The Prophecy of the Gems

by Flavia Bujor

  “So,” Jade concluded, “we were chased out of our homes so that we could discover our so-called Gifts when we turned fourteen, and we all had to be together to discover them? And then we had to go through terrifying adventures so we could wind up deciding the fate of the world? Don’t you think that’s a little too much for the three of us? Especially since the finale doesn’t look like much fun, if two of us are supposed to die.”

  “That’s how it is,” said Oonagh.

  “I mean, really,” screamed Jade, “do you think we’re mad? We’re not going to deliberately go and get ourselves killed in Thaar!”

  “Do you have any choice? Go home if you like, but the Council or the Army of Darkness will catch you and kill you. The three of you are capable of changing many things. It’s up to you to decide whether that’s worth it or not. But know this, Jade: if you refuse to go to Thaar and somehow manage to survive, you may escape the hatred of others, but you will hate yourself for ever.”

  Jade could say nothing in return. Although she didn’t want to believe Oonagh, Jade knew she was speaking the truth.

  “And our famous Gift, what is it?” asked Opal.

  “One will discover the Gift,” replied Oonagh. So it is written by Néophileus. It is not for me to reveal to you that which one of you alone must understand.”

  Although the three girls bombarded her with questions, Oonagh would not say another word. Wearing her lazy little-girl smile, she began to sing:

  “From the shadows will come the Chosen One

  To unify the Realm

  And lead it into the Light

  As King who must not reign

  Crowned in the name of the Gift.

  Three Stones, three young girls.

  One will discover the Gift.

  One will recognise the King.

  One will convince the two others to die.

  Of three Stones only one fate will remain.”

  The girls understood that Oonagh would say no more to them, and they turned as one to cross back through the wall of light and pursue their destiny.

  PARIS, PRESENT DAY

  I woke up panting, very upset after a wretched, disturbed night. I remembered in detail the revelations of the magic creature with the blue-violet eyes, and the emotions of Jade, Opal and Amber overwhelmed me, as if I had experienced them myself.

  Once again my dream had been interrupted, returning me sorrowfully to my cold, sombre world. I remember that I cried, revolted by the injustice of it: why was my reality so horrifyingly different from my dream? Then, memories chose to rush in, desolate and deceitful beneath their golden glow.

  This time I was too upset to resist them. They invaded me, glittering with a bitter gaiety. I saw myself: Joa. I recalled how much everyone had admired the exuberant girl I had been. I was rich, pretentious; every girl I met went pale with envy over my clothes. People put up with my whims, treated them as commands I gave to others. Joa’s character was deplorable, but I knew that she was also more sensitive than she allowed herself to appear. I remembered distinctly how others were fascinated by my slightest casual gesture, but also how a few people used to make fun of me. Then I would hide in a dark corner and quietly cry. Deep down, I was fragile, even though I hid this carefully. I liked to have fun, to laugh at the expense of others, and it’s true that I was far from being thoughtful and mature. But sometimes, in the midst of my shallowness, I did show myself to be considerate and serious-minded. I was more than just a flighty girl; on the contrary, I had a tender heart. I revealed my feelings only when I was far from prying eyes, far from the effervescence I left sparkling in my wake.

  I had believed in eternal happiness. I had thought the girlfriends who surrounded me were sincere and fond of me, but their smiles were only honeyed pretence. When my illness destroyed my perfect life, I’d expected to be bolstered by support — only to see everyone disappear like cowards. What did I have to offer, lying in my hospital bed, my poor face ravaged by sickness? Only my parents still took care of me, but life decided that even this consolation was unnecessary, and an accident erased them, too, from my world. I had gradually understood and accepted that my friends had abandoned me. But he was among those who had deserted me, the one I loved, and who loved me. Although I didn’t know what it meant to love, that didn’t stop me from caring for him, from loving him in my own way — in my former thoughtless way. He looked like the Chosen One in my dream but, like him, he was just a deserter, a traitor who masqueraded in the light when he served only darkness. He’d visited me once, just once, and then he had run away and never come back. And that is something I still cannot accept.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Ring of Orleys

