“What is it?” she asked almost fearfully.
He took her hands and placed the book into them, willing her to grip it. “Take it, Wynnie.”
“What is it for?”
“It is a key... a very small one, yet very large. It is so much, yet so little compared to all that really is... but it is the heart of the thing.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“Just... read it.”
“But you know I hate reading,” she reminded with a teasing smile.
He chuckled, winced and caught his breath. That was when she realized just how much he was struggling.
“Prophet...” she spoke nervously, almost scolding.
“Don’t ‘prophet’ me just now. We haven’t much time, I think.”
Gasping, she worked to restrain a sob as pain seared through her. She refused to grasp what was occurring.
“Now listen,” he insisted, “the danger that is to come to Lord Valdren… whoever the tournament’s champion might be in the end, they will very likely require your aid. You are the prophet now and you must believe in that if you are to be to this world what you are meant.”
She attempted to reply, but he hushed her and continued, “I want you to know, so long as you do not turn your back on the Great One, so long as you do not compromise, you will fulfill your destiny. That is a promise, though not from me.”
It was then the light began to emanate from the fingertips laid over hers as she held the book. That same light shot forth from his eyes, toes and from the strands of his long white hair until even his shaggy beard was aglow.
With a sob, she grabbed at his hands, dropping the book to the floor. “What is happening?”
She could just see the smile beneath his glowing eyes as he replied, “I am finally going home to Paradise, Wynnie.”
“Going?” Her mind raced. This was not how it was supposed to be. They were meant to live in that cabin together forever. He was the dearest thing that had ever been given her and she would not be without him. She refused. “You cannot leave me,” she howled. “Oh, please stay. Heal yourself—quickly!”
“I cannot, you darling girl.” He caressed her cheek, smoothing away the tears. “I have lived countless years and my time… has finally come. You… will be all right. You are in the arms of the Great One and you will do all I have done and more.”
She shivered as her heart shattered, her hands clutching his with all their might, holding him there. “But... I can’t. I don’t want to—not without you.”
He chuckled, his voice growing stronger, echoing through the room. “But you will.”
“Wait, you—you—” Her mind raced for something to hold him there. “You have to protect me from the angels, from Maera and the sorcerers!”
But the prophet only smiled, his big blue eyes glistening at her. “Oh, you very silly girl… the angels are here to protect you. You will be well cared for.”
Abruptly, the whole of his body was illuminated and she could scarcely feel the touch of his hands in hers. It was as if his flesh was disintegrating into light, his spirit tearing free of its carcass.
“Prophet, don’t you dare go!” she commanded through a blur of tears.
“Oooh, Wynnie...” he spoke affectionately. “I love you, my spirited girl. You will be better than I at being the prophet and I am so glad of it.”
His voice was now merely an echo in the lit-up room and she desperately searched for his face, reached for the feel of his hands. But all that was before her was a great mass of overwhelming light. She peered into it and felt something larger than ever she had experienced—understood there was so much more than her human existence, if she would only let herself look closer. For a moment, she felt she would follow him there, wherever he was going. And then, frantically, she cried, “I love you, my prophet! Goodbye! I will see you when my turn comes!”
At the end of her outburst, the light grew larger than life, consuming all in its path, then snuffed out of sight.
P A R T T H R E E
―
The Making
of a Prophet
- T W E N T Y – T W O -
Dearest Phillip
IN ANGUISH, Wynn flew upon Juniper and sent him racing, not caring where he went. She was too full of heartache, despair and strange energy to think or see with clarity. Eyes open or closed, all she saw were the aftereffects of that blasted, blinding light. Her only comfort was to not be left in darkness after having witnessed such light, but this did little to ease the swollen, aching organ in her chest.
Juniper seemed propelled by some unseen force, racing past riders, carriages, travelers and towns. It did not matter how far they went, for she cared not. There was but one desire driving her and that was to move. Peering at the evening sky, she just made out the conch shell constellation they had followed in pursuit of the crimson blade. She could only conjecture Juniper recalled their previous journey and was following the former trail. But there was nothing for them there anymore.
Looking to her right and left, she perceived angelic sprites racing alongside them. It was then she understood the unearthly rate at which her horse was moving, for the beings appeared as speeding blurs in an effort to keep at his pace. It occurred to her she ought to have difficulty remaining in the saddle, but this concerned her little. In fact, it was the least of her worries. Something was attempting to consume her grief. It was that strange energy burning in her veins, beginning to glow through her skin.
At last, they came to the cliffside of days before, the late evening sky sparkling with stars. Yet, the stars appeared to be gleaming not only in the expanse above, but all around, shimmering green and floating like fireflies. As Juniper drew to a halt, Wynn understood he meant her to dismount. Obediently, she slid from the leather saddle and tip-toed along the flow of the floating lights until she found herself at the very edge of the cliff.
