A hush fell over the whole of the field on the day the king was found upon the platform reserved for nobles. After all, King Curiel did not venture into the southern region often, nor did he sit among them and gaze upon the same entertainment they enjoyed. After some moments of silence and then of quiet whispering, there was a profusion of applaud and cheering.
Yet, all was not celebratory for Wynn. On one of the final days, she was surrounded by a circle of Phillip-admirers when a group of older men and women approached, led by a large man she only vaguely recalled. Breaking into the conversation, he cried, “Why do you people waste your time with a one such as our new prophetess of the wood? I personally do not consort with false prophets and I tell you this: she is no true prophet such as the old prophet who recently passed.”
The Phillip-admirers grew silent, as most had not even known who she was aside from Phillip’s peculiarly dressed friend. But there were those who were aware of what he spoke, namely the group which had approached with the accusatory man and had heard the same rumors: she was not a true prophet.
“I do not know what has warranted this criticism,” she replied, reining in her temper, “but if we could speak in private, you may voice your concerns to me.”
The man balked at her, self-assured to a fault. Unfortunately, he was something of a village leader in Nierwood and people were often swayed by his opinions, including those angry faces who stood with him. It was very likely because of this he felt it necessary to speak against her in such a public approach.
“I’m certain you would like that, young woman,” he replied, “that these good people would not become aware of what you are.”
She did not fear this at all. “Say what you would,” she invited.
“This woman,” he told the crowd with a pointed finger, “enticed our good, old prophet, who was capable of many miracles, to take her in as his apprentice. But I say she is no such thing. I have heard word that many times she has tried for a miracle and received naught. Her ‘words of wisdom’ have led many astray and have even caused pain to certain individuals. She uses this title ‘prophet’ as a means to manipulate and pass judgement. I tell you this, she is no prophet and if she calls herself one, she is most assuredly false.”
A number of the Phillip-enthusiasts dispersed, not wishing to be associated with one who was viewed as such, but a few remained—some to listen, others to defend.
“It is true I am not always successful,” she began tentatively, “but I am learning. I am still very early in my walk and the prophet lived a very long time before you knew him to be the powerful man he was. He had centuries to become all that made him legendary. And, in actuality, I do not call myself a prophet, for I feel such titles needless. Moreover, I would never claim to be anything really like the prophet, for none could be, I believe. Even so, I do what I can. As for these other accusations, I haven’t a clue what you are talking about. I give only plain wisdom or words I receive from the Great One.”
“The Great One does not use words to harm his people,” someone shouted out.
“I have never wished to hurt another since I have come to know the Great One,” she explained. “If I have, it was not purposeful. Take me to them and I will right it if I can.”
“You mean to say you did not use your authority to forbid every woman hereabouts from courting Terrance the dwarf,” voiced her accuser, “a known hero for having saved Lord Valdren’s youngest son when he was but a lad? I would like to hear you deny it, for I have heard the account many times from reliable sources.”
Terrance, who’d apparently caught wind of what was being said, approached the group. “Now, Jawn, I think I may be able to clear that up. You see, Wynn is a woman of high morals. She’s decent, you know, and I am not. I confess, I have taken advantage of women in past and she did not like seeing it. Now, I did not much like what she did, but… she was right.”
Wynn peered down at him, astounded by this moment of great decency—even chivalry. She’d never heard him admit to his own wrongdoing, let alone in the presence of a crowd.
“Terrance, I’ll thank you to keep out of this,” Jawn said with annoyance. “I’m only defending your name and what’s your business is your business—not hers.”
“Nor is it yours,” Terrance countered with a laugh.
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing! I’ve heard you accuse me for my flirtations plenty, though I’ve seen you do the same and worse. And now you attempt to use my circumstances against this lady. She may not be the old prophet, but she is good and she does all she can—far more than you have ever done for another, certainly. Furthermore, she has kindness you’ll never possess, for you’re too caught up in your own ill-conceived doctrines and secret transgressions.”
There was much agreement from those who surrounded. Jawn exited the scene cursing under his breath and tossing Wynn a solid glare to make clear his estimation had not altered. She shrugged him off and thanked Terrance for his words. But he insisted it was merely his duty to a friend.
“I don’t much like seeing those I care about spoken of so ill when they are so terrifically undeserving,” he said with a grin.
Though the crowd seemed to have taken her side in the end, she knew Jawn’s accusations had not been his alone. Indeed, she was aware her being a false prophet had been spoken often from some who knew her, though not from those who knew her best. Nevertheless, she could not help considering whether the faultfinders might not be… correct. It was true she struggled to do all the prophet had. Moreover, her eyes were not that accursed green they were meant to have been, which was something that haunted her more than she liked to admit.
This thinking made her head ache and tears prick at her eyes. If she was not destined to follow in the prophet’s footsteps, she did not know who she was at all. And with all this uncertainty, how was she to carry on with what she had believed her calling?
