Prophecy's Ruin (Broken Well Trilogy)

by Sam Bowring

  ‘No.’

  ‘Er . . . yes, master. Eventually the man has collected enough and goes home to a hut in a clearing. Inside is his pregnant wife, asleep. He brews the herb in a tea, and strokes her hair to awaken her. She drinks the tea, which is supposed to nourish and strengthen the unborn child. The herb is potent with an ancient magic, the wild magic that still lingers about the wood. In the dream I know this, because the woman knows this. The next day the woman awakes to find her hair has turned blue. The man is beside himself with worry, but she is not as concerned as he. I awoke from the dream knowing I’d seen Whisperwood, and that the woman would surely give birth to a blue-haired boy. Battu sent Tyrellan forth the next day to fetch you.’

  ‘And a mage called Fazel,’ said Losara.

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  Losara was silent a moment. ‘Sounds like they loved each other.’

  ‘Lord?’

  ‘My mother and father. You know, Lalenda, what you’ve just told me is the most I know of them. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she said awkwardly.

  ‘Let me ask you another thing,’ said Losara. ‘You used the term “universal vision”? I have little understanding of the art.’

  ‘I shall explain as you wish, master. A universal prophecy is one that goes out to all prophets in the world. The foretelling of your birth was such a prophecy. That’s why it has been common knowledge for the last century. More common is a personal form of prophecy, which more closely reflects the life of the prophet herself, or those around her. I have been known to dream of what I would have for breakfast the next day.’

  Losara chuckled, and Lalenda found herself inexplicably flushing with pleasure.

  ‘Occasionally,’ she went on, ‘we see greater events that others do not. So it was with your mother’s hair turning blue.’

  ‘A last question,’ said Losara, ‘and then I shall drop this subject, I promise.’

  You need not promise anything to me, thought Lalenda.

  ‘You did not experience that first prophecy that heralded my birth, but do you know what it was? I have asked Heron and Battu, but they only know what the prophets said of the vision, not the vision itself.’

  ‘It has been described in various texts as the clashing of two armies, light and shadow. Under a setting sun they fight a great battle, a battle for the world. The vision closes on the victorious leader, who stands atop a hill with his sword raised high . . . and all that can be seen of him in the dying light is his long blue hair. The prophets knew that when a child with blue hair was born, he would be the one to defeat his enemy and so end the struggle between Fenvarrow and Kainordas.’

  She stopped, suddenly aware that she might be talking about the very man who stood before her. He was too real to be the figure of this future legend.

  ‘And the vision showed nothing of the split,’ Losara said, almost to himself.

  ‘No, master.’

  Losara nodded, and Lalenda realised she had given him something to think about. She felt exhausted, however, and found herself wanting to be alone so she could sort through all the chaotic thoughts this encounter had bred.

  ‘I’m becoming tired, master,’ she said as politely as possible. ‘I should get to bed. If you will excuse me?’

  ‘Of course, Lalenda. Thank you for talking with me.’

  Lalenda curtsied, deeply relieved. She walked away, careful not to rush. As she went, she was surprised by the realisation that perhaps she had actually wanted to stay. No one had really spoken to her in a long time.

  •

  Losara remained a while longer, troubled by the scene Lalenda had described. He pictured it again – the great commander holding a sword aloft in triumph – and looked down upon his own soft hands.

  Eighteen / New Horizons

  Eighteen

  New Horizons

  New Horizons

  Battu sat on Refectu with his jaw on his fist, Heron and Tyrellan on either side of the throne. Before him stood the boy, dressed in green cloth with a satchel at his side, ready for his journey. He had a look of calm on his face that made Battu want to shake him. Instead: ‘There’s little guidance I can give you,’ the Shadowdreamer said, as though he regretted it. ‘Heron, please explain the old laws.’

  ‘Master Apprentice,’ Heron said, ‘today you begin your journey to Assedrynn’s Isle. At the village of Frake, the priests of Assedrynn will provide you with a boat. Though you have a starting point, the end remains uncertain. If the Dark Gods wish to receive you, they will. If they do not recognise your legitimacy, you may drift and find nothing. Be wary of the Boundary, for the Isle lies perilously close to it. If you travel across, you will be lost to this world.’

