyes, and circled closer with interest.

  Bel ran to a log house, away a bit off the path between the trees. Was that where he lived? There were two other houses close by, and a leather ball lay on the grass. ‘Hiza?’ called out Bel. ‘Vrymus! Are you not here, you lazy louts?’ He kicked the ball.

  He calls out to friends, thought Losara. Were there other families living in those houses? He pondered what it would be like to have friends his own age.

  Bel ran on, until he spied another boy, who was sitting beneath a bush tugging up grass. ‘Hello, Lyndal!’ he said, jogging up. ‘Having fun?’

  Lyndal, slightly younger, regarded Bel suspiciously. ‘No.’

  Bel kneeled and tore up a clump of grass. He considered his handiwork briefly, then sprinkled the tufts on Lyndal’s shoes. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘This isn’t fun. Have you seen Hiza or Vrymus?’

  ‘No,’ said Lyndal, brushing the grass off his feet.

  ‘Why are you so sour?’ said Bel. He leaned closer, staring intently into Lyndal’s eyes. Lyndal shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you go away? I’m busy.’

  Bel glanced at the severed grass, his fingers playing over it idly. Then he smacked Lyndal in the knee.

  ‘Ow! What was that for?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Bel said jovially, standing up. ‘Shouldn’t kill the grass, Lyndal! But I guess we didn’t all get the evil taken out of us when we were born.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Bel.

  Losara felt a moment of sickness. Bel did know about him, but thought that he was evil. Was that true? Had Losara been a canker best removed?

  Bel ran through scattered trees towards a high hedge. Children weren’t allowed on the barracks grounds without an adult, but Bel and his comrades sometimes came here to climb a gnarled tree that grew next to the hedge. As he reached it he heard the clang of practice blades from the other side. He swung himself into the tree, eager to see the fighting. About eight paces up he found a branch well hidden within the foliage, which held a good view of the training ground.

  A large man was advancing on a spotty youth, sixteen at most, batting his sword away while barking commands. Watching were a group of ten or so students. One of them, Losara noted with interest, was a Saurian. The creature stood man-height but had lizard-like features and watched the fight through double-lidded eyes. It was a Ryoshi Saurian, Losara knew from his lessons. Not as dangerous as a Syanti Saurian, the Ryoshi’s snake-like cousin.

  Reptiles, thought Losara. They need the sun. If the Cloud extended as far as their deserts, would they all die?

  The big man launched another attack and his student rallied, forcing him back a step. Some of the class gave encouraging claps. The man called for the lad to press forward with his attack – but it was too slow in coming. The man raised his sword to the boy’s chest and the fight was over.

  Bel shifted his weight, rustling the branch, and a few leaves shook loose. The man glanced up and Bel froze, not wishing to give away his secret vantage. The man seemed to smile a moment, then turned his attention back to his lesson. He called up another student, a stout young woman who walked with a roll to her shoulders and a proud air. She bowed to the man and a new bout began. She was a better fighter than her predecessor and the taskmaster laughed heartily as she forced him back under flashing whirls of dull metal. He announced he was going to try to disarm her and her expression grew more determined. It turned to surprise a moment later as, with a sudden lunge, the man jabbed his sword under the curved hilt of hers and flipped it from her hand. It spun up into the air and went sailing over the hedge, sticking into the ground at the base of Bel’s tree.

  ‘You have good technique, Gredda,’ the man rumbled, ‘but your grip requires attention.’ The rest of the class laughed and the girl flushed angrily. The man placed a hand on her shoul
der. ‘Do not worry. You fight well. Now let us retrieve your sword.’

  He turned towards the tree and seemed to look right at Bel. ‘Ho, the tree!’ he called.

  Bel grinned. ‘Ho, the ground!’ he called back.

  ‘Would you return Gredda’s sword to her, young lurker?’

  Bel swung from the branch to hang in plain view. ‘With pleasure!’

  ‘Oho!’ said the man. ‘I might have known!’

  As Bel dropped to the ground to grab the sword and go running around the long way, Losara simply drifted over the hedge.

  The man turned to his students. ‘That is the end of lessons for today,’ he announced. ‘Gredda, wait for your sword. The rest may leave.’

  The group broke up in different directions as Bel arrived, panting. ‘Your sword, m’lady,’ he said, going down on one knee and extending the sword towards Gredda. She snatched it back and strode off huffily. Then the gate soldier arrived behind Bel, red and breathing hard.