- T W E N T Y – S E V E N -
The Great One
IT WAS EARLY MORNING on the final day of the tournament when Wynn walked through the Enchanted Wood on her way to the grounds before Valdren Castle. This day, Phillip would be one of the few who were yet afforded the opportunity to compete for the title so many had worked to attain. In truth, she could scarcely accept he had been so successful, yet she had watched his abilities grow with every match. She had previously been aware of his intelligence, though he had struggled to reveal it, but his mind seemed to have been unleashed. With every step he took in the competition, he learned, absorbing everything he faced. She could no longer take full credit for his abilities, though she did for having unlocked them. Moreover, she had taught him her approach. He did not quite have her swiftness, as he was so large, but he possessed her cunning combined with his brawn.
Despite her friend’s good fortune, she traveled with a heavy heart. Upon waking, it had occurred to her just how satisfied the prophet would have been to see his dear lad at last become the man he was meant. To be sure, Phillip had not shed his shyness, but he walked with conviction. She’d begun to see the change in him almost immediately after the prophet’s passing, though she could not say just why this should be so. She supposed it stood to reason that experiencing such a loss had forced him to become acquainted with formerly unrealized strength. Even so, she would have given almost anything to have the prophet with her at that moment, on their way to witness the outcome.
In addition to these wishful thoughts were Jawn’s words as a thorn in her heart, continuing to fester. Since the start of the tournament, few had asked anything of her as prophet of Kierelia, for all were absorbed in the occasion… But she was feeling her failures afresh when faced with such doubt. She knew, to most, she was not the new prophet; she was the imitator.
Funny thing was, Wynn was not even certain she truly… wanted it. She had accepted, yes, and she wished to make both the prophet and the Great One proud, but did she desire this life for as long as she lived? After all, with the prophet’s agelessn
ess upon her, her aging process had slowed… Her life would be a long one. What was she to fill it with? She had the home she’d always longed for and though she had lost the prophet, she still had Phillip—even Terrance and Meg. But was that enough? After all, they would age and one day pass on and then what was she to be left with?
Caught up in this deep-rooted thinking, she suddenly found she’d inadvertently led herself to the far edge of the forest where the land was cut by a sharp drop—not quite elevated enough to be considered a cliff, but high enough if one were to slip off, they might very well perish. All beyond was beauty, but the view brought little joy. For her mistake, she would be late for the beginning of the day’s festivities—something she could not afford to miss.
She made ready to turn around and correct her path but found herself frozen. She was reminded of the day Phillip had found her within the cliffs near Valdren Castle. He was not the only one to have changed. She felt… so altered. The bitterness had worn away, given to softness, tenderness. She’d experienced the love of others, of a father-figure, and had been given not only a home but a place in the world. She should be content. And usually she was. But today… the blanket of grief was stifling. The block from her supernatural abilities was suddenly unbearable… and itchy.
“I don’t suppose you plan on leaping,” asked the voice of a man behind her.
She turned about, feeling almost caught. Of course she had not planned to leap—though she’d been guilty of such an act before—but she had been moping. But he did not appear to have noticed. Instead, he looked to her with an amused grin, clearly pleased with his introduction.
She studied this stranger in torn, holey garments which appeared to be made from the furry hide of a bear. His nut-brown hair was thick and fairly unkept, but his eyes were a bright, glittering gold, the very hue of her own. They stood out from his dark features like dazzling balls of fire. He was, she supposed, handsome, despite his tousled exterior, but it was not his appearance that enchanted one… It was the unhindered-ness of his countenance, the candor in his step, as if he floated. Moreover, there was a familiarity that endeared her to him.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
He nodded, looking her over so thoroughly, it was as if he gazed into her soul. “I think…” he began thoughtfully, folding his arms together, “you had better forgive him.”
She blinked back. Was he unhinged? “Who?”
With a smirk, he replied, “The prophet.”
She reeled. How could this stranger know what had been filling her thoughts? How did he know her at all?
“Forgive him?” She had nothing whatever against the prophet. He was the dearest soul to have tread the planet. "That is ridiculous.”
“Forgive him for leaving you.”
She raised an affronted brow… But was he right? Had she been holding unforgiveness toward the prophet? She replayed the events of that long-ago evening in her mind when he had left her for Paradise. Emotion swelled afresh. Yes… she blamed him, though unknowingly. After all, he might have insisted he remain, perhaps may even have healed himself. But he had wanted to go… had wished to leave her. She took a step toward the man.
“You are rather sure of yourself, aren't you?” she said.
He beamed back at her. “I have every right, if I may be so bold."
What a terribly smug fellow he was. “Who are you anyway?”
“You don’t know me?” He dropped his arms as if her lack of recognition pained him.
She scrunched her brows together. Did she know him? Thinking through her life, she searched for his face. It felt as if she’d seen him everywhere and nowhere. He was familiar.
A breeze surged around her, caressing and embracing her, whispering the truth to her… making her see him in her past and in her present. But it could not be so.
“I’m sorry…” she replied. “I cannot say just who you are.”
His shoulders fell, the brightness almost wholly abandoning his eyes. “It is all right,” he said with understanding. “I will let you be on your way.” He turned then. She watched him take a step and then another. Her heart pounded in time, sounding deeply in her ears. She knew him…
“Wait!” she called.
