Prophecy's Ruin (Broken Well Trilogy)

by Sam Bowring

  He found himself moving to embrace her, a natural thing once it started. As he reached around her, she moved against him, her head resting just below his chin. He stroked her hair, and for a moment she clutched his back and shuddered – but as she pulled away, he saw no tears.

  ‘You do not weep,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve wept enough. And this sorrow is too deep and old.’

  He wasn’t sure that made sense to him.

  The Mire Pixie mayor returned carrying a sealed letter. ‘Here you are, child,’ she said. She glanced furtively at Losara, whose presence had not really been explained to her. He got the sense she was holding something back.

  ‘Don’t mind me, ma’am,’ he said reassuringly. ‘You may say anything you like.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, and turned to clasp Lalenda’s hand, ‘it was only to say, we never did find out who . . . who told Skygrip about you. If we had, well . . . they would have been made unwelcome.’

  Lalenda nodded blankly.

  ‘If you wish to stay, I can arrange lodgings,’ said the mayor.

  Lalenda shook her head. ‘I will visit my mother’s grave and then we will depart,’ she said. ‘There is nothing left for me here save the distant echoes of what should have been.’

  She spread her wings and glided from the landing, and Losara stepped out after her. She led the way to Twir’s graveyard, and as they flew between trees Losara felt eyes staring at him. Being a human who could fly was no doubt responsible for the interest. Losara was glad they didn’t know who he really was, or else there would have been fuss of some kind, and that would have overshadowed their real reason for being here.

  The village fell away behind them as Lalenda followed some invisible route. Grimra disappeared as well, probably off to see which type of frog tasted the best. They came to an area where the willow trees grew thickly, and Lalenda brought them down on a hillock. Carved into tree trunks in spidery letters were names. She wandered slowly in a circle around the hillock’s edge, examining them. The bog around them was still and thick, and Losara noticed that at the water’s edge were luminescent red flowers with star-shaped petals.

  ‘They are graveblooms,’ said Lalenda, appearing beside him, ‘planted around the ponds where we bury our dead.’

  She sat down on the slope of the hillock and Losara joined her.

  ‘This is where your mother’s body went in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did your mother’s note . . . did it . . .’ He struggled to phrase the question.

  ‘It said that she loved me, and missed me, and was sorry,’ said Lalenda. ‘Simple things.’

  ‘But important things.’ Losara sighed. ‘Battu was wrong to treat you as he did.’

  They sat for a time in silence, staring into the muddy water. Occasionally a fat bubble would come to the surface, hold for a minute or two, and finally burst with a soft slurp.

  ‘What was she like?’ Losara asked.

  Lalenda thought for a moment and a smile chanced across her face. Losara was relieved to see it, if only briefly. ‘Stubborn,’ she said. ‘Kelan – the mayor – said she fought the wasting disease right until the end.’

  Several bubbles broke at once.

  ‘She wanted to see me again, you see, that’s why she held on so long. I am too late by only a year. She was modest too. We lived in a mud hut, not in the tree. She wanted an ordinary life, I think. Probably she had one. Probably it is not unusual to lose one’s family. Ills equal and worse befall many.’

  ‘I expect so,’ said Losara.

  Something humanoid rose from the bog. Mud streamed from its misshapen head and off broad shoulders, running down root-like arms that ended in silver claws. Two pearl-like eyes appeared above a maw full of razor shards, and tendrils sprouted all over its body, grasping at the air. Lalenda hissed and leaped in front of Losara, her own retractable claws flashing out, low to the ground and ready to spring with her wings flat against her back. Losara could not say which surprised him more – the sudden arrival of the Mireform, or the way Lalenda instinctively protected him.

  ‘Be at peace, Mire Pixie,’ said the Mireform, its voice wet and gurgling. ‘I do not mean your master harm.’

  Losara put a calming hand on Lalenda’s back. ‘Rise, savage little,’ he said.

  Hesitantly, and not letting her eyes off the creature, she straightened and her claws withdrew – almost.

