Twist of the Fibers
The Lost Prophecy
D.K. Holmberg
ASH Publishing
Copyright © 2017 by D.K. Holmberg
Cover art by Rebecca Frank
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Contents
Map
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by D.K. Holmberg
Map
Prologue
Alriyn made his way through the library, pausing briefly to nod at the librarian. Efrain had mostly recovered, though he still had the strange markings on his ankles that they had found on so many of the Magi following the Deshmahne attack. So many had died during the attack, and many more had been permanently weakened. Alriyn still was trying to take stock of what had happened, but they found new horrors so often that it became numbing.
Efrain had been the first one Alriyn had tried to heal, and the first time he had felt completely helpless. There were few times in his life when Alriyn had felt so useless. He had used the manehlin, trying to understand what had happened, and how the brandings affected the Magi, but all he’d managed to determine was that somehow, the brandings caused their Mageborn abilities to leach out from them. He didn’t know how Jostephon had used that ability, and bound it to himself. It had to do with the tattoos somehow, yet he didn’t fully understand them. Could the teralin be involved?
Alriyn paused at the far wall of the library, placing his hand on the panel where he pressed through it using the manehlin. Since the attack, since stretching his mind so wide open that he’d nearly split himself in two, he saw a swirling energy around everything. Had he thought of it, he would have asked Novan before he had departed, but the historian had been intent to leave.
Odd that he would seem so insistent after remaining in the city for as long as he had. Perhaps that was because Alriyn now suspected something more of Novan, and suspected he hid secrets that he did not want revealed.
There were many questions he had for Novan, more and more each day. He suspected the historian understood what happened to the Magi, and would have been able to explain to him the secret of the branding. Their archives had no record of similar brandings. He could go to the university—and intended to—but they would require additional work to coax into helping.
Pressing through the wall, the door opened with a soft hiss. Alriyn stepped through, barely pausing, and once on the other side, he triggered the door closed again.
This had once been the resting place for the mahne, a place the Council of Elders had guarded with a certain reverence. Now, it was nothing more than a chamber, one that granted access to the mines beneath the palace. That was where he needed to go.
It had been nearly a week since he’d visited the mines. A week since he had attempted to question Jostephon, in search of answers.
Eventually, he knew Jostephon would break, and that Jostephon would provide the answers they sought. He had to. He owed it to the Magi, for everything that he had done to the people under his supposed protection, for everything that he had done to them.
And yet, Jostephon had remained stubbornly defiant. It disappointed Alriyn. They had once been friends, and Jostephon had long been a noted scholar within the Magi, but had sacrificed that when he had joined with the Deshmahne.
The pedestal in the center of the room sat empty, nothing upon it.
A hint of residual energy remained around it, energy that came from the barriers the Magi had placed over the years. Those barriers had been used to protect the mahne back when they thought the writings were the key to everything their people were. Now, Alriyn knew differently.
He touched the leg of the pedestal, and it rose silently.
Alriyn stepped back, waiting for the platform to completely elevate, and when it did, he stepped inside, quickly descending into the warmth below. Once he was far enough in, he triggered the platform closed once more. This was a secret he wanted to keep. There were few within the palace who knew about this connection, few who could know about it, and he wanted to keep it that way. The mines were otherwise closed. There weren’t many capable of reaching them, other than those on the Council of Elders, and Endric. Alriyn wouldn’t keep access away from Endric even if he could.
The walls glowed with a faint light. They had done that since the historian had been here, and Alriyn hadn’t determined whether Novan had somehow triggered something, somehow finding a way to keep the walls glowing, or not, but the historian wouldn’t share. That troubled Alriyn, especially as he preferred to be in the know about such things. The light was a pure white light, one that had a warmth to it he found welcoming, and it reminded him of Novan’s staff and the teralin that was worked along the edges of it. There was power in that teralin, and a part of him suspected this was the type of teralin the gods—or whatever they were—had used. It was not the darkened, black teralin, not like the Deshmahne had used.
Endric had stationed a dozen men to keep guard, watching over Jostephon. Alriyn thought that it was overkill, but he had long ago learned not to question Endric. The general had proven himself time and again, proving that he often knew things others did not—and perhaps should not. He was another mystery for Alriyn, one much like Novan, a man who had power who otherwise should not. Alriyn would find the key to it, and he would understand, but it would happen in time. He would allow Endric to share when he was ready. The general had earned that patience—and his trust.
