The Gift of Madness (The Lost Prophecy Book 7)

by D. K. Holmberg

  “This is the man. The Great One brought him to me with a request that I help train him.”

  “He has some skill.”

  Roelle frowned. “Skill? He’s clumsy and weak. A man like that would not last for long when confronted by even a common soldier let alone—”

  Roelle cut herself off before saying anything that would draw the ire of the Deshmahne priest. She didn’t need to offend him by commenting on how a man like this Scottan would not be able to defeat the Deshmahne. It was true, but all it would do was remind the priest of how the Magi had fought Deshmahne.

  “I’m fully aware of your exploits, Mage Roelle. You demonstrated your skill when facing others of the Deshmahne in the north. The Highest made a mistake in confronting you. What I have seen tells me that he made several mistakes. Perhaps most notably in thinking that he no longer needed the blessing of the gods.” The priest approached Scottan, his hands still clasped in front of him. He paused and picked up one of the practice staves, holding it casually. He glanced over at Roelle. “If your man wouldn’t mind…”

  Roelle frowned. “Alan, allow the priest a chance to step in.”

  Alan stepped back with a shrug and joined her and Selton. “What is this?” Alan asked.

  “The priest thinks that he might have more to offer Scottan than what we do.”

  Alan snorted. “They would have to be better than what we can offer. None who have worked with him have managed to do anything more than smack him a few times. I think he knew more than he does now at some point in the past, but it’s like he’s either forgotten or no longer cares.”

  The priest tapped the practice staff against the one Scottan held. “You were a soldier,” the priest said.

  Scottan nodded.

  “What happened?”

  “Does it matter? I’m no longer the man that I was.”

  “By choice?”

  Scottan laughed bitterly. “Choice? I’ve had no choice in anything that’s happened to me. If I had any choice, I would have remained as one of the Ur and would have eventually been chosen to serve with the Denraen.”

  The priest tapped his practice staff against Scottan’s again. As he did, there was a surge of power from him, though Roelle seemed to be the only one who recognized it. Did Scottan feel it?

  What of the other Magi? Were they aware of what the priest did?

  “Serving the Denraen is all that you desired? What of serving the gods?”

  Scottan shook his head. “If you think I want to serve the gods, you’re mistaken.”

  “All must serve the gods. The manner in which we choose to serve is what is different. Do you think that you are unable to serve the gods? Is that the reason for your anger?”

  The priest tapped his practice staff again, striking Scottan twice along the wood. He didn’t make an effort to fall into any forms; rather he simply tapped his staff against Scottan’s. There seemed to be a pattern, and it took Roelle a moment to realize that pattern was what caused the building of energy. With it, the tattoos snaking along his arms and working up to his neck seemed to move with even more agitation.

  Why should that be? What was it about his connection to that power and energy that allowed those markings to move in such a way? Unless they didn’t. Was it only an illusion?

  “The Deshmahne would ask me about anger?” Scottan said.

  “The Deshmahne are filled with anger. We serve out of a desire to demonstrate strength to the gods and a desire for us to know their power. When we serve as we can, only then can we know the gods in the manner that we desire.”

  There was another series of taps, each one coming more rapidly than the last.

  Scottan stopped moving, and stood still, holding his staff out in front of him. He seemed unwilling to react and unwilling to counter what the priest was doing. There was speed and efficiency to the priest’s movements. Roelle had fought many of the Deshmahne but had never confronted one with significant power, not as she suspected this priest possessed. He would have to be powerful to lead in Paliis.

  “You lost your faith,” the priest said.

  “I lost nothing,” Scottan said.

  “You did. I can see it in the way you look at me. I can see it in the way you seem to long for something greater. You fear change, and I will not deny that change has taken place, much as I will not deny the fact that more must change. The gods require change, or else we remain stagnant, never improving ourselves.”

  “You know nothing about the gods.”

  “Do I not possess power?” The priest stopped suddenly. As he did, there was a pressure. It was enormous and powerful. There was no denying that it came from the priest and that it was power that emanated from him. He held his arms out, his sleeves pulled back, revealing the tattoos along his forearms. The patterns danced, slithering around his arms, and darkness poured from them.

  Something strange happened then.

  There was not the same sense of self-doubt or emptiness that Roelle had experienced around the Deshmahne when they were using their abilities before. What she encountered now was simply an understanding of something greater. It seemed as if the priest was speaking as much to her as he was to Scottan.

  When she had been forced to fight and to confront both the groeliin and the Deshmahne, the emptiness had been difficult for her to overcome. She had been searching for something but wasn’t sure what. She had felt fulfilled when she discovered her connection to the sword, and her people’s connection to the warriors, a fulfillment that had grown when she learned that there was a connection between the Magi and the Antrilii. Despite that fulfillment, she still had not felt she knew her place, her role in this world.

  Had the priest known?

  During her time captured—or confined, she wasn’t certain—within the temple, had he come to understand her mind?

  “You don’t understand the gods. The gods aren’t what anyone believes,” Scottan said.

