Prophecy's Ruin (Broken Well Trilogy)

by Sam Bowring

  There was a lot getting on his nerves of late. Sometimes he’d be walking along merrily then stop suddenly, feeling at a total loss for no discernible reason. Sometimes he heard echoes of strange thoughts or foreign emotions he could not quite grasp. They slipped away and he was left feeling disturbed, discordant. Often he thought about what he was destined to do, one day – but which day? When? Was he meant to sit around waiting until some event precipitated his greatness, or was he meant to go out and make it happen? No one had a good answer for him. They all told him to live his life, to try not to let it bother him – and yet they wouldn’t even let him leave the Halls at an age when many young people went off to explore the world. He wondered vaguely about how his other self was faring, that dark slime that had dripped out of him all those years ago.

  ‘Those muscles not strong enough to hold up the ends of your mouth, keeper?’ came a woman’s voice. ‘You’re staring at that beer as if it murdered your family.’

  ‘Hmm?’ he said, glancing up. And then both he and a strange girl he’d never seen before stared at each other in great surprise.

  She wore a light green cloak with the hood back and dark green vestments underneath. Her nose was pointy and studded by a tiny emerald. Her forehead was high and proud, framed by red ringlets that escaped being pushed behind her mischievous little ears. She was a beautiful girl, but that wasn’t why Bel stared; it was her eyes. They were green shot through with flecks of gold.

  ‘Sprite . . .’ he said.

  ‘And you,’ she replied.

  Bel had to control an instinct to reach out and touch her, as if that would somehow prove she actually was a Sprite. He held out his hand, but forced himself to turn it into a gesture offering her the seat opposite. She sat, still staring.

  ‘Did you . . . er . . .’ Bel fumbled. Normally he was good at talking to women. He’d had practice: his mystical eyes and uniform had made sure of that. This time, for some reason, he felt odd and awkward.

  ‘I was actually just coming over to tease you because you’re a keeper,’ she said suddenly, then seemed surprised at her words.

  ‘Flattering,’ he replied, though he didn’t manage to inject any sarcasm.

  ‘And also you looked so glum. But I didn’t realise you were . . . I mean, I’ve never met anyone else who had Sprite in them. Oh, I’ve seen those poor children they cart around in the circus, but half the time they’re the ringmaster’s hatchlings with ears stuck on.’

  ‘Well,’ said Bel, ‘I’m told we’re rare. Not quite as rare as blue-haired babies, but rare nonetheless.’ She looked confused and he waved the comment away. Searching quickly for something else, he found, ‘So what work are you in, miss, to be in the habit of teasing keepers?’

  ‘Oh,’ she smiled for the first time, ‘nothing I care to speak of. But I saw you chase down poor Jiggis before – quite an agile fellow, aren’t you?’

  ‘Jiggis?’ said Bel. ‘Oh, the rat who broke my partner’s ankle.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t actually. It was your partner’s ineptitude that did that.’

  Bel felt his brow heat. ‘I didn’t notice you watching.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘And you wouldn’t have unless I wished it, unlike fools who snatch false gemstones in public. I had my own vantage. A lovely view, way up high.’

  ‘Bold of you to admit such things to a keeper.’

  ‘I’ve admitted nothing,’ she said. ‘Except to being in a tall building.’

  Bel smiled. ‘So this is how to tease a keeper, is it, oh unnamed thief? To hint at your profession and prove yourself uncaught?’

  The girl took a swig of her ale. ‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘That’s good ale. I wonder if it’s locally brewed.’

  ‘I admire your spirit,’ said Bel, ‘but you should be careful which keepers you choose to tease.’

  ‘Oh?’ said the girl, arching an eyebrow. Her eyebrows were already naturally arched, so the result was pronounced. ‘And you, sir, are one of those keepers best avoided?’

  ‘I don’t mind some friendly chat,’ said Bel. ‘But I’d steer clear of me out there,’ he gestured at the door, ‘while you go about your business, whatever it may be. I don’t care what you say about vantages and such, I’m not an easy fellow to shake.’