The air was still and hot and carried with it a strange, coppery scent.
For some reason, the odor in the air sent his heart hammering.
What was it?
It took Alriyn a moment to realize why he was troubled: it was the stink of blood on the air.
Alriyn had never known that smell before facing the Deshmahne. Battling them had given him an understanding of many things that he wished he did not have. One of which was the distinctive odor of a man’s life being drained from him. It was almost metallic, and it filled his nose now.
Alriyn pulled on the manehlin around him.
In the mines, there was
much power around him from which he could draw. It radiated off everything, filling him, coming from the walls of the mines. There was something about teralin that allowed him to use its power. It was a unique resource, one he never would have imagined prior to Novan demonstrating it with his staff.
How many had known of this use for teralin over the years?
Some must have, and it must’ve been the reason that teralin had been mined so aggressively for as long as it had. Many had claimed the teralin was used to reach the gods, but Alriyn knew otherwise. He knew that the teralin did not allow them to reach these supposed gods. He knew that nothing had really made a difference. The beings before them now had come on their own terms.
Even now knowing what he did, Alriyn still struggled with thinking of them as anything other than gods. An entire life spent believing them as gods was difficult to change. Why should he now?
He held on to his power as he descended, entering a narrow hallway. He found the first body there.
Alriyn paused, checking the man’s neck, but there was no pulse. Blood pooled around him, leaving a sticky stream dripping along the rock. He forced back the hint of bile threatening to come up and continued down the tunnel.
He came across three more bodies. With each one, his sense of dread continued to rise. Jostephon was here—had been here. Alriyn no longer knew whether that was the case.
Why else would these men be dead if not felled during some rescue attempt to break out the Eldest?
He reached the cell, and his fears were realized.
Where Jostephon had been, there was nothing other than an empty room. The barred door remained closed, and as Alriyn checked it, it was locked. The cell itself had been made of teralin, crafted with power, the idea one of Novan’s.
Had the historian been wrong? Was that not a way to seal in power?
Novan had believed that he could trap Jostephon using the teralin. Had they placed too much faith in the historian?
He heard a stirring, and he spun. General Endric stood behind him. “What are you doing here?”
Endric arched a brow. “I would ask you the same, Eldest. When my men didn’t appear at change of shift, others were concerned.”
“So you came yourself?”
“With what we’ve dealt with here, I thought it best. Jostephon has proven himself to be… difficult… to maintain within the cell.”
“Was Novan wrong?” He blurted out his question and immediately wondered if he should have been more circumspect.
Endric shook his head. “We have little experience holding Deshmahne captive. If Novan was wrong, then he should be afforded that mistake. He did only what he thought would work.”
“Afforded the mistake? Nearly a dozen of your men are slaughtered.”
“More than that, really. There are ten more dead throughout the mines.”
Alriyn gasped. “How?”
“All I can think of is that they reached the mines the same way I once did.”
Alriyn turned his attention back to the teralin cage. What had Jostephon been doing in there? Had he been somehow concentrating—focusing—his power within the cell? Had he somehow done something to the teralin that allowed him to get free? Alriyn knew precious little about teralin, and once would have said it was useless other than for decoration. Novan had proven otherwise.
There had been another attack on the city years ago, one that had come through the mines. Jostephon would have known about it. “You were there during the previous attack, weren’t you?”
“I was there. One of my father’s men betrayed us. He opened the city to the Deshmahne, and there were few who believed that they were a real threat.”
Endric glanced over to him. “And you?”
“I believed, but I was also exiled from the city.”
“Exiled?”
“I challenge my father for leadership of the Denraen. I was not ready for that leadership then. My father knew it, and he proved it.”
That surprised him. Endric rarely admitted mistakes. He rarely made them. “Do you regret challenging your father?” Alriyn wondered how many scars he’d acquired from his father. The Denraen seemed to appreciate scars, practically seeking them out.
Endric sighed softly. “There are many things I would’ve changed over the years, but that was something I needed to do.”
“Why did you need to do that? I need answers if I am to know what my task is to be,” he said.
“You once asked me why I sent Roelle north,” Endric said.
