by Simone Pond
The Bachar name. As much as I longed to be accepted into the Bachar family, I never would be fully. Nobody knew my background or where I’d come from exactly. They only knew that Charity found me on the side of the road a hundred miles outside Mysterium as the sole survivor of a tragic car accident. With the exception of my mother, I had no real obligation to the Bachar legacy.
Haggai’s voice drifted into my mind … Your real name is Jordan Temple. You come from Ancient blood. We are your people. And you are the Chosen One sent to fulfill the prophecy and lead us to freedom … If that were true, my obligation would be to the left-bank Ancients, not to those on the right bank I’d grown up among. Yet I felt no connection to the Leftbankers.
In fact, I felt nothing and belonged to no one.
Enough of this, I decided. I reached down inside to where my source of magic existed. The violet light glowed like a gemstone, and as I called to it the light grew within me. I lifted my hand and swiped it across the space between Magnus and me. Shock registered in his eyes and he began to concentrate, pulling flames into his irises. But he was too late—my magic had already bound his powers. Sparks flickered in his eyes in spurts, then fizzled out. He tried to reach for me, but his hands shot back to his sides and stayed glued there. I had him in a state of paralysis. My magic funneled through my body like a relentless twister, gathering more and more power.
“It’s over,” I told him.
He tried to open his mouth, but I filled it with a gust of wind that snapped his head backwards.
“Just stop or you’ll hurt yourself.”
The color drained from his cheeks and his eyes shuttered in surrender. Magnus was used to getting his way, so I was sure this was only an act. The second I let down my guard he’d be on me. I kept him right where he was—completely powerless.
“I’m not doing any more of your dirty work. Besides, the fates have clearly proven I’m not meant to carry out your deeds. The first one was a fluke. So, this is how it’s going to be, Magnus: you’re going to back off. You’re not going to mention my abilities to anyone. And you’re not going to touch my mother.”
His eyes lit up with a yellow glow, his magic fighting to break through my bindery. I felt the force of him pushing back. He was strong. Was he a warlock? I didn’t know. But the powers he had were intense, and I couldn’t hold him off much longer. I needed to make sure we had a new understanding.
“Are we clear?” I asked.
He blinked his eyes, but I knew he was lying. I sensed it with every molecule in my being. My magic began trembling and quaking inside as he fought through my barriers. I had no other option but to use my baton and lock him in a mage-cage. That would contain him temporarily so I could search for the historical files and figure out a more permanent solution for the counselor.
I triggered the device, stunning Magnus with a web of highly charged electricity that then enveloped him inside the unbreakable glowing crystal cage. I checked my phone—I had about two hours to find those files.
I sat behind Magnus’s large oak desk and scanned the room. Where would he have put the historical files? Would they be electronic or physical copies? Haggai told me to read between the lines. What did that mean?
“Hey, Magnus. Where do you keep the historical files?”
The counselor folded his arms across his chest and stared coldly, like he was studying me.
Obviously, I was on my own. I sat back and glanced around Magnus’s pristine office. Every bookshelf and piece of furniture was perfectly aligned, down to the detail of each picture frame hanging on the walls. Everything had been arranged in meticulous straight lines. Lines …
That was it! Magnus had everything positioned in a specific way so that the lines all connected and intersected, creating a pattern—I could actually imagine the lines like green lasers beaming throughout the office in geometric shapes and patterns.
Read between the lines …
I closed my eyes and could picture the lines intersecting and creating inter-dimensional filing cabinets. When I opened my eyes they were gone. I’d have to search the files with my eyes closed. I glanced at the time. Only fifteen minutes had passed. That gave me plenty of time to peruse the files.
Magnus was now seated cross-legged, his eyes closed as though in a deep transcendental meditation. The smug madman was actually grinning, as though he were amused. I stood in the middle of the office, closing my eyes to focus on the line patterns. I reached toward the middle of one of the inter-dimensional filing cabinets and swiped my hand across the square space. An entire drawer shot forth, containing hundreds of thousands of digital slides with detailed records of historical events, laws, and transactions pertaining to Mysterium. These were the archives—only this particular drawer contained files dating back to long before Mysterium’s inception. The documents mentioned the Seventh—the mystical city Magnus had mentioned a few times. Though my curiosity was piqued, my priority was finding the virus files.
I swiped my hand over more of the cabinets and other drawers popped out, each one containing hundreds of files with incredibly covert information—the kind that would give its keeper tremendous power. No wonder Magnus was untouchable. I scanned quickly through the slides of documented information, catching glimpses of the true origins of Mysterium. Things that I had been told my whole life were apparently just a bunch of propaganda. I would’ve loved to go deeper into those files, but the countdown for the mage-cage deactivation was drumming in my ears along with my heartbeat.
Finally, I came across the drawer containing the information I’d been seeking. They were titled: The Foretelling of the Prophecy. I found that to be a bit dramatic, even for Magnus.