  ‘I’m sorry, Taskmaster Corlas,’ the soldier puffed. ‘He ran through the gate before I could stop him!’

  ‘Because you were asleep at your post!’ piped Bel.

  The soldier went even redder, and not from exertion. ‘Why, you little cur! I ought to –’

  ‘Be calm, soldier,’ Corlas said. ‘The boy is here by my leave. Return to your nap . . . I mean post.’ He winked at Bel, who smirked.

  ‘Right, sir,’ said the soldier suspiciously, and turned with a frown to trudge back to the gate.

  Corlas looked down at Bel. ‘Your grip on Gredda’s sword looked good,’ he said. ‘As if someone had taught you. But I know that I have never put a sword into your hands, my very young son.’

  Son, thought Losara. This man is Bel’s father. My father.

  ‘The Throne once showed me how a sword is carried,’ said Bel.

  ‘Did he now?’ Corlas’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Well, did you know that I once beat the Throne in a joust?’

  Bel shook his head.

  ‘I’d be careful who you get your advice from,’ said Corlas, and ruffled Bel’s hair. ‘I am not supposed to teach one so young, but if the Throne himself deems you ready . . . Well, would you like to learn what to do with a sword once you can grip it?’

  Bel’s eyes shone, and Corlas chuckled.

  Together they went to the armoury where, with the aid of an amused armourer, they found a wooden sword small enough for Bel to practise with. Back on the training field, Corlas began to teach the basics of swordplay. The boy learned quickly and well, seeming to have an instant affinity with the weapon. For hours they practised, neither growing tired. As the sun crossed the sky above, Losara wondered if there had ever been a deadlier six-year-old.

  Yet I have no love for the blade, he thought. Was I supposed to?

  The dream took him suddenly elsewhere, to a reedy river where frogs chirped, then a deep wood full of skeletal trees, then a mountain range on the edge of the world where rays from the rising sun shone between peaks like a bridge . . . Scene after scene came, flashing one after the other, blending into each other. The rush became overpowering and he reeled in the dark, his mind beginning to shred under the onslaught of everything.

  •

  A force had seized and contained him, halting his wild spinning. For a moment he felt squashed, then realised it was because he was inside his own body again. It was falling to the ground. He felt arms catch him, lift him and carry him out of the Breath. Looking up he saw Battu, with eyes like wells. He wheezed as air replaced the darkness in his lungs.

  ‘You spread too thin,’ said Battu gruffly. ‘There is only so much one mind can take.’ He kneeled by the gasping boy. ‘This is why I was there with you, why you must never go into the Cloud by yourself. Rest a moment, boy.’

  Losara did as he was told, quietly pondering what he had seen. Away in Kainordas, his father taught his other self and did it purely out of love. Meanwhile, he had the Shadowdreamer as a teacher. Battu wasn’t his real father, yet he had taken Losara to raise as his own.

  Why? he had wondered that day, for the first time.

  The answer came to him on his twelfth birthday, when Battu had held a dinner for him and Heron.

  ‘Try these, boy,’ Battu had said, grinning sharkishly and sliding a bowl of quivering lumps across the table. ‘Marinated anemones. Have to be served fresh. I sent a whelkling on a special trip to Afei Edres just for these!’

  Losara was already full, but there seemed no end to Battu’s appetite or his enthusiasm for seafood. Losara spooned a blob onto his plate and, with Battu watching intently, bit into it. The jellied flesh sliced cleanly into smaller pieces that slipped around his mouth, filling it with a briny taste. Losara found the meat unappealing, but he ate the whole thing.

  ‘A delicacy, master,’ he said.

  ‘Have more,’ said Battu.

  ‘I am quite full, master.’

  Battu scowled and shoved a whole anemone into his mouth. ‘These are hard to come by, boy. I suggest you enjoy them while you have the chance. Not every day is your birthday. You may indulge yourself, I will not think less of you.’

  Losara thought it best to eat another anemone, though he was careful to take more time with this one.

  ‘Good,’ said Battu. ‘If you’d been brought up in that foxy little wood I rescued you from, there’d be no fine food like this on the table. You remember that.’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  Battu grew annoyed at this. ‘What’s wrong, boy? Is this meal not enough for you?’

