“The Blood Lord,” Enaya remarked.
“Yes. Thorl Desirmor,” Roswell said the name in a near whisper as though saying it aloud were some kind of blight. “I’m not certain how he came to understand the lore of the blood sorcerers, but he practices the art. In the age soon after the Battle of Three Queens, darkness sought new ways to corrupt the souls of men. For those that couldn’t use the trivarial power, but desired the virtues of magic, innovation was necessary. This gave rise to the age of the Keth, a cult of men who discovered a new theurgy predicated on self-mutilation and sacrifice. Such practices are inherently evil and desecrate the living soul until any resemblance of humanity is lost. The darkness of their magic grew powerful and the evil of the Keth can only be rivaled historically by the age in which we now live. Fortunately for the world, the Keth were undone by their own infighting and greed. No true leader ever emerged to use the cult's might for ruling. I shudder to think how things may have turned out if the Keth had ever organized under one man.”
“So the Keth just died out?” Sim wondered.
“Not exactly, no. Those that practiced the art of blood sorcery continued to persist. The lore was passed on through many millennia, improved upon in truth. It was the Alexidus monarchy that first outlawed its practice and actively enforced its criminality. But even then, it persisted. Desirmor was the one that ended it. Just like the Harvens, Desirmor destroyed his rivals.”
“Then how does the Blood Lord do it?” Sim asked.
“Desirmor must have kept the lore and taught it to his sons. Thorl isn’t the first Blood Lord. Desirmor’s sons have always practiced the art of blood sorcery.” Roswell sighed and looked upon Sim hopefully. “But if the prophecy proves true, then Thorl will be the last.”
“He will be.” Sim’s words were like forged iron.
Nehrea felt a shimmer of lust assaulting her senses. When Sim spoke with such conviction, it made her legs weak. He was incredibly handsome, and strong, and powerful, but it was his sincerity and passion that had taken her heart. She had not believed, prior to meeting him, that a man so masculine could possess such a gentle side.
“Let us hope you are right, Siminus,” Roswell said gravely.
“These blood sorcerers, they have to draw their own blood?” Enaya asked, regarding Gracin thoughtfully.
“They do, but as I understand it, to increase their own power, they must make sacrifices -- the larger the sacrifice, the greater the power. You see, taking a life is a violent act if its intentions are impure. Killing an animal for sustenance is necessary, and a part of the underlying cycle of life. Murder is a desecration, and it darkens the soul. Eventually, a man can become so immune to killing that the soul turns black altogether. The Keth believed that only when a soul had completely turned, could the scope of a man’s power truly be measured.”
“Do you suppose that was how Desirmor came to his power?” Enaya asked.
“What do you mean?” Gracin seemed intrigued.
“Perhaps he was the first to achieve a total blackening of his soul,” Enaya explained.
“I have considered that possibility. I don’t believe it’s true. A few centuries ago I lived in the palace as a servant. I was feeling a bit more reckless back then in taking such a risk, but I was able to observe Desirmor closely for several years before I moved on. I’ve never seen him cut himself to wield his power. The way his power worked was very reminiscent of a Harven. No, it’s something else. Something no-one has ever uncovered. I’ve been trying to answer that question for a millennia, Lady Relador, and still I am perplexed.”
“We must solve this riddle, Master Gracin,” Enaya told him firmly. “I believe it is necessary to understand our adversary, if we hope to defeat him.”
“I agree with you, my Lady, and I believe the prophecy agrees as well,” Gracin said.
“May we see the prophecy now, Master Gracin?” Enaya asked, fervently.
“After dinner, Lady Relador,” Gracin said, looking over his roasting pan of fish and vegetables. “Right now, I think I’d like to have a talk with the Collora if she wouldn’t mind sparing me a moment.”
Nehrea acknowledged Gracin’s request with a bow of her head. “The Dahara long to graze on the open plain before nightfall, Master Gracin. Let us go outside and converse.”
“Please, make yourselves at home. Dinner should be ready in a short while,” Gracin addressed the group. He turned and placed a few dozen carrots and apples in a woven straw basket. Then he motioned Nehrea toward the front door and followed her out.
