Shadows of Prophecy

by Rachel Lee

  He squeezed her hand. “Sing for me, please? Sing me a song of home?”

  “Yes, my love,” Sara said.

  And when Sara began to sing, Tess could almost feel the warmth of the Deepwell Inn in its best days.

  A day, a day of harvest time

  A night of warmth and ale

  A day, a day of harvest time

  And gentle with the tale.

  Come bring the sheaves of barley now

  And pelts from forest deep

  Come sing the joy of harvest time

  And gentle into sleep.

  Oh harvest night! Oh fire bright!

  Beside you we around

  Oh harvest song, we sing nigh long And gentle with the sound.

  A day, a day of harvest time

  And family gathered near

  The toils and spoils of harvest time

  And gentle with the year.

  By the time Sara had finished, Anari children had stirred from their beds and gathered around her, their eyes and smiles wide with wonder. Tess did not know whether the children could understand the words, but so rich was Sara’s voice that, even without the words, one would have felt the meaning of the song.

  “Home,” Tom said, a wistful smile on his face. “I never thought it could be so beautiful.”

  “Oft we miss what too oft we see, lad,” Archer said, having returned with the strip of leather. “But I think you will see Whitewater again, as if for the first time.”

  “And when you do return home,” Tess said, taking the proffered strip of leather, then the awl from Ratha’s hand, “I want you to bring your bride with you. And then, what a harvest festival Whitewater will see!”

  Archer looked at her, as if reading her thoughts. In truth, she feared that Tom and Sara would never see their home again. But this was not the time to dwell on fears. Her hands working as if by a memory all their own, she held the strip over Tom’s face for a moment, then began boring a pattern of tiny holes in the leather.

  “Try this,” she said, placing the strap over his eyes. “The holes shouldn’t let in too much light. Can you see?”

  “I can,” Tom said, tying the strap behind his head. “Thank you, Lady Tess. At least now it doesn’t hurt to look at Sara.”

  He let the sentence hang for a moment, then broke into a wry smile. “Of course, it never hurts to look at Sara.”

  “It had better not,” Sara said, nudging him. “Because you’re going to be looking at me for a long, long time.”

  “Do you promise?” he asked.

  “Be it a promise or a threat,” she replied, smiling, “I mean what I say.”

  “Be careful what you wish for, Tom,” Ratha said, his smile gleaming in the firelight. “The love of a woman is not to be trifled with. And Lady Sara has the pledge of Gewindi-Tel at her service. You had best keep her happy.”

  “I thank the gods that I shall now have more days, many I hope, to devote to my lady’s happiness,” Tom said. Clasping Sara’s hand, he carried it to his lips. “Now, will one of you please tell me what has happened since the battle in the rift?”

  Ratha, a born storyteller, recounted the day’s events in a manner bound to be engraved in oral history as long as the Anari existed. Those who had wakened to Sara’s song hung on his every word as if they had not lived through the events themselves.

  When he fell silent, the cave, too, fell silent, seeming to swallow even the crackle of the flames in the firepit. A stillness deeper than sleep filled them all, as if they hung suspended over a brink of some kind.

  “These times were foretold,” Tom said slowly, his voice altered as if by something greater than himself. “The prophecies are coming to pass.”

  Another moment of silence, then his voice grew stronger and adopted a rhythmic cadence.

  When Weaver comes, to all she brings

  A Foundling found and sword that sings

  Destroyer old be bitter, bold

  His vengeance cold

  Winter burns with icy breath

  Bringing many to their deaths

  But all must hope or hope will fail

  Then Firstborn King will pierce the veil.

  Tom sat abruptly bolt upright, staring across the cavern past Tess as if he could see something that wasn’t there. And one name whispered across his lips.

  “Theriel.”

  A moment later he slumped back against the stone, and his head rolled to one side as he lost consciousness.

  Sara gave a cry and reached out to cradle him. Tess immediately felt for the pulse in his throat.

  “He’s all right,” she assured the others. “He must have worn himself out.”

  “This lad,” said Ratha heavily, “needs someone to help him properly cultivate his prophetic talent. Someone who can teach him to use it wisely.”

  Archer nodded. “Erkiah Nebu.”

  “Nebu?” Ratha’s face creased with concern. “But he is in Sedestano.”

  “We will send for him when we get to Anahar. He will come.”

  Ratha nodded, apparently harboring not the least doubt that Nebu would come if Archer summoned him.

  With that Archer rose and vanished into the shadows at the mouth of the cave.

  Whatever might come toward them, it seemed, would have to pass through him first.

  Tom wasn’t the only one who needed help with his powers, Tess thought as she curled up on her bedroll nearby. The scattered bits of memory that remained from the earlier battle both plagued and frightened her. How could she have caused such a thing? Yet apparently she had.

  She closed her eyes, and finally sleep began to take her; exhaustion would not be denied. For the first time in several weeks, she began to dream, and the dreams were fitful and disturbing. She felt as if she wanted to wake up but could not as the dreams took her.

