Shoren found himself nodding again. “They were wise not to meet him yet. The shock might have scared him from what he must do.”
“He will meet them in time.”
Shoren smiled. Time. There was not enough of it. “Yes, he will need to. The requirements have been met. We must make him ready.”
“He will be ready. Chon will be sure of it.”
Shoren laughed at the idea of Chon working with Aalleyn. After all the years Chon had spent around Shoren’s kind, the man did not see them as gods any longer. Would he be able to convince Aalleyn of the same?
Denmri’s laughter joined in. Their voices floated out and joined the night.
Finally, Shoren sighed. “If only it could have been he.”
Denmri laughed again. “Had it been so, my friend, would the colors along the path look so beautiful?”
“No, Denmri, they would have been plain, but sometimes the brightness of the colors can be distracting. We don’t have time for distractions.”
They sat for a while, and the night grew long around them. After a while, he saw Marli make her way back into the clearing. She moved slowly, gracefully even for one of their kind.
She is beautiful, he thought again.
“Shoren,” he heard her begin as she neared. “Shoren...”
“Jakob!”
The word dragged lost memories forward, and he struggled to remember who he was.
Jakob. I’m Jakob!
He looked around the clearing. The stones were back the way they had been, scattered about the clearing. The night sky was dark, except for the bright fire blazing nearby.
It was dying when he fell asleep. Or was it?
He wasn’t sure. Moments before he was sure he had been Shoren.
The dream had felt so real!
So real, he hadn’t even thought it a dream.
Brohmin kneeled nearby and reached for him. Grabbing him by the shoulders, he shook him. “Wake up, boy!”
Jakob pushed him away. “I am awake!” He looked around again and noticed Salindra sitting not far from Brohmin, her eyes wide as she stared at him. “What is it?”
The two others look at him for a long time, silent. Finally, Brohmin spoke, “You were talking in your sleep.”
The dream was fading from his memory, but remained vivid enough. “What was I saying?”
Brohmin shook his head and looked to Salindra. Her face had gone white. “I don’t know. You were speaking in a tongue that I don’t recognize.”
Speaking in tongues. Like Scottan.
He felt the blood drain from his face. The madness.
But it was the ancient language. Wasn’t it?
He could remember the way the words came off his tongue. He could almost speak them now if he put his mind to it. He could remember the way his mouth felt as it formed the words. What kind of dream does that?
No dream, he knew. The madness. He had dreamed himself a god. Would his fate be the same as Scottan’s?
He could only hope to have enough time to bring the trunk to Endric before it struck him in full.
Salindra just stared at him.
Brohmin looked at him with a more measured expression. “What were you dreaming about?”
He shook his head. He was afraid they would call him mad and afraid they might be right. “I don’t remember.”
Brohmin smiled. It was a warm smile. Comforting. “Jakob, you can’t wake up from a dream where you are speaking a strange language and tell us that you don’t remember what it was about. Trust us a little.”
Jakob looked at Brohmin, then back to Salindra.
If I’m mad, best they know.
“It was this clearing. Only different. The rocks there were in a circle, and I sat upon one of them.” He looked out over to the rocks. It had seemed so real. And I had been Shoren. “It was night, or growing close to being night. A god came into the clearing.”
“A god?” Brohmin asked.
“I think it was a god. They were unlike anyone else I have ever seen.”
Brohmin nodded as though he simply accepted.
“Stranger still was that I was one of them. After a while, two men came into the clearing. One I knew. The other was unfamiliar to me, but I told him he had a special purpose, a special path we’d seen. Somehow, I knew all about this man. I told him he was going to bring about the end of some war.” Jakob paused. “I told him he had been chosen.”
Brohmin looked at him strangely. It made him feel odd about what he’d told them. He looked to Salindra whose face was nearly ashen now.
She must recognize the madness.
Brohmin looked back to the fire. It had begun to die again. “It’s growing late. We have much to travel tomorrow.”
Salindra nodded though she never took her eyes off him.
Brohmin helped the Mage woman unsteadily to her feet. They ambled over to where they were to make their camp. He helped her lie down, and then they spoke together in hushed whispers. The slow pulsing in Jakob’s head had started again, and he knew he could strain and hear them, but did not. He didn’t think he wanted to hear, anyway.
Jakob laid himself back down.
It was just a dream, he told himself. Just a dream.
Why did he fear it was something else?
Chapter Thirty-One
When Novan opened his door, Alriyn eyed the historian carefully. The last time he had seen Novan, the man had been escorted from the city. Little had changed about him—he still had the same arrogant posture, the same pursed lips, the same too-knowing eyes. “You requested a meeting?” Alriyn asked.
Roelle had left a message in her uncle’s quarters. He’d been avoiding the historian but worried about what would happen if he continued to ignore the man’s request. What would he get Roelle into? He’d not known and chose to seek out the historian to ensure his niece’s safety, especially with the task he’d set her on.
What would the Council think of the Magi patrolling the city with the Denraen?
Did they have other options?
No. None that were good. The mahne and the city must be protected. Roelle had proven capable, and he worried that it would not be the last time.