Twenty-two years ago, the Oracle’s final prophecy stated a Chosen One would rise up among the Ancients and shepherd them to freedom. A female who (at the time of the telling of the prophecy) had already been born, but was still young—under the age of three … She would eventually grow into her powers and save her people from the oppressive governing forces of the right bank by taking down their true leader. Magnus’s records showed he was prepared to do everything in his power to stop that from happening. Because it was now obvious: he was the true leader of Mysterium. I found the letter with his proposed plan of action that he had presented to my grandfather and the council.
Prime Master Bachar & Council of Mysterium:
After visiting with the Oracle, it is abundantly clear that we cannot take any risks. This Chosen One is believed to be charged with magic beyond any our kind has seen. There is no hope in binding her powers, changing her will, or redirecting her fate.
In order to stop the utter demise of everything we’ve worked so painstakingly to rebuild, our only option is to pre-empt the threat while it is yet in its incubation stage. We must purge the city from this future threat.
My proposal, as harsh as it may seem, is to inject all left-bank females under the age of three with a virus that aggressively attacks the magically inclined. All of this will be under the guise that the vaccine is to help rid them of a plague brought on by their use of black magic.
This strategy works twofold. First, it plants the seeds that they’ve brought this plague upon themselves and our right bank by continuing the use of their magic time and time again despite the laws we’ve legislated against them. And secondly, the virus will remove any child with powerful magic so that only the lesser ones will survive. And we needn’t worry about those.
I will begin working on the formula for the “vaccine” with my trusted experts, as well as the information to be fed to the media to begin trickling out into the city. It will begin with one or two incidents of left-bank children dying from some mysterious virus, leading to more deaths. Then we’ll create a panic among the Leftbankers, and at that time we’ll come to the rescue with the inoculation.
A second phase must also be implemented wherein we will begin to incorporate florocid powder into their water supply. It is the byproduct of the Therian silver mines. It wil
l act as a pineal blocker, making them more docile, without destroying their … supernatural aptitude.
It is with great sadness that I propose this strategy. The lives of innocent children being sacrificed for the greater good is hardly something I can endorse. This was the final prophecy of the Oracle of Mysterium prior to her ascension, and to date her record has been impeccably accurate. I strongly advise we do everything in our power to heed her warnings.
Counselor Pierce Magnus
I returned the digital slide into the drawer and slammed it closed. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I was going to be sick all over the carpet. My grandfather and the entire council had agreed with this evil lunatic to murder innocent children to prevent a foretold uprising? Despicable. Vile. And what was that about the water supply? We’ve been poisoning the Ancients all these years to keep them submissive and easy to control?
Disgust roiled up my throat. I leaned against the desk because I started feeling that dizzy feeling I had earlier when I was with Haggai—like the walls of my mind were pressing in on me. Maybe those walls were trying to squeeze out the lies and deception that I’d been living in for the last twenty-two years.
Twenty-two years …
That was the time the Oracle had spoken the prophecy. It was also the year of the virus. I would’ve been three years old at the time, and had I been living on the left bank, I would’ve died with all of the other young girls with powerful magic like mine. But I wasn’t from the left bank. Charity had found me on the side of the road a hundred miles outside of Mysterium. Right?
CHAPTER 11
Magnus continued sitting in his meditative state inside the mage-cage. I had about thirty minutes before the thing deactivated. Thirty minutes to figure out what to do with him. Could I have him locked up for treason? No, that wouldn’t work. The entire council was in on it. I could try to kill him, but his magic was powerful. Plus, where would that get me? I’m sure Magnus had a contingency plan so that if anything happened to him, I would certainly be made out to look like a black-magic-using murderer. No, I’d have to come up with something that would outsmart the counselor.
The inside of my palm heated up and began to pulse with the symbol Haggai had inscribed earlier that morning. When the truth starts to sink in … go to this location. The truth. Which one? At the moment, I couldn’t seem to focus on any specific story line.
The truth: I definitely wasn’t a Bachar.
The truth: Magnus and the entire council of Mysterium were mass-murderers of the most detestable sort.
The truth: despite the peculiar coincidences, I had nothing to do with that crazed prophecy.
Okay, that last “truth” was more wishful thinking on my part rather than objective fact.
My palm continued pulsing—the inscription calling me to the location.
Magnus. The bastard still sat meditating in the cage, as tranquil as a monk. He was still slightly smirking, as though saying, “Though I am in this cage, you, dear Jordan, are the one who is trapped …”
Yeah—though I had the momentary winning hand, he had the leverage and backing of the entire house. I needed some serious backup. There were only two people I could trust on the right bank. My mother was one of them. But she’d end up confronting her father, and he’d spin some tall tale, release Magnus, and ship me off to some obscure location to die alone. The only other option was Nils. As much as I regretted pulling him back in, I sent him a text.
Urgent and confidential. Come to Magnus’s office ASAP. He’s in a mage-cage. Need you to contain him in a new one. Do not speak to him or let him out!!! I’ll explain later.
I closed the door behind me and ran down the hall to the back entrance, sprinting all the way down the gravel driveway to the main street. I didn’t stop running until I reached the docks and caught a ferry heading across the River Elin to the left bank.