  Once again she dreamed of awaking amidst the slaughtered caravan, but those images held little terror for her now, as she had relived those hours repeatedly. But the dream did not stop there….

  A wooded hillside, beneath which was a fenced field. A woman riding a horse, head tossed back, smiling in delight at the beautiful day. Tess ran toward her, the word “Mother” on her lips, but it seemed no matter how hard she ran, she could not reach the woman on the horse….

  Then it was as if the entire image juddered, fracturing into pieces of stained glass, before once again settling into a picture of a field, a horse, a hill…and no woman.

  Grief pierced Tess’s heart until she cried out, “Mother!” and began to sob.

  “Tess?” Sara’s voice woke her, the young woman’s hand shaking her shoulder. “Tess, are you all right?”

  Tess blinked, then sat up quickly, trying to shake off the dream. Her cheeks were wet, she realized, and she quickly wiped them dry on her sleeve.

  “Tess?”

  “I dreamed,” she answered.

  Sara’s face reflected deep concern. “Just a dream?”

  Slowly Tess shook her head. “I think…I think I was remembering my mother.”

  “You’re getting your memory back!” Sara sounded thrilled. “That’s wonderful.”

  But as Tess sat there feeling cold to the bone, she sorted through her impressions of the dream and found nothing good at all. Slowly she shook her head.

  “What?” Sara asked.

  “We have something in common, it seems. My mother disappeared when I was a child.”

  As soon as she spoke the words, she knew they were true, and remembering the horror that Sara’s mother had undergone, and the horrors of her discovery, Tess felt lead settle into her heart.

  Sara leaned closer, her voice a whisper. “Do you think she was taken the same way my mother was?”

  “Maybe. It feels…bad.” Tess closed her eyes and bowed her head. “I fear…I fear I was taken the same way.”

  Sara gasped, then argued, “But you’re here.”

  “Aye, I’m here. And I don’t think that was intended.”

  Sara huddled closer
to her. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that Archer is right. I’m a danger to this party. Evil seeks me.”

  10

  At the first weak light of dawn, the refugees left the shelter of their cave and resumed their trek south toward Anahar.

  Ratha, Giri and Archer rode out together, working their way up the treacherous talus of a steep slope to gain a view to the east and Bozandar. Other scouts spread out in other directions.

  Ratha was in surprisingly good spirits, all things considered, and he put that down to their increasing nearness to Anahar.

  Anahar. The mere name made his heart lift with joy. Anahar was hearth and home to the Anari people, however far they might spread over the world. Anahar the beautiful, ever calling her children home.

  The temple itself was a towering feat of stonemasonry and artistry, its beauties changing with the movement of sun, moon and stars, revealing different aspects as the light changed. The smaller village temples were mere copies of the great temple, each showing but a portion of the edifice in Anahar.

  The temple had survived the last Bozandari invasion, and Ratha hoped it would survive this coming rebellion. Little else in the Anari lands had survived the Bozandari invasion. Nearly everything that existed now had been built in the three generations of their enslavement.

  And worse, all that was new had been built without the benefit of the best Anari skills. It was a small silent rebellion, not to use the best and highest of their skills when forced to build for Bozandar, but it was one necessary to the Anari people—the only expression of independence left to them.

  But the temple…Ah, the temple!

  Smiling inwardly, he breathed deeply of the fresh morning air. Even the present danger could not dampen his spirits this morning. In his entire life, which was a goodly span, he and his fellows had never spent a day without thinking of rising up from beneath the heel of Bozandar. Now it had begun. Fire filled his veins, and the thought of freedom was a heady brew.

  Somehow the appointed hour had come. He wasn’t sure why, after all these years, every Anari seemed to accept that this was the time long awaited. It just was.

  And with two Ilduin at their side, perhaps there was true hope of success.

  He glanced over at Archer and wondered what his friend was thinking. Always he seemed to carry a heavy burden, but this morning the burden appeared to nearly bow him. But before Ratha could speak a comforting word, Archer lifted an arm and pointed.

  “There.”

  A cloud of dust had arisen in the east. The Bozandari army was coming for them once again.

  Archer gathered together the clan mothers, and Jenah and his immediate lieutenants, about fifteen persons in all.

  “This time,” he said, “they must not catch us unprepared. It is a larger force than we met yesterday.”

  Eiesha shook her head. “How can they keep finding us?”

  Archer’s gray eyes seemed to darken. “I suspect they are receiving assistance in that.”

  After brief reflection, Eiesha nodded. “So it must be. It was written once that wherever an Ilduin stood, the golden warp and woof of reality bent around her. There was a time when the clan mothers could sense this, but no longer.”

  Archer nodded. “Such powers have steadily diminished since the First Age. But, Mother Eiesha, we dare not count upon having two Ilduin among us. Both are untutored in their powers. Instead we must fight for ourselves.”

  “Of course.” The woman snorted. “Ever have the Anari stood for themselves and for others in need. That has not changed since the First Age. But I have an idea.”

  “Aye?” Archer listened respectfully.