  The priest shook his head. “Of course they are not. How can we know the gods?”

  The priest tapped his practice staff against Scottan’s again. Power exploded from him. It washed over Scottan, but also over Roelle.

  She tensed as it struck her, but she needn’t have.

  There wasn’t any darkness within it. It was simply a display of power, a connection to the others. Was that the kind of power other Deshmahne possessed? Was that how they used it?

  Perhaps she had misunderstood them even more than she had ever realized.

  “What do you want from me?” Scottan asked.

  “I want you to look inside, and find that power that lives within you.”

  “You know nothing about the power that lives within me.”

  “I think you are wrong. I can feel your power. It’s much like the power that lives within each of these Magi. Each of us possesses power, and each of us can connect to the gods—or to whatever creator you feel exists. If you find that connection, only then can you understand your purpose. If that is continuing to serve as a soldier, so be it. The Deshmahne have many soldiers who find value in such service. If it is a calling to a greater purpose, then I would ask you not to turn away. Do not deny what you are called and able to do, for when you do, when you avoid your purpose, the reason you have been set upon this earth, you find yourself conflicted. I have seen it in many men and women. Not all are meant to serve in the same way, but all must find within themselves their purpose. Find yours.”

  He tapped the staff against Scottan’s once more. And power seemed to be drawn from Roelle, as well as from the rest of the Magi, and even from Scottan, before swirling into the priest.

  Roelle started forward before realizing that he did not intend to hold it, it was merely temporary, a way for him to connect to them.

  The priest turned away and stopped in front of Roelle. “This man is not sick. What he has is a crisis of faith, much like many have.” He held her gaze for a moment, saying nothing more, then made his way out of the clearing.

  When he h
ad departed, Selton breathed out with a shaky breath. “What was that?”

  Roelle didn’t know how to answer. What was it? And how had the High Desh seemed to read so deeply into her mind—and into her heart?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Roelle stood across from Scottan in the courtyard, holding the wooden practice staff tipped downward. The sparring had gone better, but he still remained slow and had a hint of hesitance to him. Two Magi sparred beside them, with Selton and Jenna looking on, having finished their own practice session.

  What would he say? She could tell her friend was frustrated by her insistence to continue working with Scottan, but Jakob had asked her to, and that meant she needed to at least try to help him, though more and more, she thought there may not be much she could offer. Even the words from the priest had made little difference.

  “It’s a little better,” Roelle said to Scottan.

  Scottan snorted. “Better? I perform no better than a child facing a fully trained soldier.”

  “I don’t know what happened to you, or the nature of your injury, but whatever it was seems to have taken your confidence.”

  She still hadn’t figured out why Jakob had wanted her to work with this man, or what made him think that she was the right person for this task, but she would try, and if necessary, she would drag him with her when she eventually left the city.

  “Jakob didn’t tell you?”

  She shook her head. “He asked me to work with you. I’ve known Jakob for…” Roelle had to think about how long it had been. How long ago had she traveled to Chrysia with Haerlin to search for the delegates? It seemed ages ago—a lifetime. She had changed immensely in that time, as had the world around her.

  “How did you meet Jakob?” he asked. They had made their way to a corner of the yard and stood there, Scottan leaning forward, resting his hands on his thighs, his practice staff leaning against the wall of one of the buildings framing the square. Roelle stood holding on to her staff, swinging it slightly to keep a feel for it. Doing so allowed her to feel more comfortable with the weight of it. It was something she had picked up from Endric, though probably it was unintentional.

  “We came to Chrysia, searching for what the Magi Council called a delegate.”

  “We? As in a group of Magi?”

  She had noted how Scottan still struggled with the fact that he was surrounded by Magi. High Desh had not been concerned at all and had practically flaunted the fact that he didn’t have any difficulty with being around the Magi. Scottan was more reluctant and reserved.

  “One was a Mage Elder, and one was me,” Roelle said. “We had a few regiment of Denraen with us. There had been word of Deshmahne moving through, and the Denraen wanted to ensure our safety.”

  “And now you’re trusting your safety to the Deshmahne.”

  “I’m not sure that I’m trusting my safety, but I do recognize that they’ve been helpful.”

  Scottan shook his head. “How did Jakob get involved in this?”

  “At that time, Jakob was still apprenticed to the historian Novan. They accompanied the Ur when they left the city, seeking to defend against raiders they’d heard were attacking.”

  Scottan closed his eyes and shook his head. “Why would Jakob have done that?” he spoke mostly to himself.

  “From what I understand, Jakob is the one who killed one of the Deshmahne attackers that day.”

  Scottan’s eyes opened. “Jakob did?”

  She nodded. “I didn’t know him then, so I didn’t know how impressive such a feat would have been. For that matter, I didn’t know the Deshmahne or how difficult they were to fight. Had I known either, I might have been more inspired to get to know him sooner.”

  “When did you get to know him?”