  ‘I believe you,’ she said, and actually looked uneasy for a moment. ‘Let’s change the subject,’ she continued, extending a hand with long, clever fingers. ‘I’m Jaya.’

  ‘Bel.’

  When he took her hand his skin tingled and he instantly sensed their shared connection. He sometimes had a similar feeling around Corlas, but had always assumed it was the bond of family. She, too, looked affected by what she felt.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, breaking into a grin. ‘It’s just . . . well, have you ever met anyone else like us before?’

  ‘My father, maybe,’ said Bel. ‘My mother used to tell him he had the blood, but he doesn’t really believe it.’

  ‘So your mother?’

  ‘Yes, she had it. Strong too, according to my father. I never met her; she died giving birth to me and . . . well, to me.’

  ‘Lucky,’ said Jaya. ‘My mother lived.’ She spluttered into her drink. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean that quite how it sounded.’

  Bel smirked. ‘I take no offence. I feel like I know her anyway, sometimes. Arkus knows, my father has told me much about her. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’d been through every moment he remembers.’ His cheeks went red. ‘Apart from . . . well, you know.’

  She laughed.

  ‘But anyway,’ he blustered on, ‘a Sprite woman she certainly was. “Be careful if you ever meet a Sprite woman, son,” my father sometimes says. “You . . . ” . . . er . . .’ Bel trailed off as he suddenly realised he was talking to a Sprite woman.

  Jaya smiled. ‘Forget I was here?’

  ‘I just didn’t put it together in my head before I started speaking.’

  ‘Well, you are a man so that’s to be expected. But do go on – what does your father say about Sprite women?’

  ‘Um . . . I’d rather not say now.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’ Jaya scowled at him. ‘I’ll arm-wrestle you for it.’

  ‘What?’ Bel glanced at her arms. True she was athletic, but there was no chance she would best him. ‘Okay,’ he said, and shrugged.

  ‘I’m gonna win, you know,’ she said, thumping her elbow on the table. He locked hands with her – again, a tingle – and ‘Go!’ she said.

  She wasn’t weak, but she was still no match for him. He didn’t push her hand down immediately, but instead pretended to strain against her. ‘Oh, you’re so strong,’ he said, which made her expression more determined. He gave way a bit, letting her force his arm down as if he were losing, giving mock grunts and saying, ‘Oh no, you’re winning.’ As his hand came closer to the table he locked it up and held fast just a finger’s breadth above the wooden surface.

  ‘Pleased with yourself?’ she said. ‘Humouring me like that?’

  Bel winked.

  ‘Pride before a fall,’ she said, and with sudden force that took him by surprise pushed his hand down the last little way to the table. She sat back, laughing. ‘I win!’

  ‘But –’

  ‘You men, really. You love playing that “oh, you’re so strong, you’re beating me” game. Put yourself in the most vulnerable position, at the worst angle, then one little push and it’s sneakiness beats muscles any day.’

  ‘That’s against the rules,’ said Bel.

  ‘Show me the rulebook.’

  ‘Rematch?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Bel laughed. ‘Damn it.’

  ‘So,’ said Jaya, ‘I know any honest keeper would honour our agreement. What does your father say?’

  ‘He says be careful if you ever
meet a Sprite woman . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  Bel sighed. ‘. . . because your souls might fall in love before they tell you.’

  He feigned relaxation. From the sparkle in her eyes juxtaposed with an overly casual sip of ale, she was doing the same thing.

  ‘So,’ she said, wiping her lip, ‘do you think that’s going to happen to us?’

  Bel shrugged. ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Want to hire a room upstairs anyway?’

  Bel had never finished a drink more quickly.