There was nothing in her mind of jumping nor dying as she gazed out at the dark, glittering sea below, but an impulse began to stir in her so consuming she could scarcely withstand it. She felt at any moment the energy holding her together, keeping her alive, might burst from her flesh and scatter amid the orbs surrounding. So heavy and consuming was it, she nearly…
Eyes pressed fiercely closed, she understood she would fall to her death and wondered what awful, foolish impulse had driven her to jump. It had been from that sudden eruption of fearsome energy. But upon opening her eyes, she discovered she was, implausibly… soaring. As wind whipped fiercely through her hair and clothes, she found her body change direction at the slightest inclination. Once, she peered downward and thought she might like a taste of that feral ocean, then found herself plummeting toward it. With the thought of gaining altitude, she was yanked from her fall and jolted into an upward soar. It was some time and a number of stomachaches before she felt she’d fairly mastered the new ability.
It was satisfying, exhilarating. She was weightless and free, as if always meant for this. The energy that had been driving her to move was no longer maddening. Though the power remained, the pressure released. It was appeased.
She worked to discount the understanding that this energy and the ability to fly were a result of her prophet’s death, that whatever power he had possessed had been left to her, placed upon her as a mantle of anointed power. She recalled how often he’d struggled to see the things to come, how many acts had grown more difficult. It was clear what he’d been intimating. From the moment she had agreed to become his apprentice, she’d been unconsciously tapping the power from him.
With force, she cast these thoughts into the wind upon which she soared, waving to incredulous sailors she passed. Spotting a cluster of leaping dolphins, she dropped to run a hand over their silky skin. The kingdom of Bashtii shown across the water. She had never left Kierelia nor had she ever desired to. But fleeing the land that held such sorrow, she continued toward it until it was below. There, she waved to the few who were yet conscious at that hour.
They cried out in response, possibly mistaking her for a dragon. Over castles and fortresses, she continued until she came to the conclusion Bashtii was very like her homeland. At a frantic, unnatural speed, she returned to Juniper’s side.
Gracefully, she rested her feet upon the ground. She bent down to rest her hands upon her knees, huffing and gasping for breath. Slowly and ever so subtly, she began to laugh in wonderment, hardly believing what had just transpired. But feeling such exhilaration was curiously painful and unnatural to a heart as raw as hers. With a great, excruciating gasp, her laughter transformed into a fit of sobs and she knew not what to do with herself, wishing above all else Phillip were there. Conversely, the thought of having to tell him the prophet was gone made her weep all the more.
Something grazed her shoulder. It was sweet Juniper. Grasping him about the neck, she sobbed into his mane until at last, she pulled herself into the saddle. He carried her along the cliffside path until they reached the tunnel. Even then, he continued onward as she lay upon his neck.
It was inexplicably warm when they entered the cavern. As her hand inadvertently grazed the wall, she discovered heat emanating from it, a detail she’d not noted in their previous visit. Replacing the piles of Mikian’s brittle hair was a bed of impossibly soft feathers covering the entirety of the floor. The overwrought former apprentice stretched out over them and found they were more comfortable than anything she had lain upon in her life. Almost instantly, she succumbed to deep slumber.
When she awoke in the late morning hours, an aroma of wonderfully enticing food wafted through the crystal cave. Sitting up, she discovered the alter where the sword had been was now brimming with a glorious banquet and she freely ate of it. Though most of the array was unlike anything she had seen or tasted, she did not question from where it had come nor why Juniper appeared so content. She only accepted it all gladly. As the food melted in the heat of her mouth, tranquility overwhelmed her and she did not cease dining until every morsel was consumed.
* * *
Standing in the moonlit clearing, Wynn stared up at the cabin, wishing the towering angels who guarded it were within her vision—that someone, anyone, was there to welcome her. She dearly longed for the sight of a warm fire glowing through the windows as it nearly always had and wished that when she entered she would find the prophet scribbling at his desk. Instead, it was dark and silent. It made her stomach ache.
She worked to remind herself of all the times she had spent within it. In doing so, she found, after all, this was home. When at last she entered the dwelling, it was not so cold and gloomy as she’d feared, nor was it altogether silent. The cabin had lit the fireplace upon her entrance. She gazed into it for a long while, refusing to let her eyes fall upon the desk in her peripheral.
Her stomach rumbled. It had been some time since she’d enjoyed the meal at the cliffside. After filling the cauldron with fresh well water, she searched the cupboards for ingredients to make soup. Problem was, she’d rarely been the one to prepare meals. That had always been the prophet’s occupation. Even so, she had eaten his food many times over and felt she could come up with something similar.
Despite the sudden squeeze to her heart, she gathered a slab of beef, an onion, carrots, peas, potatoes and corn, along with various herbs, and placed them onto the cutting board where she chopped them into hardy chunks before tossing it into the boiling water. That done, she took up a loaf of bread and began slicing until it was too dangerous to work further with a knife. Realizing she must step away from her preparations or risk seasoning the food with her tears, she sat in a chair before the fire, pulled the woolen blanket over herself and allowed silent tears to fall.
The prophet was gone. There was not even a body for them to bury for a proper memorial. What would people think? She must get word to Phillip before anyone else learned of the prophet’s absence. For that matter, the prophet had family... in another world. She must inform Iviana of her grandfather’s passing. Of course, that meant she would have to transport to the Greater Archipelagos. But transporting without the prophet, could she manage it? Fortunately, it had come easily to her. She would not worry about it just then.
