by E. J. Godwin
“Did you see a way to get through the mountains?” Caleb asked when he returned.
Soren sat on his heels and warmed his hands over the last of the embers. “No. What mountain passes I could see below the clouds are already filled with snow.” He chewed on a last bit of hard tack he had saved. “We could be here a long time, Caleb Stenger.”
“Maybe. But I’m not about to give up. And the sooner we get started, the better.”
They resumed the search in earnest, following the valley into the foothills. But they had ridden barely an hour when Soren brought his mount to an abrupt halt. Caleb hauled on the reins as Soren pointed left and upward to a high gap between two rock-crowned hills.
Dark and distant but clearly outlined against the sky stood the tiny figure of a man. He did not call out or make any gesture, but merely watched them, motionless. Having just survived Gur’alyreiv, suspicion was Caleb’s first reaction. But they were in desperate need of help, and the Master Raén drew his Fetra and waved it in the air in a sign of parley.
The figure turned after a moment and disappeared down the opposite slope. “You probably scared him off, waving your sword like that,” said Caleb.
Soren lowered his blade. “More likely he wants us to follow—though he could have made it a bit clearer. In any case, I’m worried. We’re in no condition for an ambush.”
“I think something like that would have happened by now. Let’s follow him. Maybe he knows a way out of here.”
Soren sheathed his sword and turned his horse to begin the ascent. Littered with rocks and fallen pines, the climb proved long and difficult. Soon they were forced to dismount and thread a rough zigzag route up the slope, until they reached easier ground near the top. At the crest of the gap they rested, winded and sweaty, to observe the land beyond.
Instead of another dreadful slope the terrain melted into a large, shallow depression nestled among the surrounding hills. A dense forest encircled a wide clearing of tall grass at the center; a small lake at the southern end rippled in the wind beneath pale gray skies.
Next to the shore waited the stranger. As before he gave no indication of his purpose, but stood waiting silently. Soren and Caleb rode the distance between, but this time the stranger did not vanish at their approach. A big, heavily muscled man, he wore a long, bearskin coat almost as dark as his thick beard and wavy brown hair. They glanced this way and that for a camp or a house of some kind, but saw nothing other than this rather barbarous-looking individual, his ruddy lips curved in a slight smile.
Soren was quick to the point. “We’ve run out of food. Can you help us, or at least show us a way through these mountains?”
Deep, solemn eyes regarded them one by one, belying his primitive appearance. “That is a debate in itself. But you are expected. We can give you food, and rest and shelter, but as for any other help—that will be up to the Master Prophet.”
“Prophet?” Soren and Caleb asked in unison.
The stranger bowed. “Yes. Though we do not reveal our true names to strangers, you may call me Géihtser.”
“Thank you for your welcome,” said the Master Raén. “My name is Soren, and this is Caleb Stenger and his son Warren.”
“Yes. If you’ll follow me, please.”
He turned and walked steadily toward the eastern end of the lake. The others dismounted and followed him, leading their horses. A steep hillock stood near the water’s edge; a flight of stone steps at its base climbed halfway up the slope, until it ended at a dark entrance beneath overhanging pines. Two stout yet cheerful servants emerged, bowed in the same fashion, then led the horses away around the left side of the hill, presumably to stables. Soren looked as doubtful at this prospect, but they had little choice but to trust them with their belongings.
Géihtser climbed to the highest step. There was no door. Instead the passage sloped down into darkness, and the others followed cautiously. Caleb kept close to Warren, hand on his shoulder, his other hand running along the damp stone for guidance. Yellow lamps glimmering on narrow ledges lit the way farther in. Other passages branched off, mostly to the left, their walls barren of any adornment. Several men and women passed by, staring at the newcomers, and Caleb was equally as curious about them. Their clothing was plain and practical, and the clay urns and other household items they carried shouted frugality, yet none of them looked underfed or neglected in any way. If these were the descendants of the Prophets who vanished from Ada long ago, what could be their purpose now, hidden as they were from the rest of the world?