  •

  Corlas made his way through the Open Castle, nodding to guards as he passed. It was almost as if he watched from outside himself, noting how much he looked as if he belonged. Sometimes he forgot to think about it and the mask seemed real even to him. Over many years his fakery had become habit. At the beginning, after he’d learned about Iassia, it had been much harder. In knowing that he couldn’t leave lest the bird enslave him to some foul task, he had to appear as if the decision to remain were his own. He had talked at length with Fahren and Naphur and, admittedly, had found them more reasonable than anticipated. Naphur was a soldier at heart and right away spoke with Corlas as a familiar, cutting bluntly to the heart of any concern. Fahren assured him they had never deliberately separated him from his son, and backed up his words by giving Bel back to Corlas to raise. Perhaps all would have been forgiven if not for one thing. Even now, years later, he couldn’t wrap his mind around the greatest violation he’d ever known, which he was powerless to set right: his child was not whole.

  Fahren had not hidden the fact that part of Bel had been ripped away by cursed magic and taken to Fenvarrow. All Corlas’s instincts cried out to do something about it, but what? He couldn’t leave the Open Halls for fear of being caught by Iassia. Even if he could, what was he supposed to do – march to Fenvarrow, to Skygrip Castle, and snatch his child from the hands of the Shadowdreamer?

  Fahren had tried to console him. ‘Bel is healthy and happy,’ he’d said. ‘What crawled out of him was nothing but a dark worm, something he’s better off without.’ Corlas could see that Fahren was not as certain as he professed, but he’d pretended to accept Fahren’s words. Meanwhile, he couldn’t help but wonder, every single day, about his other boy. Did the Shadowdreamer care for him well, or was he being honed with harsh methods? What was he like; what did he look like? Did he look like Bel, or someone different? Did he know about Corlas? Did he despise Corlas for abandoning him?

  When Bel was six, Corlas had listened to Fahren explain to him about the division of his soul. The old mage had simplified it for the young boy, making it sound as if Bel had been cleansed of an ugly ailment. ‘Normal folk have to live with their dark sides,’ Fahren had said. ‘You are blessed to be rid of it.’ It worried Corlas how Bel had taken that to heart – or perhaps ‘let it go to his head’ was a better description. More than once he’d had to explain to his boy that his transformation did not make him better than other people.

  Corlas arrived in the personal chambers of the Throne. Time had treated Naphur well and, save some extra lines on his brow, he was the same man who’d strode into the Open Castle eighteen years before. Fahren, who stood smoking at an open wall, was a bit less sprightly these days, but everyone still thought he’d live forever. The Throne, who reclined in a voluminous red armchair with a glass of wine, now had streaks of grey at the temples and, though he was still stout and strong, had developed a paunch.

  ‘Ah, Corlas,’ he said. ‘Have a seat and get some wine into the bloodline Corinas.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Corlas, sitting. ‘How was your trip?’

  ‘Surprisingly pleasant,’ said Naphur. ‘Contrary to expectations.’ He turned to Fahren. ‘You know how I feel about the Trusted of Centrus –’

  ‘You don’t trust him,’ said Fahren.

  ‘– but Baygis was quite happy to lead the negotiations. That fox could convince the rain to fall sideways. Anyway, it gave me time to uncover a nest of huggers outside Kahlay and do the Trusted a favour by leading my personal guard against them.’

  ‘A favour?’ chuckled Fahren. ‘I’d say it was the huggers who did you a favour by providing you with some sport, poor beasts.’

  ‘Poor beasts, Arkus’s arse! Rip your ribs out your back as soon as hiss at you. Anyway, I’ve decided to make Baygis my chief ambassador, which has inflated his ego even more. Just what was needed.’

  ‘So he’s giving up his duties as overseer?’

  ‘He thinks he can do both and he’s welcome to try. Maybe he’ll be too busy with it all to annoy me as much.’ He turned back to Corlas. ‘On the subject of sons, we were just discussing your prodigy. I understand Bel’s partner will be unfit to serve as a keeper for some time?’

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ said Corlas.

  ‘Well, although it would be easy enough to assign him another partner, I’ve been debating about whether or not to pull Bel from the keepers entirely.’ He sat forward in his cushions. ‘I want to assign him to a troop.’

  Corlas was surprised, though not displeased.