The early evening air was crisp. A steady breeze swept across the land from the west carrying the faint but unmistakable scent of ocean water. Nehrea still had on Sim’s oversized black coat to ward off the chill. She selfishly wondered if he would ever ask to have it back. She hoped he would let her keep it. The jacket would serve as a keepsake of him when the course of their lives diverged. Already, she dreaded the coming of morning when she would be forced to part with her love.
Nehrea stepped down off the porch and smiled warmly at Firetail, Fallastar, and Shearwind.
“I told you we’d get apples,” Shearwind said.
“You were right as always, Shearwind,” Firetail answered with tinges of sarcasm.
Fallastar chuckled and exchanged a hidden glance with Firetail. They stood closely together, and Nehrea wondered if there was some sort of romance blossoming between them. She knew from her inherited memories that the Dahara were more like humans in their courtship than traditional equines. They flirted and lusted, and forged monogamous relationships. There were even instances of adultery, but those were rare.
“If you’d follow me, Collora, there’s a well this way,” Roswell said.
He led them to a stone well with a lever that pumped the water up to a spigot. Then he filled a wooden bucket and placed it on the ground. Shearwind went first, drinking thirstily and quickly emptying the bucket. When she finished, she whinnied at Gracin to show her gratitude. Roswell bowed his head, understanding the meaning of her gesture without needing an explanation from Nehrea. He refilled the bucket twice more for Firetail and Fallastar. Then he began hand feeding the apples and carrots to the horses with Nehrea.
“So tell me about yourself, Collora,” he asked as they fed the Dahara.
“What would you like to know?”
“Are you from Nal’Dahara?”
Prior to the Ritual of Cerseay, Nehrea would have been elusive and guarded answering personal questions for a man she hardly knew, but the ritual had imbedded her with a strength and confidence that sanded away the shame she would have felt otherwise. She had been accepted unconditionally by the Dahara, and it was their judgment alone that mattered to her now. For Roswell Gracin, she had no reservations about her ignominious past.
“All my life,” she answered, smiling fondly as Shearwind took an apple from her hand.
“I don’t detect any hint of an accent,” Roswell pointed out.
“Governor Cantor loathes the accent of Nal’Dahara. We were punished for speaking improperly. Over the years, I suppose I’ve lost it.”
“My studies of past histories have included extensive research in the lineage of the Collora. It seems that in nearly every case, the chosen one has come from meager beginnings,” Roswell told her.
“My father was a blacksmith. When I was a little girl, he was forced into slavery over a dispute with a merchant. It wasn’t long before my mother and I ended up living in the Cortella. On my sixteenth birthday my mother sent me away to the palace to serve as one of the Governor’s courtesans. It was only a few days ago that Siminus and Lady Relador freed me from that prison and led me to my calling.”
Roswell regarded her with concerned silence. “I’ve heard rumors of the Governor’s treatment of his courtesans. If even half of what I’ve heard is true, then I feel truly sorry for you.”
“I can assure you, Master Gracin, that the reality of my time in the Governor’s care is far worse than anything you have been
told.”
“The Creator chose well then, I believe,” Roswell said, regarding her seriously.
“I can only do my best,” Nehrea said with a sigh.
“Hardship breeds strength and perseverance, humility and compassion. That has been the standard for all of the Colloras I have studied. Stay true to yourself, Nehrea Alla’Dushura, and I believe you may one day be thought of as the greatest of your lineage,” Roswell bowed his head.
“We believe you are right, Roswell Gracin. Nehrea Alla’Dushura may indeed exceed all who have come before her,” Shearwind said.
Roswell’s face froze. He stared upon the three Dahara with wide-eyed shock. Nehrea suddenly realized that he had heard Shearwind’s words, and she turned a questioning look to the horses.
“We have made the choice to let our voices be heard, Collora,” Firetail answered her look.