  Losara was confused by the outburst. He’d agreed with Battu, hadn’t he? ‘The meal is very nice, my lord,’ he tried.

  Battu visibly tried to relax his features, and pushed another bowl across the table. ‘Spiced beef,’ he said.

  Losara dutifully took a handful of strips and tried to appear enthusiastic about forcing them down. The Shadowdreamer had something hungry in his gaze that had nothing to do with food. It struck Losara that while Battu didn’t actually love him, the dark lord still sought Losara’s love. Why would that be? Why would the Shadowdreamer seek such a thing from a young boy?

  Loyalty was the answer. Battu was trying to raise Losara loyal, which meant making Losara love him. Everything became clear. Whenever Battu had been ‘nice’, Losara now realised it was for a purpose. Whenever Battu attempted to appear ‘fatherly’, he was motivated by his own concerns. Battu had grown angry now because Losara had given him an agreeable ‘Yes, master’ when he wanted adulation, not meek compliance.

  ‘Wonderful,’ Losara said, slurping noisily on the beef. ‘Thank you, Father – I mean master.’ He feigned concern over the slip, but Battu seemed extremely pleased.

  With the mystery of the fatherly guise solved, Losara found the tyrant incarnation of Battu even more troubling. While most would be moved beyond terror at the slightest chance they’d displeased the dark lord, the trouble for Losara was that he did not fear him. Battu put Losara in mind of a snake that needed to be handled with utmost care lest it lash out in anger. Even through Battu’s loudest tirades and harshest punishments, Losara had never truly been stirred. He’d learned to feign fear, especially if Battu was in a punishing mood, for he took no pleasure in pain and did what he could to avoid it. He often wondered what he’d lost in his division from Bel. Perhaps his ability to feel fear had been affected?

  After careful consideration, he decided that was not the case. He knew what it was to be afraid, it was just that the dark lord did not inspire it in him. The punishments, though unpleasant, were petty and irrational and Losara could not respect them.

  It was all quite confusing.

  •

  ‘Has Losara news?’ asked Grimra, bringing him back to the present. ‘Any enemies for Grimra to eat as they pass under his archway?’

  ‘
No, Grimra. Though perhaps soon enough. Battu is presenting me at the next meeting of the Shadow Council as his Apprentice.’

  ‘What be “apprentice”?’

  ‘An official title to acknowledge what I am already, but more than that. To be named Apprentice in front of the council is to be given a silent title as well.’

  ‘What be the silent title?’

  ‘Successor.’ Losara stared into the distance. ‘The Apprentice is marked to follow his master into rule. And he must also journey across the Black Sea. Apprentice can be a dangerous title to hold.’

  ‘Grimra sees. Your shadow grows long.’ A single claw the length of a sword materialised in front of Losara. ‘Remember,’ said the Golgoleth, ‘enemies for Losara can be treats for Grimra.’

  ‘Most gracious, greedy ghost.’

  The claw faded. ‘Do you be worried?’

  ‘No. I am . . .’

  Losara fell silent. How did he feel about the impending events? He knew there were many emotions another might experience – anxiety, fear, confidence – but for him, going before the council stirred up no more excitement than the prospect of a morning bath.

  A high-pitched wail interrupted his thoughts. Behind him in the cavern, four Black Goblins were dragging a caterwauling Vortharg in manacles. Spittle oozed from her rubbery lips, spraying her tusks as she cried out in misery. She railed against the guards, trying to spring away on bandy legs. The leader lost patience and cracked her across the skull with his sword hilt.

  ‘Me thinks it be dinnertime,’ said Grimra.

  The guards arrived at the doors, coming to an abrupt stop when they saw Losara sitting in the arch.

  ‘Master Losara,’ said the leader, bowing his head as the others watched with wary black eyes. Losara knew they were uneasy to stumble across him. It was a common theme. ‘Er . . .’ said the leader, unsure of how to proceed. Though Losara had no official title yet, most treated him with deference. ‘Permission to feed the Golgoleth, sir?’

  Losara rose smoothly to his feet. ‘What is the Vortharg’s crime?’ he asked.

  ‘Thievery, sir,’ replied the leader. Losara waited long enough for him to realise something further was required. ‘Er . . . she was a worker in the nursery, sir. Taking creeper saplings she was, to sell them on down in Mankow.’