  ‘A couple of days ago,’ said Naphur, ‘we received news of a hugger infestation near the forest town of Drel. You may have heard?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘The Drel soldiers are managing to keep the huggers out of the town, but they don’t have the numbers to go into the forest and deal with the source. I’m sending a troop and I’d like Bel to be in it. The troop leader is Munpo, a capable man who’s fought huggers many times.’

  ‘I know of him.’

  ‘So,’ continued the Throne, ‘I guess I want to know if you agree with this course of action.’

  Corlas smoothed down his beard, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. ‘As we know, Bel has always been extremely skilled with whatever weapon is put in his hands. There is little more he can learn from us without actually entering the fray. I also know he grows impatient with his confinement behind the wards.’ The taskmaster shifted his weight. ‘I would ask why you accelerate him, though. Others will wonder too.’

  ‘Others will have to believe that it’s because of his great skill,’ said Naphur. ‘The truth is, if Bel is to do the things he is supposed to do, he must have experience in the field. Fahren still harbours doubts about Bel following a warrior’s path, but I do not. I wish to see how he fares in harm’s way.’

  The Throne seemed confident Bel would succeed easily, which made Corlas uneasy. The lad was untried in any real way, yet Naphur appeared to consider him an instant hero. The fact that Bel could swing a sword well in training was no guarantee of safety on the battlefield. Nothing was.

  ‘I approve,’ said Corlas, ‘of Munpo’s inclusion also. But . . .’ He was troubled. The High Mage wasn’t interjecting with his usual concerns for Bel’s protection, so Corlas was forced to express them himself. ‘Do you not fear for his safety?’ he asked. ‘By which I mean beyond the huggers themselves?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Fahren. ‘Of course.’

  ‘So what are we going to do?’

  Fahren shrugged. ‘Be worried. Pray for his safety.’

  Corlas must have looked confused.

  ‘Corlas,’ said Fahren, ‘hopefully the shadow won’t mark Bel’s passing. There’s no reason for anyone to think he is anything but another blade of the Halls. On top of that . . . well, if we don’t give him some freedom soon, I fear he will shake us off. I don’t want that. I’ve spent many years wondering how to shape Bel’s destiny, but I have never found an answer. Perhaps he must be allowed to choose his own path. Certainly he must learn to fend for himself.’ Fahren sighed. ‘I don’t like it, believe me.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Corlas said, then shot Fahren a gruff smile. ‘But I think I like you more, High Mage.’

  •

  Bel ate with gusto, for after last night his appetite seemed without
end. Never had he had such an experience, shared such a deep connection with someone . . . it hadn’t seemed to matter that they’d known each other only hours. When they had touched, it was more than touch – it was like the very blood under his skin was drawn to her. What explanation was there? He did not care. He could barely wait to see her again in two nights’ time.

  ‘Bel? Bel!’

  Bel stopped slicing his steak to find Corlas watching him ruefully. ‘What?’

  ‘That’s a merry glint in your eye this morning,’ Corlas observed, making it sound like a question.

  ‘Hmm?’ said Bel. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘And a wide grin on your face while you stare at something only you can see.’

  Bel arched an eyebrow. ‘A gentleman,’ he said, ‘does not kiss and tell.’

  ‘Very well,’ chuckled Corlas. ‘But I need the gentleman to break his reverie a moment.’ His expression grew more serious. ‘They wanted me to be the one to tell you. You are being assigned to a troop.’

  Bel stopped mid-slice. ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  Bel put down his fork. ‘Do they ever pull people out of the keepers early?’

  ‘No. Not unless there is a great war.’

  ‘So why me?’

  Corlas finished chewing a chunk of meat, then wiped the juice from his beard. ‘I won’t bandy words,’ he said. ‘The Throne is grooming you for a military career. He thinks it might be part of this destiny of yours, and wants to test you. You are to be sent out on your first real assignment.’

  Excitement shone in Bel’s eyes. ‘What is it?’

  Corlas remembered his own enthusiasm for his first assignment, and chuckled. ‘Huggers,’ he said, ‘coming out of Drel Forest. An unusually large infestation. The soldiers of Drel have asked for help, so the Throne is sending a hunting party.’