At last Géihtser turned into a large dining hall filled with long tables and a multitude of chairs. He departed, promising to return, and after a considerable wait servants entered bearing large bowls and plates of food.
The strong red wine and delicious meal did much to wash away their apprehension. An inevitable drowsiness followed, so they walked around to stay awake, eager to learn more about these folk. Géihtser soon returned, led them farther down the main hallway, then turned into one of the few passages branching to the right. A beaded curtain covered the entrance at the other end, which he carefully parted to reveal a small, low-ceilinged room.
Caleb felt an odd shiver run through him, as if he had stepped back in time. Pungent odors of burning lamps and strange spices and oils thickened the air and watered his eyes. Old wooden shelves lined the walls, jammed to overflowing with books, scrolls, or oddly-shaped jars. In the few spots between them, large, thickly woven maps hung from ceiling to floor, so faded as to be almost useless.
At the center of the chamber rested an old stone table, its edges chipped and worn. A few chairs of the same apparent age surrounded it. In one sat a man so old, so thin and withered, he hardly seemed alive at all. From a mottled and shining scalp his hair fell and thickened into a straggly, snow-white beard ending at his waist. Quills, stacks of paper, and a few curious flat bowls littered the table, but he sat immobile, as though he had long lost the strength to continue his task, whatever it was, or to even get up from his chair. Warren stood transfixed when the old head turned, yet the Prophet’s eyes revealed his true age: not of years but of knowledge, of wisdom accumulated, dooms foreseen and dooms fulfilled.
The younger Prophet caught his attention. “Master, here are the strangers foretold. They have eaten, and now wait for—”
The old man raised a thin, wrinkled hand with long, pale fingernails. Every word he spoke was a wheezing effort. “You yet confuse age with idiocy, youngster. I will send for you when we are finished.” Géihtser placed his hands over his eyes in some ritual greeting, then left.
“Be seated,” was the command, and the three guests each took chairs on the other side of the table. “You must be curious about our identity.”
Soren’s voice startled Caleb, so strong it was compared to the old man’s. “Your servant told us. We’ve found the Prophets who left Ada long ago.”
The white beard dipped once. “Yes. And though your arrival is the portent of doom, I am glad it has happened before my death. At my age each waking day is a surprise.”
“Then perhaps you can help us,” said Soren. “Many things have happened since we left Udan, much of which we don’t understand. And of the things yet to come, in which Yrsten no doubt plays a part, we know nothing.”
“I cannot reveal to you even our names,” the Master Prophet answered. “I only reveal, or keep hidden—or remain in ignorance. The last most often.”
Caleb summoned the nerve to speak. “Then why are we here?”
“In this room, now, talking to me? For confirmation. I must confirm your identity.”
“Just what is it you expect to find?” Soren asked.
The heavy beard moved in a way that suggested a smile. “You wouldn’t ask your question like that if you hadn’t already guessed the answer.”
Soren stirred in his chair. “Let us be frank with one another. You seek to know if one of us is the Bringer of Evil. What assurance do we have of our safety? Wouldn’t your wisest
choice be to slay the Bringer, and save the world from great evil?”
The old man leaned forward, his bleary eyes suddenly sharp and bright. “Shouldn’t that be your wish instead, Master Raén of Ada?”
To this Soren had no answer, and the Master Prophet relaxed in his chair. “But no. If you understood half of what our youngest apprentice does you wouldn’t have asked that question. Before anyone here learns the simplest arts of prophecy, he must first understand the one word at the very heart of our practice, and that is fate.”
He paused to recover his breath. “Many think prophecy is a power that allows them to avoid or change future events. Not so. We read fate as you would a book, though less clearly. And though its message be ignored, or read and not believed, or more likely believed but read wrong, its true meaning remains forever the same. Any attempt to avoid some foretold doom brings it on all the swifter, or else exchanges it for something far worse—yes, even worse than the Bringer of Evil. That is our misery, our grief: to know what perils lie ahead, and their inevitability.
