Daughter of Prophecy

by Miles Owens

  The night air chilled her sweat-drenched gown, and cold pierced her skin and seeped into her soul. Shivering, she reached down and drew the blanket back over her head and shoulders. She peered out to the north and then to the west. Evil was on the move in both directions, and she had no doubt of its destination.

  She lifted her gaze heavenward. Tears filled her eyes.

  Dear Eternal, forgive my sin.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  BRANOR

  SOUTH THE WIND blew from Salmand, the city of the Dinari High Lord. Though it was high summer, the wind carried a chill as it billowed down the crags of the Fea Mountains and across green pastures dotted with sheep. Hardened sheepherders shivered when it passed and tightened their grip on staffs. Sheep raised heads from grazing, uneasy. Lambs scurried pell-mell back to their mothers.

  The wind ripped the surface of small ponds and clear lakes and added more velocity to snowmelt streams bubbling downhill. It blew down the narrow road toward Lachlann, raising dust and scattering small pebbles. It eddied and swirled around the high walls of Kepploch Monastery, then gathered itself and sped toward the Rogoth lands.

  The skin prickled between Branor’s shoulder blades as he strode across the inner courtyard on the way to meet with Abbot Trahern.

  Two gardener monks straightened from their labor. They stared at each other for a moment, then shrugged and returned to their weeding of the flowerbeds that lined the walkways. All were in bloom with pleasing colors of red, yellow, pink, and blue. Rosebushes with blood red petals circled a pool in which yellow and orange fish swam beneath water lilies. Rising from the middle of the pool was a statue of Destin Faber with his sword hilt deep in the chest of a roaring winged horror. On the base of the statue were chiseled the names of Keeper monks killed through the centuries battling outbreaks of the Mighty Ones’ creatures.

  Branor halted and looked over the east wall of the monastery toward the Rogoth lands. Whatever he had felt before must have been his imagination. He was not ready for it to be anything but imagination. He swallowed hard and strode on.

  He walked under the columned walkway surrounding the courtyard, leaving the flowers and sunshine behind. The hallway to abbot’s office was hung with colorful tapestries. Tightly woven rugs covered the stone floor. Chests and cabinets of polished wood held plates and platters, bowls and cups as fine as anything he had seen in the hlafords of high-ranking clan lords.

  As usual, Keeper Ubie, Trahern’s ancient and irascible secretary, perched on a stool in front of a slant-top desk. And as usual, Ubie did not deign to acknowledge Branor’s entrance.

  Suppressing a sigh, Branor stopped in front of the desk. “I am here to see the abbot.”

  The secretary’s face was hollow cheeked, and tufts of white hair grew on the bridge of his nose and from his earlobes. His fingers were ink-stained and his hands dotted with age spots. As usual, he pretended not to hear the request, remaining engrossed in shuffling the parchments before him.

  Branor smiled. The Eternal gives me opportunity to practice my rediscovered humility. But if I weren’t such a recently broken man, I’d jerk this pompous bag of bones off that stool, give him a good kick in the backside, and then count how many times he bounced—

  “Yes, Your Grace?” Ubie peered up with rheumy eyes and pursed lips. “What did you say?”

  Branor’s toes twitched. “As I have twice a week since I have been here, I have come to talk with Abbot Trahern.”

  Not changing his expression, the secretary managed to convey affront as he set the parchments aside. He slowly lifted the hinged top of the desk and rummaged in the underlying compartment. Bringing out a leather-bound ledger, he dipped a quill into ink and with great deliberation jotted down a notation. Finally he creaked off the stool and shuffled to the abbot’s door.

  Branor had needed Kepploch’s slow pace these past weeks. Needed the peace to regain his focus on the Eternal. And to be reconciled to a new future.

  He was still surprised at his lack of tension. His ambition had been a burden he carried for so long that only in its absence was he able to understand what a crushing weight it had become. He still felt fragile, numb at the sudden change. Overnight he had gone from years of examining everything he did for its furtherance of his ultimate goal to . . . nothing. Quest abandoned. When he had been so close.