He halted but did not turn around.
She felt his dare in the breeze around her. Goosebumps flooded her skin. Taking a few steps in his direction, she turned around and ran. In moments, she had leaped from the cliff. In a few more, his arms were around her. He had followed her, had leaped after her, and suddenly they were soaring on the large ebony wings that had sprouted from his back.
“You're crazy,” he cried with a quirked brow.
“I had to know,” she replied breathlessly as they soared over the landscape.
“Know what?” A smile confided he knew precisely what.
“Who you were...” she said, “if you were who I thought you were.”
"Am I?” he asked with raised brow.
"I think so…” she admitted, not yet wishing to speak her deduction lest she be incorrect and look a fool. “You are not what I expected..." He possessed Bell’s warming eyes, Gong’s mirthful smile and Chime’s magnificent wings. But of all the names he’d previously given, which was the true one? Or, rather, which did he prefer?
"You can call me H.S.” he provided with a beaming smile.
"H.S.” She hesitated, on the verge of at last admitting her true belief. “…Great One?” Could it really be so?
Landing upon the cliffside once more, he placed her feet upon solid ground. “One and the same.”
She gasped, scarcely able to breath. Bell, Gong, Chime and now H.S.—she had been speaking to a god: the very Great One himself. And he was not at all like she had come to expect. In fact, he had been of entirely differing natures each time she had faced him... but she had loved them all as if the very depths of her soul recognized what it had always longed for: his perfect acceptance. There it was in his sparkling eyes as he stood looking at her, watching her mind race, likely following her every thought. There was nothing like that acceptance, that adoration. It was unparalleled.
Yet, she was certain she did not see nor understand the half of his entire character. But this glimpse was more than anyone she knew had been afforded. She, Wynn, was with the Great One. It left her winded. She recalled the gray-haired lady visitor who had acted like a princess—the first to have arrived at the cabin on her initial day there—how she had spoken of her true love with such yearning. Wynn felt she understood what the woman’s heart had longed for: the very one who was everything and had created everything. The one the prophet had so often described in the most moving of words, yet it had been nothing to what he actually was in this form and the ones he had previously revealed to her. He was personable, lively, amusing, humble, considerate, undomesticated, magnificent, illustrious in his goodness... a friend.
Fully understanding just who stood before her, something unlatched inside. Her world opened up and in moments she was taken to a series of places, transported to a dozen realms. The sorrow, the block, her unforgiveness toward the prophet: it all lifted. She was weightless... literally. When she was returned to the cliffside, her feet floated just above ground. The power previously bestowed had awoken in full force.
She looked to H.S. with eyes wide, heart racing. He merely stood back, planted hands on hips and laughed. “So, you have found Miss Wynn at last!”
“Have I?”
“You might lose her a time or two… but she is never far,” he said with a wink. “She is the one in whom I take great pride… the one for whom I have mapped out a story worth living. You will nevermore be alone nor will you be homeless. You are found and will be loved by both myself and mankind unto the rest of your days. Your giftings will be dispersed among your descendants and as they follow me, they will be used greatly within my schemes. Your future is vast and beautiful, but I warn you…” He raised a daring brow. “…you will be busy.”
Utterly overcome, she knew n
ot how to respond, but he continued.
“Now, I will tell you something you mustn’t forget, you understand?” Holding his hands out to her, a burst of sparking light appeared. “I hold the power of life within these hands…” He looked into her face. “…and I am more than happy to share it with you, provided you make use of it.”
The statement bewildered her. He had already anointed her with great power, even agelessness through the prophet’s mantle. What precisely was this he was giving her? “I will try,” she promised almost meekly.
Grinning, he laid his hands upon her head. In an instant, she collapsed and the world became a canvas of wondrous color before all went black. When next she was conscious, he was nowhere in sight.
* * *
Wynn arrived at the tournament grounds as if floating upon a cloud… just in time to be met with a myriad of scoldings. Apparently, she’d missed all that morning’s matches and it was now down to the final two.
“Where on Kaern have you been, Miss Wynn,” Lady Colten cried. “How can you expect him to compete at his best on this auspicious day when he’s been worrying after you?”
“Truly, young woman, I do hope you’ve adequate justification,” said a fine gentleman whom Wynn did not know, likely a friend of Sir Colten’s.
Her stomach dropped. “Has he lost?”
“He has not,” Meg said with a considerate grin. “He is among the final two.”
“Even so, how dare you have neglected this most important day?” Sir Colten chastised.
Wynn felt badly… but not too badly. She had been a little busy with the Great One, after all.
“He has been terribly worried since you did not arrive at your usual time,” Joselyn informed as she and Meg took her by the arms to rush her through the crowd.
“But he did perfectly well, in any case,” Meg soothed. “I am completely certain Wynn would not have missed out if she could’ve helped it. And now she has arrived in time for the conclusion.”
The Prophet's Apprentice (Chronicles of the Chosen) Page 34