  ‘Why do you come here?’ asked Losara. ‘Do you not know that this bog is a sacred burial ground to the pixies?’

  ‘Their dead float high above us in the bog,’ replied the creature. ‘They do not disturb us.’

  Losara wondered if he had been deliberately misunderstood.

  ‘I come to recognise Losara Shadowhand,’ said the Mireform, ‘favoured by the Dark Gods. I come to pledge him the allegiance of the Mireform.’

  Losara was pleased. Mireforms were rarely seen, and it took much power to summon one from the depths of the bog, let alone convince it into service. They were traditionally neutral, or perhaps apathetic to the worries of the world above. To have one appear and make such a promise was completely unexpected.

  ‘Who are you to make this offer for all the Mireform?’ Losara asked.

  ‘I am Eldew,’ it replied. ‘And I am the biggest.’

  ‘And why would you make it?’

  ‘You are worthy,’ said Eldew. ‘And you will try to save Fenvarrow. Perhaps with the Mireform, you have a better chance.’

  ‘I imagine so,’ said Losara. ‘I gratefully accept your offer. When the time is right, I may hold you to your word.’

  ‘Return here to call for me,’ said Eldew. ‘I shall return.’

  The Mireform sank away with a slurp, the mud settling after it. Losara turned to Lalenda and smiled.

  ‘You tried to protect me,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  She blushed.

  Thirty-one / Old Fire

  Thirty-one

  Old Fire

  Old Fire

  It had been slow going and, although Iassia had seen the turn of many centuries, he’d found himself experiencing impatience. The blind woman was out of her element and did not move with the same sureness as she had back at the farm. Iassia remembered how, when he had first found the place again and watched her from trees on the hill above, he had not even realised her sight was gone. She had known the exact number of steps to the chicken shed, opened the gate without fumbling, collected eggs from familiar places. It had been as he’d swooped in closer that he’d noticed her eyes did not track, but simply stared into some knowable distance. It had made things a little trickier. Convincing commoners that he was a servant of Arkus sent to help them was not so easy, even with a little psychic nudging, but a blind woman was even more sceptical that she was really talking to a bird. Often when Iassia spoke, people did not believe their eyes, but she hadn’t even had those to disbelieve with. Luckily the child, Essie, had been there too. While her mother, Frera, may have forgotten the burning need for revenge, in Essie he found it still ran hot, and she had been easier to steer. The girl lumped blame for her mother’s blindness at Corlas’s feet, right along with the death of her father. Apparently it had not been long after Chavus’s demise that Frera, weak with grief, had caught the wasting disease that clouded her eyes. ‘Arkus is just,’ Iassia had said to Essie, ‘and desires that justice is delivered to his people.’ The girl had looked upon him as if she’d been waiting for him all her life.

  It had not taken long to convince her – a little longer for the mother – that they needed to follow him to the Open Halls and exact amends if ever they were to know peace. The road, however, had been ploddingly, maddeningly slow. Frera walked with a stick and was impossible to hurry, even though Essie tried, taking her by the arm to half-pull her along.

  Iassia ha
d decided he needed to take action. As he landed before them, the bag of coins in his beak jangled.

  ‘Here,’ he said, dropping it in front of Essie. ‘When we come to the next village, we will hire someone with a cart to drive us.’

  It would mean he’d need to stay out of view, or at least not talk, but it was better than spending a year on the road at a snail’s pace.

  Essie’s eyes lit up as she spilled coins across her palm. ‘Where did you get these?’

  That was easy. ‘Arkus will always provide what is needed,’ he chirped merrily.

  ‘Bless you, Arkus,’ she said, holding the coins to her chest and looking to the heavens.

  Bless you indeed, thought Iassia, thinking of the old couple further back down the road who would soon discover that their life savings were missing.