  THE NAMELESS ONE rode along beside Elfohrys, despairing over the crushing blow he had just received. He could not understand how he could have handed his soul over to evil. For as long as he could remember he had always considered the Darkness as not just a formidable enemy, but a loathsome one as well. Yet it seemed he, too, had once belonged among those shadows! The sign of that dreaded army had marked his left ankle, where his blood still trickled, distinctly tracing a moon crowned with numbers. The soldier of Darkness had not lied to him, however vile his intentions. Now the hovalyn longed for the time when he had wondered in vain about his past, because now the knowledge that he had once served the cause of evil would torment him all his life.

  Completely disheartened by the sorcerer’s revelation, Elfohrys did not speak to the young man for several days. The two continued their journey, silent and dejected. Finally, at nightfall on the third day, Elfohrys asked a question.

  “How is it possible that you, whom I considered a friend, could be a soldier of Darkness with innocent blood on your hands?”

  The Nameless One did not reply, but he flashed a look of profound distress at his companion.

  “I know you don’t remember anything,” Elfohrys continued less harshly, “but I really believed in you! I was sure you were the Chosen One! And you were claiming you wanted to save lives, when you’ve actually taken them! How can I convince myself that you’ve changed, that your soul steeped in Darkness has now been flooded with Light? What’s the point of going to see Oonagh now,” he asked, gazing accusingly at the hovalyn, “just to have her read what’s in your cruel heart? I think that our ways must part here and I hope never to hear of you again. And if our paths should ever cross, I trust that I will already have forgotten you!”

  With that, the magic creature wheeled around and made as if to gallop off, but the Nameless One called out his name hoarsely.

  “Elfohrys! Before deceiving you, I was betrayed by myself. I never would have imagined that I’d served the Darkness. How I came to do that is beyond me, but I can promise you that today I would rather die than go back to that sinister army. I don’t know if my soul crossed over suddenly from evil into good, but the blood staining my hands has made me suffer more than I ever would have believed possible.”

  Hearing these words, Elfohrys turned back, and when his golden eyes looked deeply into the knight’s sapphire blue gaze, they still saw strength and nobility behind the sadness.

  “Even if that were true,” replied Elfohrys curtly, “why should I follow you? You’re not the Chosen One, and I must continue to seek him. I cannot remain with you without thinking of the atrocities you must have committed. You are a murderer — and I cannot forget that!”

  “So you think I should carry the burden of my crimes until I die?”

  “You even deserve to die for them!”

  “But I’ve become someone else,” protested the hovalyn. “I’m not going to let myself be haunted by my past all my life! I feel remorse, I’m sorry for what I did, even if I don’t remember any of it. Will I never be allowed to be rid of my mistakes?”

  “Will your regrets bring back those who begged you for their lives?” replied Elfohrys disdainfully. “A man doesn’t change overnight, and the deaths you caused demand your own!”

  “So I mu
st suffer all my life?”

  “That would be the only just thing!”

  The Nameless One found himself alone, bereft, abandoned to his misery. He rode on like that for an hour before he finally saw an elegant manor house in the gathering evening shadows and decided to seek shelter there. When he knocked on the door, it was opened almost immediately by a plump, jolly woman.

  “I humbly beg your hospitality,” he said. “I am a hovalyn, lost and hungry.”

  “Welcome!” exclaimed the woman. “Sleeping under the stars would not be sensible on such a dark night. Do come in, sit down at the table, while I take your horse to the stable.”

  The Nameless One thanked her and felt a little comforted by the warm atmosphere inside the manor. He went down a corridor, observing with curiosity the portraits decorating the white walls, and following the sound of happy laughter until he came to a vast banquet hall. There were about fifty people laughing and talking while servants plied them with delicious-looking dishes. When those at the table noticed the stranger, they gradually grew quiet, until a pleasant, round-faced man, simply dressed, rose to greet the new arrival.