  ‘I cannot share anything of my own journey, boy,’ said Battu. He rose and stepped down from the dais. ‘I can, however, wish you luck.’ Awkwardly he clasped Losara’s shoulder. ‘I shall pray for your journey to be safe.’

  ‘Thank you, master,’ said Losara.

  There wasn’t much else to say. Battu watched Losara leave, escorted by Tyrellan to the aviary. Heron hobbled after them, taking an eternity to leave his sight. Finally only his goblin guards remained, silent and constant in their alcoves like statues. He was alone with his thoughts.

  Memories of his own journey to the Isle had been stirred up, and an old anger came with them. How he hated the gods for what they’d commanded! How it frustrated him that he wouldn’t know what they said to Losara! Would they tell the boy that Battu had disobeyed them? Thinking about it made him even more anxious – would he be punished when his soul reached the Well? Had he redeemed himself from that first rebellious act? There had been no further war since the Shining Mines, and his hunting squads roamed Fenvarrow exterminating the undead. Not to mention that he’d secured the gods their champion.

  In his mind’s eye Battu saw Losara again in the duelling cavern, a monstrous shadow encased in hurricane. Roma had been powerful, and at another time he could well have become Apprentice. It was unsettling that Losara had beaten him so easily. Battu had expected Losara to win, but he’d also expected some sweat and hard breathing. The real question that made him clench his fists: Was Losara more powerful than he? The boy is a device, he reminded himself. If Losara is to lead our armies to victory, of course he must be powerful. The trouble was, when Battu imagined that pale face and calm eyes, he could see nothing of what went on behind them.

  Uncertainty grew.

  •

  Tyrellan had long ago perfected the art of staring at something while appearing not to, one of the advantages of having a pitch-black gaze. He now considered Losara from the corner of his eye as they walked down the passage.

  All his life Tyrellan had felt little for those around him. Most were stupid or incompetent, and even the most powerful agents of the shadow usually put their own interests first. Battu especially was guilty of this indulgence. Tyrellan, on the other hand, was a true servant of darkness. He’d been born that way, bawling at his expulsion from the dark of his mother’s womb. As a child he had skulked in the barn or the shade of trees, watching his brothers play in the open. His family had been nothing but dimwitted peasants, and he had never been bothered by the fact that he’d murdered them all.

  Losara, however, was different. Tyrellan was sure he embodied the shadow’s very will. Unfortunately, that fact was no protection against Battu, and for years Tyrellan had been a subtle protector, steering the dark lord away from dangerously fretful thoughts. He was thankful he’d managed to avoid having a bug-eye implanted in his skull, for sometimes small insubordinate risks were necessary, and it was bad enough knowing Battu could be lurking in any shadow. Of course it was the other problems with bug-eyes that had formed Tyrellan’s basis for argument: sometimes a bug-eye became infected, or grew abnormally, and its host lost their sight or died. ‘
If it is my lord’s wish that none of my daggers find the backs of his assassins,’ Tyrellan had once said, ‘then of course I invite him to ruin my depth perception right away.’ The final reason Tyrellan didn’t want a bug-eye was that if the Shadowdreamer died, all the bug-eyes connected to him also died. Tyrellan didn’t see why he should be crippled in the event of Battu’s passing. The end of Battu did not mean the end of Tyrellan.

  Still, he would have traded the butterfly for a bug-eye in a flash. If Tyrellan had once been indifferent to his birthdays, now he hated them. Every day when he woke up and saw the butterfly, his hatred grew. It was a test, he told himself, a burden he must bear in service of the shadow. Sometimes, however, an interior voice whispered that even if every light went out in the north, and the sun sank into the sea and drowned, even then he wouldn’t be rid of it. He was forced to do something he had never done before. He was going to ask a favour.

  ‘My lord Apprentice,’ he said.

  ‘Tyrellan?’

  ‘My lord. For two decades I have borne this insect that dogs my every move. I have asked the Shadowdreamer about it, but he has much to attend to. Perhaps this prevents him from seeing what an insult it is to have such a creature living freely in the castle, such a joke upon us by the light.’