  •

  As Bel approached, he could see that something was happening at the barracks. There was a gathering by the archery range, and clothes of grandeur suggested a lordly presence. Black-and-yellow-striped Zyvanix rose in the air. Normally Bel would have been curious, but today he was too full of purpose and his eyes sought only the Throne. As he drew closer he spotted Naphur amidst a group of lords and ladies, looking uncomfortable in unusually resplendent robes. Next to him was the wasp Trusted, poised on two of her stick-like legs while the other four hung loosely from her abdomen. Her legs were decorated with gold and silver bands and there was some kind of pale substance encrusted in patterns on her body. Flanking her was a man and another Zyvanix, whom Bel guessed to be the two translators. As a cheer went up for a particularly good shot, Naphur said something to the wasp translator, who in turn buzzed and clicked it on to his mistress.

  ‘Bel!’

  Bel paused mid-stride.

  Corlas arrived at his side. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you all morning.’

  ‘I was at the keepers’,’ said Bel defensively.

  Corlas didn’t notice. ‘An archery competition,’ he said excitedly, waving at the gathering. ‘And the wasps are showing us up!’

  ‘Well, they do have about a million eyes.’

  ‘I want you to enter,’ said Corlas. ‘Let’s stop those antennae waving about so smugly!’

  ‘I don’t feel like it.’ Bel broke away to continue his march towards the Throne.

  ‘Wait up, lad!’ said Corlas, catching up again. ‘What ails you?’

  ‘I need to speak with Naphur.’

  Corlas saw the look of determination in his son’s eyes and immediately gripped his arm, halting his progress. ‘Whoa there, lad,’ he said. Bel looked down at the restraining hand in annoyance, but Corlas was unmoved. ‘Bel,’ he said, ‘I can see you have something serious on your mind, but trust me – you should wait.’

  Bel shot a glare at him and Corlas held it levelly. Eventually Bel gave in.

  ‘All right,’ he said.

  Corlas let go. ‘Naphur is very anxious when he’s around the Trusted. Look at how he fidgets. He hasn’t dealt much with the Zyvanix before. It’s clear he’s eager to please this beastie. The communication barrier is no help either. If you wish to talk to him, wait until the competition is over. Maybe then he can step away for a moment.’

  ‘Wait until the competition’s over, eh?’ said Bel, eyeing off the range. ‘Very well.’

  Once more he marched towards the Throne and Corlas fell in at his side, now grinning. Naphur saw them coming and burst into a relieved smile. Bel bowed before him.

  ‘My Throne,’ he said. ‘I am late, but I would still compete.’

  Naphur clapped his hands in pleasure. ‘Of course, Bel,’ he said, and turned to the wasp translator. ‘Trusted of Cindeka, this is Bel Corinas, one of my best soldiers.’

  Again the translator clicked and buzzed at the Trusted, who waggled her antennae and clicked back. The human interpreter spoke: ‘The Trusted is eager to see your man in action.’

  Naphur nodded to Bel, who turned and made his way to the range. Wasp warriors were hovering in a row, firing off barbs towards the targets. As Corlas had said, they were extremely fast to notch new arrows and their accuracy was excellent. As Bel took up a position with the waiting contestants, he glanced over to see M’Meska baring her teeth at him in a lizard grin.

  ‘At last,’ she hissed. ‘Some real challenge, yes? Now we truly see who is race superior on this range.’ She bobbed her head and tapped her scaly chest. ‘Saurian,’ she added, for clarification.

  The wasps on the range emptied their quivers and flitted back from the line. Scores were totalled and targets cleared. Stepping into position, Bel loosed off arrows in quick succession. They flew through the air shaft after shaft, each pounding deeply into the red centre of his target. The spectators watched in awe as he began to split arrows in a display of skill unmatched on the field. He swapped his grip on the bow to fire with his left hand and his accuracy remained unchanged. He lifted up a leg and shot from beneath it; pulled the bow over his head and shot that way; averted his eyes from the target to wink at the crowd as each arrow travelled a perfect course, not a single one falling outside the centre circle. Applause rose from the crowd. Bel hadn’t shown off like this for some time and, despite his distraction, it felt good.

  So it went for the last few rounds. Thanks to Bel, the Varenkai score quickly overtook the Zyvanix’s. He looked over to see the wasp Trusted very still, Naphur looking uncomfortable and Corlas unreadable. The Trusted turned, clicked something to Naphur and took off without waiting to find out the final scores. Several of her guards rose to join her.