“So it comes to this: if we discover what we suspect here today, then we will not dare interfere with that fate. Indeed, we may help it along in simple ways, as an assurance of our non-interference.”
“Then in your view there is only one way to fight evil,” Soren said, “by watching and waiting.”
“There are many ways. But foreknowledge can be the most perilous.”
Soren shook his head. “You would never make a Raén.”
To this the old man made no reply, and they waited in silence until he spoke again. “Give me your hand,” he said to Soren, and after a brief hesitation the Master Raén obeyed. The Prophet took the hand between his palms and bowed his head over it, muttering strange words, while Soren sat tense and rigid. Then the old sage fell silent, motionless for many long minutes, until he drew back and released Soren’s hand with a sigh.
Caleb was next. He almost expected to see a vision of some kind. But there was only the old man, his long, white hair brushing against the table, and the feel of his soft, wrinkled hands and slow warm breath. To his relief it lasted less than a minute, and the Prophet merely withdrew in silence.
Caleb guessed that his son understood the significance of this ritual, and sure enough, Warren sat trembling, glancing from face to face. But there was no avoiding the situation, especially as Caleb was no less determined than Soren to determine whether Warren was the Bringer of Evil foretold by the Yrsten Prophecy. So he gripped his son’s shoulder, and Warren slid his hand across the table.
The old man bent his head as before. Warren looked on as if his hand were being swallowed. His father waited in silent agony, expecting the Prophet to snap back, gasping in horror, but nothing happened until at last he sat upright and nodded.
“You pass the test. You shall be shown the Secret Way in the morning.” He called Géihtser back in.
“Wait!” Caleb said, louder than he intended. Softer, he asked, “What did you see?”
“We do not reveal our visions.”
Caleb shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. Who is the Bringer?”
The old Prophet’s last words before resuming his work—or his trance—were, “I cannot interfere. We do not reveal.”
4
Hoarded Secrets
Courage turns fate into destiny.
- Teneda, 7th Overseer of Ada
THEIR GUIDE led them out and down the passage to another room, one of walls and ceiling cut from raw stone. Two thick mattresses of straw lay on either side; a few ceramic cups and a pitcher of water rested on a nearby stand, and a threadbare rug occupied the floor between. To Caleb it looked more like a prison than a guest room.
Géihtser waited near the door to get their attention. “I’ve been assigned to guide you through the Secret Way,” he said. “Everything you need is being prepared, and a servant will come for you early in the morning. You won’t be able to take your horses, though, so you must choose only what is necessary from your belongings.”
“No horses!” Soren blurted. “What are you talking about?”
“The way is too long and narrow, and the entrance is impossible for horses.”
“A tunnel?”
“Yes.”
“But we have hundreds of miles to go yet once we reach the other end,” Caleb protested.
“I understand that. But there is no other way—unless you wish to turn back and wander aimlessly between Tnestiri and Cresus for the rest of your life. There is a town in the northern parts of Trethrealm,” he added with a shrug, “but I don’t know if you’ll find any horses there.”
“Outway,” said the Master Raén, shaking his head. “Not much more than a fly speck on the map.”
Géihtser merely spread his arms to either side. The others grumbled, but there was nothing they could do about it. After a pause the Prophet asked if there was anything more they needed, and left.
Caleb’s frustration was nearing the breaking point, but not because of the horses. Perhaps everyone here knew the secret behind Yrsten and how it involved Warren. Yet they would reveal nothing—except for the old Prophet, who had validated the Prophecy with quiet assurance.
Soren shared his frustration. “Our curiosity is in vain here,” he growled as he sat on the edge of his bed. “What is the point of prophecy if you never share your visions?” He lowered his voice. “I would give a week’s ration for a peek at their records—especially anything from Urmanayan history.”