  “Here is an unexpected guest!” he announced in a kind voice. “Let me introduce myself: Tivann of Orleys. You are welcome, do come and join us. Aren’t you a hovalyn?”

  “I am,” replied the Nameless One.

  “Now, that’s interesting. Come, sit down, and let’s talk for a while!”

  The young knight sat next to Tivann of Orleys and helped himself to food. Warming to the relaxed atmosphere, he tried to forget his troubles.

  “So, you’re a hovalyn?” repeated the man, who was clearly the lord of the manor.

  “Yes,” his guest replied again.

  “Well, see, we have here an object that will certainly be of interest to you,” continued Tivann, mysteriously. “It’s been handed down in my family from father to son. It’s an enchanted ring, and there isn’t anything special about it, except that—“Tivann of Orleys broke off dramatically and then, lowering his voice, said, “Except that it can…” But he then seemed to change his mind and merely added, “You’ll see tomorrow morning.”

  Intrigued, the Nameless One ate his meal in silence while he studied the other guests. Seated across from him was a dainty girl dressed more carefully than the other diners, in a long, sky-blue dress that gracefully showed off her figure. Her thin lips curved sweetly, and eyes of a limpid, almost unnatural green shone out from her pale face. Meeting the stranger’s gaze, she looked him over in return, and smiled.

  “Hovalyn, this is my daughter, Orlaith,” declared the lord of the manor. “She is the youngest of my children, and the most sensitive. She is my pride and my despair, for ancestral tradition demands that her hand be given in marriage to the man destined to possess the enchanted ring I just mentioned. Unless he declines the honour — which would truly astound me, for Orlaith is a pearl.”

  Unable to think of a suitable reply, the hovalyn finished his meal in silence. When he confessed to his host that he was very tired, Tivann courteously had him shown to a room, where the young man donned the nightshirt laid out for him, stretched out on the bed, and gratefully inhaled the fresh smell of clean sheets. Burying his head in the feather pillow, he tried to rest, but his troubles kept him awake for hours. Once asleep, he dreamt that Tivann of Orleys kept saying, “It’s an enchanted ring, it can… It’s an enchanted ring, it can… “Then Orlaith’s face appeared while her father repeated, “She is a pearl…”

  At dawn, the sleeper was woken by two strong arms shaking him vigorously. Opening his eyes, he saw his host bending over him.

  “Hurry, hovalyn,” said Tivann briskly. “In ten minutes we will expect you in the great hall where we dined last night.”

  The Nameless One moved to get dressed, but sank back on the bed, feeling crushingly depressed. He felt buried under the burden of his past, and could no longer bear to go on. He drew his sword, as if to thrust it through his own heart…

  It was sheer curiosity that saved him. Why put an end to life when there were so many questions still to be answered? Who were his parents? Why had he chosen to join the Army of Darkness? Sheathing his sword, he hurriedly dressed and ran to the great hall where Tivann was waiting for him. What would he learn there? Something about that strange ring, perhaps?

  When he reached the hall he could not hide his amazement. All around the rectangular wooden table stood many humans and magic creatures, some clad in heavy armour, others scarred by battle wounds. Swords hung at their sides, and the same solemn expression was on every face. The Nameless One knew at once that this was an assembly of hovalyns. He saw Tivann of Orleys as well as Orlaith, who looked even more fragile and fairy-like amid the soldierly throng.

  At a sign from Tivann, the Nameless One advanced and took his place among the others, wondering what event he was about to witness. He soon found out. Smiling broadly, Tivann of Orleys stepped forward.

  “My friends, our gathering unites precisely the number of hovalyns required to observe the ancient custom passed down in this manor. Each of you will have the opportunity to try on the enchanted ring in my possession, but I must remind you that this is a perilous undertaking.”