  Or had he really been so near his goal?

  The closer he got to the seventh knot, the greater the obstacles. With the benefit of weeks of contemplation, he now realized how the effort to surmount those obstacles had molded him into a different person. He had moved his boundary line of what was acceptable. The changes had been subtle. Tiny nudges to the barrier along the way, punctuated with substantial repositioning to crush stubborn rivals. All easily excused in the stress of competition.

  Until the encounter with Maolmin and the realization of the horrendous leap that required.

  After Branor’s breaking, days of weeping had followed. And sleep. Deep, healing sleep. In that time he rediscovered prayer and meditation on scripture. He had long talks with Trahern. The abbot’s wisdom and spiritual insight were giving Branor the mortar to put the shattered pieces of his life back together.

  During the past few days, Branor had sensed the process coming to, if not a conclusion, then an ending of sorts. He recognized his growing irritability with life at Kepploch as further confirmation. He’d needed the slow pace, but now it was time to get moving again.

  After Ubie announced him and the day’s session got underway, Trahern agreed.

  “It is time,” the abbot declared, tapping his finger on the polished wooden surface of his desk. “The urgency increases every day.” When Branor made no reply, Trahern cocked a bushy eyebrow. “Many of the brothers feel stirrings in the heavenlies. Don’t you?”

  “Yes. More every day.” Branor shifted uncomfortably in the chair, surprised at the fear rippling through him. “But I am not able to face Maolmin.”

  “Of course you are not able! None of us can face the Mighty Ones and their creatures in our own strength. The Founders certainly couldn’t. It was only by the Eternal’s power that they triumphed. Nothing has changed in twelve centuries. The Covenant still covers the Land. The Mighty Ones are defeated foes. It seems they need to be reminded of that fact.” Those faded blue eyes studied Branor deeply. “The Eternal called you to this battle years ago. His call still rests upon you today.”

  “How can that be when I turned my back on him to pursue my own agenda? I would think I had forfeited any call he might have once graced me with.”

  Trahern’s face softened. “But he never turned his back on you.”

  “All those years wasted.”

  “Not necessarily. Worms have eaten a part, but edible fruit remains. You claim that the Dinari High Lord harbors a siyyim—” he raised a hand when Branor stiffened, “and I believe you. But if demons indwell nobles, then what better weapon to engage that threat than High Lord Keeper Branor, a man possessing knowledge of higher-level clan politics as do few in our order? In his infinite wisdom, the Eternal allowed you to learn and gather experience. When the time was right, he separated you from the pack, knocked you to your knees, and then put his foot firmly on your neck until you surrendered.”

  Trahern turned to look through the window at the inner courtyard. “Now, to the future.” He steepled his fingers. “Without question you are linked to the Rogoth girl. Whatever ‘Protectoress of the Covenant’ entails, the Eternal expects you to see this matter to its conclusion. The Mighty Ones are stirring. You need to be at the Rogoth hlaford.”

  Branor swallowed. “I am not ready. I need more time.”

  Trahern went on without heed. “You returned to us a rusted, pitted sword that had been banged against brick walls of intrigue and used as a tool to pry boulders out of the path of ambition.” He brought his gaze from the window and fixed Branor with a level look. “These last weeks you have gone through a refining fire. You are retempered for your original
purpose as a weapon in the Master’s hand.” He smiled gently. “Times and places are not for us to determine. When the Eternal calls, we obey.”

  The librarian brought the leather folder containing Night Watch, the ancient book in the Old Tongue. Branor took it and went to a small desk next to a window that caught the morning light.

  The monastery’s library held dozens of accounts collected through the centuries of encounters with the Mighty Ones’ creatures. During his first time here at Kepploch, Branor had studied those writings. Many were hearsay and rumors finally written down months—more often years—after the fact: sightings of large, winged creatures flying overhead; herds of sheep and cattle ravaged; unexplained cottage or manor burnings with no survivors. The majority seemed embellished fairy tales cut whole cloth from the legends surrounding Destin Faber and the Founding.