  Bel bowed to the crowd and made his way back to the Throne, leaving behind a very sulky Saurian. As he arrived, the Trusted’s human interpreter was finishing speaking to Naphur. ‘Forgive my mistress – she desires respite from the sun.’

  Naphur watched the interpreter leave, not seeming to know whether to be worried or pleased. ‘Well,’ he said to Bel, ‘that was quite a showing. Quite a showing indeed.’

  ‘Quite a showing up,’ Corlas put in quietly.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Bel briskly. ‘My Throne, I must speak with you about an urgent matter.’

  Naphur was still staring after the wasps and seemed not to hear. ‘Well,’ he said, almost to himself, ‘I don’t know whether she’s offended or not, but by Arkus it’s a relief that she’s gone.’ Finally he smiled at Bel. ‘Politics,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I didn’t become Throne to get mixed up in blasted politics, eh, Bel? It would all be easier if everyone just did what I said.’

  ‘My Throne, I must speak with you.’

  Naphur unceremoniously wiped the sheen off his brow with his cloak. ‘Forgot to bring my poxy silk handkerchief,’ he said. ‘Now, what is it, Bel?’

  Taking a deep breath, Bel launched into a somewhat confused yet passionate explanation about how Cydus had wronged Jaya. When he had finished, the older men both looked troubled.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Naphur. ‘I don’t see what I can do about it.’

  ‘You’re the Throne!’ said Bel. ‘Surely that counts for something!’

  ‘I like to think so,’ said Naphur, raising an eyebrow. ‘But Cydus is a noble, and his complaints against this Jaya girl are real. I can’t just disregard the laws our land is built on.’

  ‘Why not? Cydus did when he murdered Jaya’s partners!’

  ‘Her thieving partners,’ said Naphur. ‘It’s misconduct begotten of misconduct, and right now her word against Cydus’s is not enough to have him questioned by an overseer.’ He scratched one of his hairy arms. ‘What is this girl to you, Bel? Why have you taken such an interest in her case?’

  ‘She’s . . .’ began Bel, then shook his head in frustration. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Oh, so it’s like that, eh?’ said Naphur. ‘In which case I’m afraid I may very much understand.’ He sigh
ed. ‘Please tell me you weren’t mixed up with her before this crime.’

  Bel remained silent.

  ‘What is it, lad?’ asked Corlas. ‘Answer the Throne. How are you involved with this girl?’

  ‘I love her!’ yelled Bel, so loudly that some of the courtiers glanced over. He surprised even himself and fought to regain composure. ‘I don’t know how it happened, it just did.’ He raked a hand through his hair and looked away, falling silent.

  Naphur exchanged a glance with Corlas, then stepped forward to take Bel by the shoulder.

  ‘My lad,’ he said. ‘You know I care about you, so what’s important to you is important to me . . . but this all seems very sudden. A pretty girl can sometimes turn our heads so that we think –’

  ‘No,’ said Bel, the fierceness of his look daring Naphur to challenge his conviction. ‘It isn’t like that. Not wishing to be crass, my Throne, but I’ve had plenty of pretty girls, and I know I’m not mistaken in this. This is different.’

  Naphur sighed. ‘I see that it is. I believe you, Bel.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘What would you have me do? Declare her innocent and set her free?’

  Bel looked darkly at the ground. It was clear from Naphur’s tone that this was precisely what he could not do.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ continued Naphur. ‘I wish I could help, but I have responsibilities. The Thrones are not despots like the Shadowdreamers. Our land has laws so the people retain rights. I can’t rise above that, lest the traditions of a thousand years crumble to dust. I cannot be seen to pervert the course of justice.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bel.

  ‘Bel –’

  ‘It’s all right!’ he said, trying to force calm into his tone. ‘I understand, my Throne. You have your duty.’ Anger scorched his voice, despite his efforts. ‘I’m sorry for asking this of you. I must go.’