  ‘Upon you especially, Tyrellan,’ said Losara.

  Tyrellan’s jaw tightened. ‘Yes, lord.’

  Ahead, their way widened into the grey light of a chamber. From within came the sounds of birds squawking and a deep-throated call like that of a cow.

  ‘Heron has told me of legacy spells,’ said Losara. ‘She says they are impossible to undo.’

  ‘So the Shadowdreamer has told me.’

  ‘Would you have me ask the gods about it?’

  Tyrellan dropped to a knee, effectively halting their progress. ‘If anyone knows how to break such a spell,’ he said, ‘it must be them.’

  ‘If indeed it can be broken,’ said Losara. ‘Not even the gods are all-powerful, I think.’

  ‘If it can be broken, lord,’ Tyrellan echoed.

  Losara nodded. ‘I will ask them,’ he said, ‘if I can. Now come. I’m eager to be on my way.’

  •

  The head of the castle aviary, a Graka, introduced Losara to the creature he would ride to Frake. It was called a whelkling, and looked like a hybrid of dragon and mammal. It was roughly the size of a cow, with stumpy legs and wide circular hooves. These were close enough to the body so they didn’t drag in the wind, but made the animal very low on the ground. Of the dragon there was a serpentine tail and great leathery wings splayed out from its shoulders. Its face was long with a wide snout, a milky eye positioned on each side of its head.

  Slapping it on the rump, the Graka said, ‘Yep, these old sky carts aren’t as common as they once were.’ Staring at the ungainly, moronic-looking thing, Losara wasn’t surprised. ‘Be patient with this one, lord. He’s getting on, which means he’s even more stubborn. We don’t send him out much these days, but he knows the way to Frake well enough. Does runs to get fresh fish for the Dreamer’s kitchens, so you might have to forgive the smell. I’ve walked him around Skygrip a few times just now to loosen his muscles, so you should be all right.’

  Tyrellan stepped forward and smacked the Graka across his ebony skull. ‘Should be all right?’ he snarled. ‘Is the beast sound or not? This is Battu’s Apprentice, you snivelling streak of shit, not a sack of fish!’

  Things did indeed seem a little shaky as they first dropped from the aviary cave high in Skygrip. The beast did not find its balance immediately, and Losara hung grimly to its neck as they plummeted. Then the great wings spread and the whelkling began to flap powerfully, giving its deep-throated call. They climbed southwards, passing over Gravewood. A fell cry went up at their passing, and though Losara searched hard for its source, the tops of the skeletal leafless trees formed a tangled and chaotic canopy. They rose until the Cloud was a few paces above them, and here the whelkling finally levelled out. Losara had never been so close to the Cloud, and could see sunlight shining in the upper reaches. He found himself disquieted that nothing separated Fenvarrow from the sun but this layer of suspended moisture. Far below the land spread out gloriously, blue with grasses, dotted with farms and woods. Snaking roads ran between towns and villages, and streams glistened like silver threads spilled from some celestial sewing box.

  Losara had flown in the dream, but always in a sleepy, foggy state. Now the world was crisp and clear and tangible. The icy wind against his skin made him feel alive, and it was magnificent to be free of Skygrip. For the first time he could remember, he was cut off from the walls and floors of the castle, from proximity to the Breath, from the powerful shadows that had saturated him his entire life. Never had he felt more inside his own body, more awake. Surprisingly, he found himself thinking of Lalenda, still trapped in Skygrip without the space to fly freely. He knew she’d like to have been here too, and felt sorry that she wasn’t.

  Hours passed and they came within sight of the Black Sea. Where the Cloud met the horizon, it was like looking into the mouth of an immense cave. If the gods chose not to receive him, that was where he’d be left floating, and he knew a moment of doubt.

  The Cloud dropped away above them as they began to descend. Closer to the land he spotted a bay that housed a town of rickety buildings. Boats were moored to jetties, and further out to sea were other vessels hauling their nets through dark waters. Blue pinpricks glowed, ice lanterns set against the dusk, and not for the first time Losara wondered about the deeper relationship between shadow and light. Shadow was not total darkness, and even the keenest night vision benefited from some light. Could shadow exist without it?