  After a pause, he went on: “For centuries, whenever anyone has presented himself to try on the Ring of Orleys, tradition demands that a meeting of hovalyns take place according to a precise ritual. Today, the first brave youth to risk putting on the ring is Arthur of Farrières.”

  A conceited knight drew himself up arrogantly.

  “If he succeeds,” continued Tivann, “he will win my daughter’s hand as well as my esteem. If he fails, anyone else gathered around this table may also try his luck.”

  More and more intrigued, the Nameless One watched closely as Tivann cleared his throat and signalled to his daughter, who reached into the bodice of her gown to pull out a silver chain on which sparkled a ring.

  “Only Orlaith can wear this jewel against her skin without suffering atrocious burns,” declared Tivann. “According to tradition, only the purest of the daughters of Orleys may have charge of the ring.” Then, turning to Arthur of Farrières, who returned his gaze with pompous pride, Tivann asked: “Hovalyn, are you determined to wear this ring, enchanted by sorcerers in times immemorial? Do you accept the risks you run? Weigh your response carefully, for once you have given it before this assembly, it will be irreversible.”

  “I am; I do,” replied Arthur of Farrières, smiling fatuously at Orlaith, who looked away with a faint shudder.

  “So be it. Before beginning the test, I will enlighten the few hovalyns among you who are not yet aware of the magic property of the Ring of Orleys. It lies under a powerful spell: the ring can distinguish hearts blackened by evil from those pure hearts that strive only for good. The more Darkness a man has within him, the more pitiless the ring will prove towards him, for it tolerates only innocence and justice. But even if an honest man of irreproachable virtue dares place this ring on his finger, he might well also suffer grievous consequences. This is why the Ring of Orleys demands mature reflection from those who would measure themselves against it.”

  A mysterious shadow veiled Tivann’s gaze. “The ring was forged for one purpose only: to recognise the one for whom it has waited for centuries. When it has accomplished its purpose, it will vanish. It is an enchanted ring: it can find the Chosen One.”

  Feeling a shiver run through him, the Nameless One turned to leave the room, but his legs almost buckled beneath him and his vision blurred. Shaken, he pulled himself together, and his strange weakness passed unnoticed.

  Orlaith unfastened the chain from around her neck and took the ring in her white hand.

  “I have always known that I am the Chosen One,” announced Arthur of Farrières. “I never considered myself a simple hovalyn. This trial does not frighten me in the least.”

  Orlaith slipped the ring on to a finger of Arthur’s outstretched hand. The ring, a cunningly wrought circle of white gold,
soon melted into a whirlwind that began to spin around the man’s finger. The knight’s face betrayed his growing alarm, while his bulging eyes revealed his pain as the ring gradually became a circlet of silver flames with pearly reflections. The hovalyn shook his hand, his features distorted in agony, and cried, “Take this ring off me! I cannot bear it any more! Mercy! Help me, I beg of you!”

  “It is impossible,” murmured Tivann, disappointed.

  The vicious flames kept spreading, licking greedily, and soon strips of charred flesh hung from the knight’s mutilated hand. The Nameless One was fascinated by the sight, filled with repulsion yet unable to tear his eyes away.

  “Rarely has the Ring of Orleys punished a man so cruelly,” sighed Tivann.

  At last the torture was over. The hovalyn’s finger crumbled into black ashes, while the ring, as smooth again as when it had hung around Orlaith’s neck, fell to the floor with a metallic clink. The girl quickly picked it up as Arthur of Farrières returned to his place, grimacing with pain.

  “Now,” asked Tivann of Orleys, “does anyone else wish to risk wearing the ring?”

  Silence reigned over the gathering of hovalyns. Then a man with a rugged face spoke up.

  “I want to try my luck.”

  “If such is your wish,” nodded Tivann. “You are a man of great merit, Gohral Keull, and if you are not the Chosen One, then no one is worthy of that honour.”