  “When the temple was destroyed, I was there. When Novan decided to leave the city with the delegation, Jakob came with us. And then outside of the city, Jakob was one of only a few people willing to spar with Endric on a nightly basis.”

  “Who else?”

  “Me.”

  Scottan studied her with an appraising eye. There was something to his look that reminded her of the general. With that expression, she could believe that he had once been a soldier, though she had no idea how long ago he had served.

  “How do you know Jakob?” Roelle asked.

  Scottan grunted. He stood and picked up his practice staff, smacking himself across the thighs. Why did there seem to be a darkness in him as he did? “I honestly don’t think I do. The person I knew was not the man—or whatever he is—that you know.”

  Roelle laughed. “He’s not the same person I met, either. That man was cautious but talented. I could see it. He was smart and surprisingly fearless, and there was…” She trailed off, deciding that perhaps she had said too much.

  Scottan watched her. “You cared for him. Or care for him. Either way…”

  “I thought that he was an interesting man,” Roelle said.

  “And now?” he asked.

  “I still think he’s an interesting man. I just don’t know him the way that I thought I did. How could I, when he seems to be one of the gods?”

  “Did he ever speak of his family?” Scottan asked.

  Roelle thought about the time she’d spent with Jakob, thinking about what he had shared with her. She had been there when the temple was destroyed, and he’d lost his father, but she also knew Jakob had lost his mother sometime before. And there was something about a brother, though she couldn’t recall what it was. Had he died? She knew that Jakob had questioned his faith—something that she found ironic now that she knew his connection to the gods. Then again, the fact that his father was a priest of the Urmahne, and would have worshiped Jakob, was ironic as well.

  “He spoke of his family. It drove him, I think. He had suffered much loss.” That was part of her connection to Jakob. She had lost her parents and had known only her uncle, Alriyn, but even that relationship had evolved over time.

  When she’d been in Vasha the last time, her connection to Alriyn had been different. Not necessarily unpleasant, and she thought Alriyn understood the choice she had made and the necessity for it, but she had abandoned the Magi without seeking permission, taking most of the apprentices with her.

  How much had that hurt the Magi? An entire generation had deviated from their training and beliefs and had become soldiers—something the Magi had not been for a thousand or more years.

  “Jakob always cared much for his family,” Scottan said. “It was one of his strongest qualities.”

  “You don’t think he still does?”

  Scottan shrugged. “I can’t say I know much about Jakob anymore. Does he care about his family? I think his new responsibilities have forced him to care about many things, and what he’s experienced has made him something more than I can understand and more than I could ever be.”

  Roelle frowned as she studied Scottan. It seemed an odd comment, but this was an odd man. “I’m not sure any of us can ever aspire to be one of the gods. Jakob is unique.”

  Scottan nodded, keeping his focus on the ground in front of him.

  When he said nothing for long moments, Roelle tapped her practice staff on the ground, drawing his attention. “Are you willing to try again?”

  “Does it matter? I haven’t improved at all in the time that you’ve worked with me.”

  “Not yet, but that doesn’t mean you won’t. I think your problem is lack of practice.”

  “My problem is my body. It no longer does what I ask of it.”

  “Then work with it. Force it to obey. Use the gifts the gods have given you and train. If you’re a soldier—or were a soldier—then you know what’s required to improve your skills. It’s not something that happens simply because you want it to. It’s something that requires practice and persistence, and training against those who are better than you.”

  “You’re willing to keep working with me?”

  Roelle nodded. “I’m willing to work with an
yone who is interested in learning.” It was a comment Endric had once shared with her, and it was a philosophy that she thought made sense. Why turn away someone who might one day develop skills that could be useful? Just because Scottan did not possess them now didn’t mean he never would if he devoted himself to his training. If that was what he thought was his purpose—much like what the Deshmahne had questioned—then she felt a need to do what she could to work with him.

  “Is it because Jakob asked?”

  She studied him before answering. “I’m not sure that would have mattered. Had you expressed an interest to learn, I probably would have trained you anyway. The man who trained me never turned away my request.”

  “And who was that?”

  “Endric. The general could have denied me, but he didn’t. He allowed me to learn, and did so in spite of the fact that none of the Magi Council would have approved.”

  Roelle had never properly thanked Endric, but wondered how much of her learning the sword had been intentional on his part. How much of it was because he had foreseen something where she would be needed? How much of it was because of his ability to plan and anticipate? Certainly, he had sent her after the Antrilii for a purpose. Had he expected that she and the Magi who followed her would become what they had?

  That seemed almost too much to believe, but if anyone could have done so, why wouldn’t it have been Endric?

  “Thank you, Mage Roelle.”

  She studied Scottan. “Who is Jakob to you?”

  Scottan shook his head. “Someone I once knew and hope to know again, but now?” Scottan shook his head. “Now I cannot claim to know him.” He stepped back, bringing up his practice staff.

  Roelle glanced over at Selton. She could ask her friend to take over the training, but what would the purpose be? She had agreed to work with Scottan, and as much as it might frustrate her, she needed to be the one to do this.