  To the east of the village was a steep hill with a circular temple on top, and this appeared to be the whelkling’s target. It hovered for a moment, then began to drop in jolts and spurts. It sent up a spray of dust as it neared the ground, then finally drew in its wings and simply fell the last pace, landing with a grunt. It draped its wings and hollered, and Losara knew he was being told to get off.

  Sliding down onto the path on which they’d landed, he became aware of the stiffness in his muscles. Stretching, he glanced around at the temple grounds. They were earthy and flat, dotted by smooth trees hung with pale pears. In the distance he heard the crash of waves, the cries of sea birds, and activity in the village below. Then came footsteps and priests emerged from the temple. They wore long brown cloaks over bulgy bodies, with hoods hanging over their squashed heads. All had rubbery pebbled skin, though the colour differed from dull pink to brown, grey and green. Some wore ornate rings on their upward-curving tusks.

  ‘Hail, Apprentice,’ one of them gurgled, stepping forward. ‘I am Head Priest Grepra. Welcome to the Temple of Assedrynn.’

  These were the Vorthargs who would put him in a boat and watch him drift away.

  •

  The next morning Bel marched towards the stables with a spring in his step. Drel might be no further than two days’ ride away, but it seemed like the other side of the world. The excitement even managed to dull the twanging in his heart, the disappointment that he had not seen Jaya last night as planned.

  He arrived to find some of the troop already loading packs onto horses, and Corlas waiting. ‘Where have you been?’ said his father.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Bel. ‘I’m right on time.’

  Looking at Corlas’s somewhat haggard appearance, he wondered if he’d experienced a restless night. He knew his father was worried – as were Fahren and Naphur – that he might face more than just huggers on this journey. What they didn’t know was that he welcomed the chance to strike back at those who threatened him.

  ‘Yes,’ said Corlas, glancing at the sky. ‘Munpo says you are getting along with the troop?’

  ‘Most are friendly enough,’ said Bel. ‘Though I get the
impression they’ll reserve judgement until I’ve lived a day on the battlefield.’

  Corlas nodded. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘you remember what I told you? Green huggers are camouflaged amongst the trees. When the forest goes quiet you can be sure they are close. Birds and beasts catch their stink first, so they will be your early warning.’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ Bel said absently as he strapped a leather breastplate over his shirt. He’d been over this with Corlas already, and again with Munpo.

  ‘Keep your eyes upwards –’

  ‘Because they drop out of the trees,’ finished Bel, and laughed. ‘Father, I know this.’ He put his hands on Corlas’s shoulders. ‘I’ll be all right, old hero. You’ve taught me well. Of course, it helps that I’m damned good anyway.’

  ‘Respect the danger,’ said Corlas sternly. ‘Huggers are murderous wretches. Do not be overconfident.’

  ‘I won’t have time to be overconfident. I’ll be too busy filling the air with blood.’

  ‘Bel . . .’

  ‘All right,’ chuckled Bel. ‘I’ll be careful, I promise. That’s what you’re trying to tell me, isn’t it?’

  Corlas grunted. Then he unbuckled the scabbard from his belt, which housed the shine-streaked sword he’d carried since his return to Kadass. ‘Take this,’ he said. ‘It is a stronger blade than you carry.’

  Bel was taken aback. ‘I can’t. It’s yours.’

  ‘It is a battle blade,’ said Corlas. ‘It lusts after the cut. A taskmaster does it no justice.’ Without waiting for a response, he reached down to unsheathe Bel’s sword and slide the shine blade firmly in its place.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘And yes, you be careful, soldier – the whole time.’ He gave Bel’s arm a hard squeeze. ‘Now off you go.’

  •

  Losara sat up in bed with a gasp. Blinking, he tried to focus on his surrounds, taking a moment to remember where he was. Normally, when he went to sleep in Skygrip, he would drift slowly away from himself, connecting through the castle walls to the dim awareness of the shadowdream. When he awoke from the dream, it was a slow and self-aware rise to the surface, and even as he opened his eyes he was not yet contained inside his own body. Thinking back on it, he realised how much he had taken to wandering the corridors still half in the dream. Maybe he had never really slept in Skygrip, and maybe he had never really been awake either.