Alriyn turned away from the teralin cage, frowning at Endric. “What does Roelle in the north have to do with your challenge to your father, or… anything, really?”
“It has everything to do with the challenge. Had I not challenged my father, I would never have been exiled from the city. Had I never been exiled from the city, I never would have met the Antrilii. Had I not met the Antrilii, I never would have discovered their mission, one that is of a crucial importance, one that I asked Roelle to join.”
“The groeliin?”
Endric nodded. “The Antrilii protect the north. They are the reason the world has not seen the groeliin in centuries.”
“Then why now?” Alriyn asked.
“The groeliin attack is likely tied to the Deshmahne.”
“How? Are you implying the High Priest controls the groeliin?”
“There has long been the belief that Raime has the ability to control the groeliin. Most on the Conclave believe that is where he has acquired his power. He has lived a long time, and he has stolen from many beings of power, including the Magi. But stealing from the groeliin would give him a different sort of power, one that is twisted, one that was never meant to be.”
Alriyn sighed. The heat of the teralin combined with the stench of the dead Denraen was becoming overwhelming. Alriyn needed to get out of the mine, and wished he could be anywhere but where he was.
“You don’t look well, Eldest.”
“It’s the heat,” Alriyn said.
“I’ve been told that you can grow accustomed to the heat,” Endric said.
“You’ve been told?”
“The miners feel that, over time, you can develop a tolerance to the heat. I suspect that one never becomes fully adjusted to it, and that it never becomes anything pleasant, but men can adjust to many things, if given the chance.”
“Why are you telling me this about the groeliin?” Alriyn asked. “And how are the Antrilii able to fight the groeliin? The rumors say that men can’t see them before they are attacked.”
“That was the other reason Roelle needed to lead her warriors north,” Endric said. “The Antrilii needed help. The groeliin were moving south in numbers greater than they ever had before, but that was not the only reason that she needed to go. The Antrilii needed their assistance. There are only so many soldiers among the Antrilii, and by reports, several thousand groeliin were moving south.”
“Several thousand?”
“That is my understanding. I’ve had reports that the number has been reduced—greatly so. From what I have heard, they have been defeated.”
“How could even Roelle’s one hundred warriors and the Antrilii defeat so many?”
“There are other powers in this world,” Endric said.
Alriyn grunted. Endric had said the same thing to him before, a similar admonishment. “How have you gotten reports from the Antrilii?”
“My cousin leads them.”
Alriyn blinked. “Your cousin? You’re descended from the Antrilii? And you never told the Council this before?”
Endric’s expression hardened. “It never mattered before. My father was raised among the Antrilii. He left when he was called to a greater task, when he was asked to serve in a way that no other Antrilii had been asked to serve before.”
“Who asked him to serve the Denraen?”
“Someone you once were quite close to,” Endric said.
It took Alriyn only a moment to realize who he meant. “Tresten?”
“My father knew him by a different name, and he knew that he possessed a different power as well. Tresten summoned my father, asking him to come out of the north and to lead the Denraen, because he had seen the need.”
There was something about the way Endric said the word “seen,” something about the way he implied that Tresten saw more than he should have been able to. “Tresten wasn’t a prophet,” Alriyn said.
Endric met his gaze. “Tresten was… Tresten.”
Alriyn waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. Alriyn laughed. What else could he do? Endric was right. Tresten was Tresten. There was something about his old mentor that had always drawn others to him. Tresten exuded power, and skill, and insight that few other Magi possessed. It was almost as if Tresten didn’t belong in Vasha, as if he had belonged…
Alriyn tipped his head to the side, studying Endric. Was that what Endric was trying to say? Was Tresten something more than merely a Mage?
If that were the case, why would Tresten have hidden in Vasha?
But he hadn’t. Tresten had come and gone from Vasha over the years, only serving the decades around Alriyn’s ascent to the Council because others had demanded, hadn’t he? Or had there been a different reason? Had Tresten come to Vasha to facilitate Endric’s father Dendril’s rise to the Denraen, because of something he had foreseen?
“What does it mean that you are Antrilii? Is that how you have power? Don’t deny that you do, you wouldn’t be able to manipulate the manehlin without some sort of power. And I suspect you—and the Antrilii—wouldn’t be able to see the groeliin without some sort of power.”
Twist of the Fibers (The Lost Prophecy Book 4) Page 1