“Roswell Gracin has eaten fruit from the Tree of Kiellanne and bathed in the Allaheara Spring. He forfeited his humanity in the name of immortality. If we choose to allow it, he can hear our speech,” Shearwind added.
Nehrea searched her memories for the Tree of Kiellanne, but found nothing. Not even a faint glimmer of familiarity. Though initially, it had shocked her to realize that Roswell could hear the Dahara, it was something she already knew, but hadn’t considered. With training, she would soon be able to grasp the full extent of her newfound talents.
“The Dahara know much,” Roswell said, breathlessly composing himself. “Please excuse my startlement. In my early life, the Dahara were beloved, revered like no other being in all the world. I never believed I would ever actually speak with one.”
“We stand on the precipice of a new age, Roswell Gracin. The Harven will bring much change. Whether for good or ill, the skies remain unclear, but change will come,” Fallastar said.
“Change has come,” Roswell responded gravelly.
“Darkness looms. Something ancient,” Fallastar said.
“People will suffer. Humanity will be tested,” Shearwind added.
“The world will look to our Collora for leadership,” Fallastar said.
“And she will respond fearlessly,” Shearwind said with conviction.
“Are you two finished piling impossible expectations on our new Collora’s shoulders? Have you forgotten that she was only just raised?” Firetail said in defense of Nehrea.
She smiled at him fondly. “I will try to do my best, Firetail.”
“That is all anyone can ask of you, Collora,” he replied warmly.
The apples and carrots disappeared quickly and with an empty basket, Roswell made himself comfortable, taking a seat on the ground. For Nehrea, he flipped over the wooden bucket that he used to collect water from the well. Nehrea thanked him as she took a seat.
“Tell us about the Alexidus family,” Shearwind said.
“We hunger for histories of the land that we may pass down to the rest of the clan,” Fallastar added.
“It was a golden age. A truly golden age,” Roswell said with a lamenting smile. “I thought the Dahara shared their memories throughout the ages?”
“Our memories can be much like your own, Roswell Gracin,” Shearwind told him. “Some are as vivid as if we existed forever in that moment, others are vague dreams that hover beyond recall.”
“We have memories of the Alexidus monarchy, but they are few and lack substance,” Firetail added.
“We share memories of a visit the Collora made a short time before Desirmor brought his darkness upon the world. The Collora went to warn the royal family of an impending danger that had been foreseen in the skies. The King was courteous and respectful, but ultimately dismissive of the warning,” Shearwind said.
“Yes, yes,” Roswell sighed sadly, “King Michael was a kind and decent man, but he was arrogant. He was the 18th king in the Alexidus line. Each succeeding king had expanded the reach of Fandrian law until the world was at peace. With no challengers to their rule, and no enemies to disturb the order of law, the succession of kings grew increasingly complacent. King Michael simply didn’t believe he could be threatened. The peace we lived in created a veil of naiveté. No-one ever considered the possibility that it could all end.”
“We hold no enmity towards King Michael. Even had he prepared in advance, Desirmor’s victory was inevitable. The world had no answer for his powers,” Fallastar said.
Nehrea began to think of Sim. One day he was destined to face the evil of which they spoke. An evil so powerful that all of Sim’s ancestors were destroyed. How could he possibly win?
“Do not despair, Collora,” Firetail reassured her as though he were inside of her head, swimming in her emotions. “The Harven’s challenges are great, but he is guided by the hand of our Creator. In the end, good will stand victorious. You must give him your faith.”
Nehrea nodded gratefully and smiled demurely. “He has much more than my faith, Firetail.”
She could feel the warmth and joy flowing through her shared bond with the Dahara. They couldn’t smile like humans, but they could project the feelings of a smile through their telepathic connection.
“The queen and the princess were unrivaled in their beauty,” Roswell reminisced fondly. “Never have I witnessed so much love and adoration. It was as though they embodied the very essence of the Creator.”
“We remember the beauty of the Alexidus line. The gift of beauty has been passed through the ages to Lady Relador as well,” Fallastar said.