  More than one account read exactly like the winged horror attack on Rhiannon, however. This made Branor wonder how many more of the seemingly farfetched accounts were true as well.

  An even dozen of the library’s accounts were penned by Keepers detailing encounters of verified outbreaks. Branor had concentrated on those during these last days. Of them all, the six-hundred-year-old Night Watch seemed to speak the clearest. In it, not only was Keeper Alock called upon to quell an outbreak of winged horrors, but also the peasant monk and his faithful helpers had contended face-to-face against a demonized pagan priestess.

  Branor settled down at the small table, opened the folder, and gently thumbed through the yellow, brittle sheets containing the blocky characters of Old Tongue. The manuscript had been written by Alock’s replacement, Keeper Devitt. Devitt was the youngest son of a minor clan noble and well educated, as his writing indicated. Why this young Keeper had been sent to replace the aged and dying Alock was a matter of speculation. Having dealt with Keepers from noble families with too many sons, Branor was certain Devitt’s superiors had done so for punishment and humbling.

  Branor found the passage that had been nagging him. The ink was faded but was still legible. He mentally translated:

  The last two days I have feared the end is near for Alock, and I despaired of finishing this account. But he has rallied. The old crone who faithfully tends to him woke me at first light saying that Alock requested I bring my parchments and ink. Upon my arrival, I found him even more shrunken but alert and propped up on the narrow bed under two layers of quilts. He lifted a hand and motioned me to bring the stool next to the bed. Without waiting for me to arrange my materials he started exactly where he had stopped at the end of our last session. As before, I have striven to maintain the essence of Alock’s account while taking the liberty to correct his atrocious grammar. I resume his narration:

  Night belonged to the horrors. Come sundown, true believers huddled in their homes, doors barred, curtains over windows to keep any trace of light from showing. The beasts seemed to hate any light. They went into a frenzy and attacked any fire or person carrying a lantern.

  A dwelling—always one belonging to staunch believers—would be attacked at night. We would find the smoking ruins. It was awful picking up the remains for proper burial.

  I kept beseeching the Eternal for insight. And, praise his name, he answered with a vision. I saw that during those attacks the horrors were like a pack of trained hounds under control of their master. I saw the creatures linked to that master, who directed them like a wagon master with horses hitched to a wagon. And I knew who that master was.

  Talladin was built on a limestone ridge above the Verrin River. Several abandoned hill forts dotted the area. They dated back to before Destin’s time. In their superstitions, many of the people believed one of the forts was a sacred shrine to the Lady of the East, that accursed Mighty One. During certain nights, many of the people—even some who worshiped the Eternal the rest of the year—would go to that shrine and participate in vile worship directed by some high priestess.

  Oh, I knew who the priestess was. Supposedly it was a hereditary office, handed down from mother to daughter. She and her fellow pagans sought to keep it a secret from all but the initiated. Some aftermath of the Cleansing, I suppose. Until the outbreak, this high priestess had seemed a harmless sort. She and her followers would dance about, sometimes naked, mumbling their incantations and other gibberish, beseeching the Lady of the East to grant them favor. Worshipers would leave offerings of food and drink, coins and jewelry, and carved wooden human figures meant to represent a sick person in an effort to receive healing. But my vision clearly identified the high priestess as the one directly controlling the winged horrors.

  I called the true believers together and told them what we must do. At first, most refused. I kept after them until they realized this was their only hope. Otherwise their homes and loved ones could well be the next attacked. Many of their friends had already bowed the knee to the Lady of the East to safeguard themselves. And the number was growing. The whole area was taken by fear.

  I heard rumors of nightly ceremonies at the hill fort shrine. At sundown, I divided my people. The men and older boys I took with me. The women, children, and older folks stayed behind and prayed for binding of the horrors and a covering over us.