Novan nodded, his thin lips pursed in a tight line, neither smile nor frown. His hands played with a dark ring upon his finger as he answered. “I did.” He stepped back from the door to allow Alriyn to enter, an annoying smirk on his face.
Alriyn felt his frustration grow. This man was nearly as difficult as Endric and half as useful. He would have ignored the historian if not for the knowledge he held. So far, he had kept his word—keeping the knowledge to himself. “What did you need?”
Novan tipped his head and raised his eyebrows, blinking his bright eyes slowly. “It is for what you need I summoned you.”
“And what is that?”
Novan smiled. “I met Roelle.”
“You traveled with her from Chrysia. She tells me you have a new apprentice.”
“I do. An interesting boy with a quick mind.”
“So I hear,” Alriyn said.
Novan arched an eyebrow with the comment.
“Haerlin mentioned him,” Alriyn offered. What would he do with that comment?
“Haerlin? And what did your minor prophet say?”
Alriyn struggled to contain his surprise. How could he know? “And where is he now?” Alriyn asked, changing course, wondering if Novan would answer truthfully.
Novan waved his hands. “North. He went to observe the Denraen.”
“Observe what?”
“On that, you must ask Endric.”
No clear answers would come from him, and Endric would be no different. “What do you need, historian?” Alriyn asked with more irritation than he intended coming through.
Novan chuckled. “Roelle spoke with me after she returned as well. She was seeking your Founders.”
“What you shared has been kept to the Council for generations.”
“Yes, but knowledge like that should be shared, not
hidden,” the historian stated. “The Magi should know the truth. Your Council hides the truth of the Founding from the Magi and in doing so, you remain unprepared.”
Alriyn motioned to the two chairs in Novan’s room. “The truth?” Alriyn asked him as they sat. “There are few who claim to understand the past and none who know the truth.”
Novan raised a hand in objection. “I’ve read your texts. And others. There was war then, a battle unlike any other. Something so terrible that only those with certain abilities were able to face it. There can be little doubt that the first Magi were soldiers, yet there have been no Magi soldiers since.” He paused. “Until now.”
Alriyn ignored Novan’s last comment. “I know you’ve seen the texts.” But not the mahne. Alriyn was certain the historian had not seen that sacred text. “And if you have read the texts then you know the rest.”
“You became Urmahne.”
“And laid down our swords,” Alriyn agreed.
Novan grinned. “Did you never wonder what it was your ancestors faced?”
“Wonder?” Since his days as an apprentice, it had consumed him. “It is all I study. It was why I allowed Roelle to study with Endric in the first place.”
“Ah,” Novan said, mostly to himself, as if a question had been answered. “And what have you learned?”
“You’ve seen our records. They’re vague. Some imply a war of men.” He could speak of these things, knowing they were written elsewhere. “Others are stranger. The ancient threat. They talk of evil and destruction. And then stranger still there are those that mention a ‘great beast,’ a threat unlike no other man had faced. It was something few faced and survived.”
Novan nodded. “Yet you have no description of this beast, no other accounts.”
Alriyn shook his head. “And which is it—the mundane or the mystical?”
Novan smiled at the comment. “The mundane, I think, with hints of the mystical.” He stood and paced, placing a long finger on his lips as he gathered his thoughts. “There is one record I have seen, one that stands out above the others, an old Antrilii writing...”
“The Antrilii do not leave records.”
“All people leave records.”
“They are nomads, wanderers,” Alriyn said. Antrilii literally meant ‘those who wander’ in the ancient language. Would Novan know that?
“And watchers. Perhaps more. Regardless, there is a record, a document, describing creatures of the north, creatures unlike any others. They call them groeliin.”
“Groeliin?” Alriyn knew the old language and knew the meaning. The word had rolled easily from Novan’s tongue, and Alriyn wondered how much of the ancient language the historian knew. Few claimed more than a passing knowledge.
If he had found the mahne, could he have read it?
Alriyn suddenly considered the historian differently.
“The unseen,” Novan translated. “Creatures of smoke and darkness, creatures of nightmare. Only men gifted by the gods could face them and live.”
“And now they have returned.”
Novan shook his head. Alriyn eyed him curiously, waiting for explanation.
“How do you know that they were ever gone?” Novan asked.
The historian was well traveled and knew much—perhaps more than Alriyn had given him credit for. “What do you know?”
Novan shook his head. “You traveled the north.”
Alriyn hadn’t realized that Novan discovered that he’d gone into the north. It didn’t surprise him that he would learn. “When rumors began spreading...”
Novan smiled. “You had to see for yourself?” When Alriyn nodded, he said, “Why? There have always been stories about the north. Always the far north. Stories of people who have seen nothing, yet their loved ones go missing. That of towns deserted long before these recent attacks.”
“These were different.”
“Yes, different. And you went looking for answers.”
Alriyn fixed him with a hard gaze. “What does this have to do with the Antrilii?”
They were a secretive tribe, warriors without a war, nomads about whom the Magi new very little because they had very little contact. Some said Endric had lived with them once, but none could ever confirm that. Even the Denraen avoided the north, choosing to refrain from conflict with the Antrilii.