Nehrea couldn’t control the pang of jealousy that fired through her body. Enaya was indeed beautiful. Impossibly so. She would have no choice but to leave Sim in her care when she departed to rejoin the clan. Though she had Sim’s heart, she couldn’t help but worry. Enaya was smart and imposing. And she lusted after Sim. Nehrea could see it in the way she looked at him. Though Enaya tried to hide it, the longing was evident. Nehrea suspected that a woman of Enaya’s station was accustomed to getting whatever she wanted. If she set her sights on Sim, how long would his devotion last?
“You swore to free your heart of envy, Collora,” Firetail playfully chided her.
She looked at the giant horse crossly, “Am I allowed no private thoughts, Firetail?”
“You will learn to guard your mind during the training, Collora, but for now, your every want and desire are as plain to us as the clothing you wear,” Firetail answered.
“You’ve no need to take offense, Collora,” Fallastar said, bumping Firetail reproachfully with her flank. “The rites of the Ritual of Cerseay are not oaths, but desires. You are human and prone to human emotions. You are not the first Collora who has been in love. The objective is to put the needs of the clan and your own duties to the Dahara, ahead of your personal needs.”
“Fallastar speaks truly,” Shearwind added. “You have chosen to offer your heart to the last Harven. Earning his love and keeping his love will be a difficult road to travel. Learn to accept your heartache, for the life you’ve chosen will bring you much.”
“This is all so new to me,” Nehrea said, feeling ashamed for her insipid desires. Here they were talking of important histories, preparing to face the greatest evil the world had ever known, and all she could think about was losing a man she had only really known for a few days.
“Do not apologize for the elements that make you human, Collora,” Fallastar told her. “In the end, your capacity for love and compassion may prove to be your greatest strength.”
“Believe me, Nehrea, you are not the first Collora who has faced diverging personal conflictions,” Roswell reassured her. “Be thankful you aren’t Braille Ruvere.”
The Dahara shuffled uneasily at the mention of the name. Nehrea searched her own memories for recollection. She could see flashes of a life that she knew belonged to Braille Ruvere, but she couldn’t hold them together.
“Who was she?” she asked.
Roswell seemed to sense the Dahara’s unease and looked to them for permission to speak.
“She holds the memor
ies already,” Shearwind reasoned. “What’s the difference if she learns now or in a few days when her control begins to gain strength?”
“She is still fragile. I don’t want her to be upset,” Firetail argued.
“She is strong enough, Firetail,” Shearwind told him.
“Braille Ruvere was the last Collora,” Fallastar told Nehrea plainly. “She was also Desirmor’s sister.”
The memories that ran through her mind like drops of water sliding down a pane of glass, suddenly pooled together into one focused picture. Nehrea could see a happy little boy, with sandy hair and precocious blue eyes, laughing as he swung from the branch of an oak tree. The memory was warm and joyful, a brother and sister innocently at play before the harsh reality of the world shaped them into adults. Could this happy little boy truly be Desirmor?
More memories came then in such a rush that she fell forward and landed on the soft grass. Distantly, she could hear the calls of Roswell and the Dahara, but her eyes could see only the images of Braille Ruvere’s life: A house in despair over the untimely passing of her mother when she was no older than ten. Her sad, broken father, taking his frustration out on the boy, beating him mercilessly, often without cause. The vacant, disaffected look the boy, now a teenager, had in his eyes, the day he told her that their father had left and would never return. The bodies of small animals she found mutilated in piles behind their meager home. A young man with wild, feral eyes, ranting about his desire to meet the princess. A final meeting, where the deranged young man spoke of the key to his future somewhere down in the tropics. Then the sudden feelings of sympathy and betrayal, knowing the man who had driven a blade into her back was her own brother.
“Speak Collora!” Shearwind implored, snapping Nehrea back to attention. “What manner of evil holds you?”
“I’m fine. Fine,” Nehrea panted, still down on her hands and knees.
Roswell was rubbing her back.
“What happened to you, Collora?” Fallastar demanded. Her normally even, calming voice sounded panicked.
“Your mind was shielded from us. Were you taken by some kind of vision?” Firetail asked.
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