Caleb sat on his mattress with Warren, resting his back against the wall. He shrugged. “What’s stopping us?”
The old Raén put a finger to his lips, then pointed it at the curtained entryway. At the end of the short passage beyond, the shadow of a guard darkened the faded yellow cloth.
“They aren’t guarding our escape,” he said softly. “There’s nowhere to run to—not without supplies, at any rate. But they know we’re curious about them, so they guard their secrets instead. And it’s possible they also guard us from harm, in case somebody here doesn’t share the same creed as that old Prophet.”
“If someone harmed us, wouldn’t that be a part of fate?”
“Perhaps they don’t consider the actions of their own people as part of that fate.” He shook his head. “Nothing about their philosophy makes sense.”
Caleb’s mouth twisted. “They’re afraid of making mistakes—afraid of change. Nothing more.”
“You’re so sure?”
“I’ve heard excuses like that too many times. Don’t get involved is what it really means, once you prune away the wise-sounding rhetoric.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Was there ever any rumor of their existence here, so close to Ada?”
“None,” Soren answered. “Which doesn’t surprise me, seeing how skilled they’ve always been at secrecy—even back to Urmanayan times, or so the ancient records tell. They must have found this place soon after our arrival in Ada. I wonder if Orand knew anything about it.”
Caleb lowered his voice further. “We could learn a lot, couldn’t we—especially about Yrsten.”
“Maybe.” He looked at Warren, who sat slumped against the wall. “You should teach him our language.”
Caleb followed Soren’s glance. “I know. He’s already picked up several words.”
“Dad, don’t talk about me when I can’t understand you. I hate that!”
“That’s the whole point of our discussion, Warren,” he answered. “You need to learn their language.”
“Before you start, Caleb Stenger, let me say this: Warren is a citizen of Ada. By the Oath and other laws, he would normally receive welcome in any part of our land.”
“We both know that’s not going to happen.”
“That’s my point. You must tell him of Yrsten, either in your tongue or ours, and how he is likely to be received once they discover he found the Medallion.”
“I’ve already told him most of that,” Caleb replied.
“Indeed! He seems unusually
calm about it.”
“I’m not sure he believes in the Prophecy.” Caleb shrugged, a faint smile on his lips. “Runs in the family, I guess.”
“What? That kind of ignorance could ruin us all!”
Caleb gripped the edge of the mattress. “If you really wish to cure our ignorance, Soren, then we need to find out more about these Prophets, and about Ada’s past—especially Urmanaya! There’s more behind that story than even Telai knows.”
Soren peered at the entrance. “Don’t give up hope just yet.”
♦
There being little to do they all retired early that evening. Caleb’s mattress proved more comfortable than it looked, but he struggled to fall asleep. Later on he woke to murmuring voices, and saw Soren at the door asking to be shown to the privy. Caleb thought nothing more of it and immediately dozed off again.
It seemed only minutes had passed when the curtain flung wide in a burst of light, and Soren fell to the cold stone floor with a curse. Caleb uttered his own, and propped himself up on his elbow.
“Soren, you clumsy idiot! I’m having enough trouble as it—”
“Silence!” Soren barked. His voice had a note of warning that stopped Caleb in an instant.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
As Warren groaned in protest to the disturbance, two large men entered the room, one with a bright lantern clasped in his fist. They loomed over Soren, the contrast of shadow and light magnifying their anger. Others stood muttering in the corridor beyond.
“Guard him well,” said the man without the lantern. “The price for lack of vigilance is too high.”
Caleb squinted. “Géihtser! What’s going on?”
The Prophet’s arm straightened to point at Soren, who rose from the floor with a cold glint in his eyes. “This one! We found him in our archives, rummaging through our scrolls and books like a rat in a cellar. If it weren’t for your importance to Yrsten I would have killed him on the spot!”
“Damn,” Caleb whispered in English. The Master Raén’s glare remained fixed on Géihtser; Warren sat up and scratched his tousled head, yawning.