  We set out for the shrine. We had no proper weapons like Destin and the Founders. Only hay sickles, hoes, sticks, and clubs fashioned from tree limbs.

  That first time we surprised the pagans. They had set out no guards, so sure were they of their security. The high priestess was not there. I learned later that she was at another shrine two days’ distance, leading that area back into pagan practices.

  At our arrival and my declaration that we were claiming the hill for the Eternal, the lower priestesses ran about in a panic, screeching spells and incantations to call forth something, but to no avail. I sternly admonished those worshipers present to repent and go home. I recognized many of them, although in their shame, they tried to hide their faces from me.

  Once everyone fled, we gathered every pagan implement and offering we could find and burned them. Then we marched back. We encountered no horrors that night. For the next four nights Talladin lived in peace.

  Then the high priestess returned.

  Branor looked up from the parchment. He said a prayer of protection over Rhiannon, then returned to his reading.

  The directed attacks resumed. Three families were killed the first night, two more the second. I called my people together, divided them as before, and marched back to the hill shrine.

  I will always remember how quiet it was. Nothing moved in the fields. No sound of night creatures. Crickets, frogs, owls were all strangely silent.

  We marched unmolested up the hill. The high priestess seemed to be waiting for us. This was not the same woman. Oh, she looked the same, but she was different. Transformed. The other priestesses were there as well, standing a few steps behind her. I saw no worshipers that night.

  The high priestess stood before me in her white robe, hands on her hips. All manner of clacking bracelets encircled her arms and wrists. She wore a heavy gold necklace with jewels of many colors. I could hardly stand to look her in the face. Her eyes were terrible.

  I gathered my courage and told her that I bound her power and reclaimed the shrine for the Eternal. I will never forget her laugh. It was evil, arrogant. I tell you frankly, it sent chills running down my spine.

  The jewels on her necklace glowed. She sneered and drew a sharp knife from her belt and cut a long slice down her left arm. As the blood dripped, she spouted some chant—and horrors descended upon us.

  As the fight swirled around me, I found myself seeing with different eyes. The demon indwelling the high priestess held a number of reins. The reins were attached to the flying horrors, and the demon controlled their attack as a coachman directs a team of horses. Another, thicker rein ran from the demon back into the mist. I could vaguely see a larger demon holding that rein. An even thicker rein ran from the larger demon into a mass of swirling, black and red clouds. I ignored all t
hat and focused on the demon before me.

  I had a rope in my hands. I ran forward and bound the demon. But with a flex of its muscles, it broke the bonds.

  “Your rope is frayed, little man,” it sneered. “It cannot bind me. And your covering has holes.” The demon struck me, and I found myself back on the hill, seeing normally, the vision gone.

  It was a rout. A sickle in the hands of a hay cutter can be an awesome weapon. But the sharp blades only bounced off the horrors. Three of my men were burned to death; many others received deep cuts from claws and broken bones from those cruel wings.

  I know now that the prayers of the wives and others hindered the horrors just enough to allow our escape.

  The rest of that night and the next day I lay on my face before the Eternal, begging for an answer. Praise his name, he answered. He gave me to understand what “frayed rope” and “holes in our covering” referred to. Like moths eating away at cloth, my people’s involvement in pagan practices, which many of them saw as harmless tradition—feast days, ceremonies with pagan foundations, charms, amulets and the like—were eating away at our ability to confront the pagan evil.

  I brought this before my people and had them renounce all involvement with pagans. They examined their homes and barns and removed all objects that may have had pagan origins. We built a huge fire and burned everything. To a person, all wept tears of repentance and renewed their fealty to the Eternal and the Covenant. As night was falling, we joined in one accord and had a powerful time of prayer.

  Then we marched back to the shrine.

  Branor stopped. I fear Tellan’s involvement with the Broken Stone Land is similar. And the demon that Alock faced must rank lower than a siyyim. How can we bind Maolmin, a siyyim and a clan High Lord?

  He shivered, remembering the feeling in the courtyard.