On the ride over, Leftbankers glanced in my direction. I could imagine their thoughts. “What in Ancient’s name is this stylishly dressed Rightbanker doing slumming it with us?” I asked a few of the passengers for help with the inscription on my palm, but upon seeing the glowing symbol, they scurried away from me. Probably fearful of entrapment.
I stood by the railing, feeling a bit anxious. An older woman in a red dress and matching scarf around her head strutted among the passengers, showing off seashell jewelry. She moved over to where I was standing and put her wares into a well-worn satchel.
“Yuh lookin’ to get sumwhere?” She had a heavy accent, dragging out her vowels.
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure I could trust the gypsy.
She grabbed my chin and held it, studying my eyes very carefully.
“Hmm.”
I pulled back. “What?”
“Yuh eyes. Like jade.”
“That’s what I hear,” I said.
The ferry began to pull into the dock; she patted my arm and winked. “I get you transport.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your help.”
“Likewise.”
Likewise? What was that supposed to mean? Whatever. For now, I just wanted to check out this location Haggai had carved into my palm. Hopefully along the way, I’d be inspired with a brilliant plan to put the counselor away for good. Or have him executed for crimes against Mysterium. Again, that might’ve been wishful thinking on my part.
We docked and I followed the gypsy down the wooden planks toward the boardwalk, where the fisheries were closing up for the night. The woman’s shoes clapped against the wood as she strutted by the open warehouse doors of the fisheries, waving to the men when they whistled out to her. I trailed behind a good three to five feet, keeping an eye out for any suspicious activity. I didn’t want to get bumrushed by any left-bank zealots trying to prove a point.
“This way,” she purred, motioning with her long red fingernails.
We turned into one of the fishy-smelling warehouses and walked to the back office. At a small round table, a group of men played cards, bantering back and forth. Their cigarette smoke plumed in the dingy room.
The gypsy took my wrist and held open my palm. “She needs ride. Good money.”
They paused and gazed at the inscription glowing in my palm. A couple of the men shook their heads, waving as if to swish me from their very presence. But a rickety older man stood up and ambled over, proudly showing off his few remaining teeth.
“Name’s Sam. I’ll do it,” he said. “If ya win just one hand …”
They all laughed.
I smiled sheepishly, for I wanted to make the impression I wasn’t a player, though I was one of the best on the right bank. I’d emptied many Oligarch pockets of gold coins. Of course my grandfather detested these “unseemly-for-a-lady” extracurricular activities. But my mother thought it was amusing and we spent many nights playing hands in the smaller parlor. Sometimes I let her win. But she was the only person in Mysterium I’d ever let win.
One of the men got up from the table and offered me his seat, which I took with feigned reluctance. I placed a small stack of gold coins in front of me, then the dealer—a rawboned man with deep-set eyes and thinning black hair—dealt me in.
I glanced over my cards and the inscription on my palm heated up again, as if nagging me to make haste. But I was engrossed at this point, studying the other men’s faces and how they reacted to new cards. My sharp sense of perception told me who had the upper hand, so to speak. At the moment, it wasn’t me, and so I requested another card from the dealer. The card didn’t solve my problem, but helped my circumstances. I held onto the hope that the next card would be the one to do the trick.
Sometimes winning is skill. Other times it’s just dumb luck. For the professionals, it’s knowing the cards and carefully watching the other players. Then there are those with the magical touch. That’s me. And that night was no different.
The other players started dropping out one by one, until it was just rickety old Sam and me facing off. We were coming to a close, and it was time to place ou
r final bets.
“All in.” I pushed the remainder of my stack into the middle of the table.
Sam cocked his bald head and squinted his wrinkly eyes. He inhaled deeply and released it slowly, resting his hands under his sagging chin.
“Seems I’ve underestimated ya, Jordan.” He set down his cards.
“How do you know my name?”
“Let’s go.” He pulled himself up to a hunched stand. “Don’t forget yar winnings.”
“You guys keep it,” I told the group.
Sam and I went around to the back of the warehouse, where he politely unlocked the passenger-side door to a jalopy. The car might’ve been older than Sam, but when he turned the key, the thing sputtered to life. He reached across the seat and took my hand, reading the inscription in my palm.
“Ya sure yar ready for this?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“Do ya know where we’re going?”
“Nope.”
He nodded and put the car in drive, then rolled through the gravel parking lot out to a narrow road. We drove in silence through the city streets of the left bank. The shops had closed up for the night and the only activity was the gas lamps flickering on the corners of each block. The curtains and shutters of the dwellings were drawn, keeping the residents safely tucked inside.
The moon was full and round and low in the sky, seeming to illuminate the path before us as we continued driving away from the crowded city. Sam kept his focus on the roads as we wound outward until we finally came to a long straight of road butted up against a forest. I’d never seen so many trees—the right bank was cement, buildings, and lights as far as the horizon—yet their jagged silhouettes against the skyline had a familiarity to them.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“Zephyr Forest. We’re close to where ya need to be.”
Sam turned right, barreling through a row of overgrown bushes, and headed down a dirt path I never would’ve noticed. The passing trees stood watch as the old jalopy bounced over rocks and potholes in the dirt. About a mile down the rugged path, Sam slowed down. The symbol on my palm stopped glowing.