“I will keep the rest of their secrets, other than to say the groeliin did not disappear a thousand years ago.”
Could Novan actually know what he’d sought for years? The historian he’d exiled from the city all those years ago? “What are they?” A lifetime of study on this topic, and the historian casually taunted him with his knowledge.
“There are some things you can only understand by experiencing firsthand. I fear the groeliin fall into this category. Evil. Darkness. The unseen. From what I’ve witnessed of the north, I don’t know that any description does them justice.”
“And you think this is what my Founders faced?”
Novan nodded.
“Why now?” he asked.
Novan considered the question for a long moment. “This danger has been kept in check for centuries. I do not yet know what has changed.” He scratched his chin. “What did Roelle tell you of the Deshmahne?”
“That you’ve seen the High Priest,” he answered, confused about the abrupt transition. What did the historian know? What was he keeping from him?
“Have seen? I’ve seen him before, but I didn’t see him on this journey.”
“But your apprentice—”
“Ah, well that is different. Jakob did see the High Priest. First in Chrysia and then again among the raiders.”
“Why was he there?” Alriyn asked.
“They attacked the Urmahne temple, though I am not fully certain why.”
Alriyn noted a troubled expression on Novan’s face. “How do you know it was he?”
“Jakob felt him.” Alriyn eyed him carefully and Novan grinned. “I see you understand.”
“How did he feel him?” Alriyn asked. He knew what the historian meant; most among the Magi did, but would not have expected the historian to know of it.
There was a slight glimmer to Novan’s eyes. “That, too, I don’t know, though his father was a priest. There is no mistaking what he felt. ‘I felt fear, hopelessness,’ he said to me.”
“That’s one of their dark powers. Could the High Priest not simply have been radiating it intentionally?”
Novan shook his head. “No one else was affected.”
That was surprising. The Deshmahne were suspected of using emotional attacks, pressing dark emotions upon others, but it was indiscriminate, affecting everyone around them. That anyone other than an Urmahne priest or a Magi sensed the Deshmahne without an attack was a surprise. They trained to be attuned to it.
“It is strange,” Novan went on. “That the High Priest would be sensed once is surprising enough, but letting himself be sensed a second time is much more so. I still don’t know why he was in the raider camp.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s said that he’s not been seen outside the Deshmahne temple in over ten years,” Novan answered. “And now twice by the same man.”
“Their influence pushes north,” Alriyn said. “We’ve fought to keep the Deshmahne from Thealon and Gom Aaldia.”
A slight smile played at the corners of Novan’s mouth. “An interesting choice of words.”
“Do not mock me, historian. We do what we can. We protect the Urmahne.”
“The priests protect the Urmahne. The Denraen protect the Urmahne.”
“And we guide the priests,” Alriyn argued.
“There was a time when you could claim that to be true.” He looked at Alriyn with hard eyes. “If you still led the Urmahne, would there be a need for the Deshmahne? Had you not retreated from the world, would they have gained power?”
It was a question others had asked. The Deshmahne had first appeared over a hundred years ago, claiming the
Urmahne was weak, that the gods demanded a new religion. They preached a different message from the mahne, where the gods looked favorably upon those with power, with strength. It was nothing like the peace the Urmahne preached, the balance the mahne required.
The Deshmahne had quickly demonstrated their strength in the south, pushing the Urmahne out of Coamdon and Lakeliis before the Ur could react. The Deshmahne priests had been the difference then, their strange speed and strength overmatching the common soldiers. The Urmahne priests and the Ur called upon the Magi for help, but the Council had chosen to observe, to let men handle their own affairs, as they had ever since their last failure.
Endric had guided the Denraen how he had felt fit, but by the time the Denraen had become involved, it was too late. They had been able to keep the Deshmahne to the south until now. The Deshmahne had been known to attack Urmahne priests but had never attacked the Magi before now. Something was changing.
“Why now?” Alriyn asked.
“That... is an excellent question. I have yet to find an answer.”
“The timing of this and the happenings in the north has me uncomfortable,” Alriyn admitted.
“As it should.”
“Is there a connection?”
“I don’t know,” the historian answered.
Alriyn heard the hesitation in the historian’s voice. “You suspect one, don’t you?”
Novan nodded. “As should you.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Alriyn stepped along the corridor, replaying the conversation with the historian in his head. It had not gone as he had expected. What more does he know?
For so long, he’d believed Endric could manage the Deshmahne if it came to that. After what he’d seen in the north, he had to wonder if the Denraen could survive an attack by the Deshmahne. They’d lost countless men in the small skirmishes just returning the Magi to the city, which was why he’d encourage Roelle to use her knew skills to protect Vasha. If the Deshmahne turned this into a full-blown war...
Could the Urmahne survive a full-scale attack? They had been pushed to near irrelevance in the south, Coamdon and Liispal among the first to go, and now Gom Aaldia was weakening. Thealon would remain, but the Urmahne would be forever changed. What would that mean for the land? Certainly not the peace they’d known for the last thousand years.
The Threat of Madness (The Lost Prophecy Book 1) Page 32