How she wished she’d been afforded more time with him. She had never fully contemplated what being his apprentice meant, that she would one day replace him. But replace him? She was hardly worthy—nothing like an equal—scarcely an apprentice. No wonder grew impatient with her in the end. He’d known his time was nigh and she was nowhere near ready. Yet, he had believed in her even to the end, she knew. Oh, how he had loved her—had loved her like no other human had. Would she ever find someone to love her again? Or must she rely on loving others, as he had? But even in this, she fell short. Still, she would try. She must try... for the prophet… and for the Great One, who loved her, if none other did.
How quiet the house was, even with the fire crackling. It wasn’t as if either of them had been exceptionally noisy. Indeed, some days had been spent in silent solitude. But somehow, the prophet’s very presence had been rather large, filling a room with life.
At that moment, the cabin was probably bursting with unseen creatures. If only she could see them, hear them or feel them filling the house. Of course, now the prophet was gone, they may have fled in turn. After all, she was no prophet. She did not know how to guard the house as a haven for them. Still, there were those assigned to her, as the prophet had explained. They would yet linger, would they not?
“Oh, please...” was all she could manage, begging her spirit-eye to reveal them, to prove she was not alone, that she had not let the prophet down and ruined his precious, heavenly haven.
The mild strum of a lute sounded in the atmosphere.
Opening her eyes, she saw nothing but knew what she’d heard. She smiled.
“Now then,” she said to those she could not see as she drew to her feet. “I shall fix a meal as delicious as anything he would prepare and with luck, I’ll manage not to burn it.”
* * *
The following morning, a pageboy from Valdren Castle arrived to see the prophet. For some moments, Wynn stood in the doorway, blinking at him. She did not know what to say. Should she tell him? But if word should reach Phillip before she could break it to him herself, that would be gut-wrenching. No, it must come from a friend, another person who understood the loss.
“He is not in,” she replied. “But I’ve a message for the son of Sir Colten. If you could deliver it on your way…”
He agreed and she bid him wait while she composed it. Soon, she was bent over the prophet’s desk, staring at a sheet of parchment, twirling the quill between her fingers. Again and again, she bent near the paper only to draw back up, deliberating whether she might merely bid him come to her so she could tell him in person. But she could not bear the thought of him coming all that way thinking his best friend would be there.
“Gah!” She ran hands through her hair, getting the quill caught up in her curls in the process. She knew the lad outside was waiting for her but could not help it. She hated this, loathed the fact she had to write it at all. Why could Phillip not have been there as he most usually was? Why could he not have witnessed it for himself rather than her having to write a message she knew would break his heart?
Dear Phillip,
That would not do. It was not enough. He must feel he had a friend in this world and that friend was her.
Dear, dear Phillip,
Dearest Phillip,
She stopped to take a seat upon the chair before the desk, trying to decide how much detail should be included. Not only did she feel a responsibility to him because he was her friend, but she was plagued with guilt. It had been gnawing at the back of her mind… The prophet’s passing sat squarely on her shoulders. She’d been the one syphoning his supernatural abilities all that time, not even questioning the moments he struggled. In doing so, had she somehow drained his agelessness too… the anointing that had kept him alive so long?
The pageboy’s knoc
k upon the door drew her to rights and she finished off the note with a single sentence.
* * *
Phillip sat at the table with his mother and sisters for the morning meal as he took the sealed letter from the server. Seeing it was the prophet’s seal, he predicted it was an errand, though the man had been asking him to handle less since Wynn’s arrival.
Dearest Phillip,
He has gone home to Paradise.
Your affectionate friend,
Wynn
He fell back in his chair, swaying as the room grew cockeyed.
“What is it, Phillip?” Meg asked. “You poor dear, your face is ashen.”
Muscles aching, all he could manage was the shake of his head as he exited the room. Arriving in his quarters, he opened the note and read it again. It had not changed. He could scarcely believe its words. It was so sudden, so out of the blue. He’d always believed the prophet would give some warning before passing on, if ever he did. In truth, Phillip had known he would someday perish, for the man had spoken for years of how long he’d been waiting to spend eternity with his Great Friend. The lad had understood the day would arrive sooner than later when he’d been sent to fetch Wynn… But was she even trained? Was she ready?
The last time he’d seen the prophet had been the evening he and Wynn had gone to fetch the crimson blade. When they’d arrived in the Enchanted Wood the following evening… oh, how he wished he’d gone home with her. Why hadn’t he? He spent most nights there, most days even. Yet, he had chosen to return to the manor that evening and had been preoccupied with his mother’s business the following day. How had he bid the prophet farewell that last night? He recalled it, but it was not enough—had not been enough goodbye for a man such as the prophet had been to him. He threw his hands into his pockets and paced. Why had he not gone with her that evening, to stay over in the cabin that was a home to him just one last time?
The Prophet's Apprentice (Chronicles of the Chosen) Page 28