  “The Bozandari sought to steal our stoneworking skills, but there are secrets we never revealed to them, secrets handed down from father to son. Among Gewindi-Tel, there are several who know these secrets and guard them. I will call upon their expertise.”

  “To do what, Mother?”

  Eiesha smiled. “To build a wall.”

  Tom sat outside the cave entrance, trying to adjust to his new world as viewed through the pinpricks in the leather band across his eyes. Tess had done well, he thought. The holes were placed so that he could look to either side or straight ahead. Some head-turning was still required, but that was beginning to feel natural.

  And he could see. Already once this morning he had attempted to remove the leather strip and had discovered that the light was too painful to be borne. Part of him wanted to indulge in a bout of self-pity, but a stronger self refused to let him. He might have been completely blind. Instead, he could see well enough through the mask. He would not need to spend the rest of his days hanging on to someone’s shoulder.

  Sara hovered over him as if he were a nursling. It didn’t irritate him. After the words and touches they had shared last night, her care for him could never be a source of anything but joy.

  Except that he was sitting here thinking how little he deserved her. This quasiblindness hadn’t improved his sense of worthiness one whit. She deserved so much more than he would ever be able to give her, especially now.

  But even as that weight clung to his heart, he knew now was not the time to indulge in such thoughts. Either one of them might be dead within a matter of hours. Facing the war, absolutely nothing was certain.

  But a small sigh escaped him anyway as he forced himself to walk around the rocky ground, learning to use his strange new vision. It was clear he would never be a swordsman now.

  Sara joined him, carrying yet another bowl of gruel. “How does it go?” she asked him.

  He accepted the bowl and remained standing as he quaffed it. When he was done, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and passed the bowl back to her. “It goes well, actually,” he told her, trying to sound positive. “Thank you for the gruel.”

  “It was nothing. Do you hurt anywhere?”

  He instinctively put a hand to his stomach. “Amazingly not. But I do wonder what happened to my eyes.”

  “Eiesha said that you are the first ever to be cured by Ilduin fire.”

  He stared directly at a rock face ahead of him. “I suppose the answer lies somewhere therein,” he said.

  “Is it too terrible?”

  “’Tis annoying,” he admitted. “But at least I can see.”

  She touched his arm gently and turned him to face her. “I thank the gods you are still alive, my Tom. For you were dead for certain had not Tess intervened.”

  He nodded slowly, accepting her judgment. “But that doesn’t make me feel any less annoyed at the moment,” he told her, forcing a hint of humor into his voice.

  “Certainly not.” Then she smiled at him, a sun shining through an emotionally gray day. “But would you like to hear the news?”

  “Aye.”

  “Here.” She led him to a boulder, and they sat side by side. “We do not march today because the Bozandari are coming our way. But guess what the Anari are going to do.”

  He shook his head.

  “Mother Eiesha says they have stone-working talents that they have kept secret these many years. She has sent masters of the stone out to build a wall to protect us.”

  “Oh, I would like to see that!”

  “As would I.”

  “But…” He frowned. “Can’t the Bozandari simply mount a wall?”

  “I suspect,” Sara said, “that this will be no ordinary wall.”

  In that she was right. Archer, Giri and Ratha rode out with the masons to act as their protection should scouts from the Bozandari column come upon them.

  The place chosen was in the midst of a huge defile, the only one nearby through which an army could hope to pass and, Jenah said, the one by which the slavers most often came to Anahar. Years of being used as a path had cleared the way and flattened the earth almost to a roadlike surface.

  “Not for long,” Jenah said. He was one of the stonemasters himself, and when they had decided on the spot, he joined them, pressing his hands to the side of the defile
and closing his eyes.

  Ratha moved close to Archer and murmured, “I am sure, my lord, that you know the rock lives.”

  “I have heard it said.”

  “’Tis a living thing, the stone. And the stonemasters must choose rock that is willing to cooperate. Never do we force our will on living stone.”

  Archer nodded, watching intently as the Anari masons continued to press their palms to the stone, eyes closed, bodies motionless.

  From his position above the defile, he could also see the approaching cloud of dust. An hour, maybe a little more. He hoped the rock would leap into this task with verve, although such a thing was nearly beyond his imagining. The Anari seldom let an outsider see them work with the stone.

  The wind suddenly picked up, cutting angrily through clothes and nipping at exposed skin. Archer lifted his head and tried to sense anything that might be borne on the breeze. What he felt disturbed him mightily.

  “We need to be done soon,” he told Ratha and Giri. “We are not unwatched.”

  But just then the stonemasters seemed to have found their answer. They started to climb the defile with a skill belonging to those who frequented these mountains and soon joined Archer’s party.

  “We need to be away from here,” Jenah said. He cocked his head to the west. “We can watch from over there, safe and out of sight.”

  Archer gestured to the defile. “The wall?”

  Jenah grinned between his teeth. “Oh, aye, there will be a wall, Lord Archer. But the Bozandari will be beneath it.”

  Then Jenah and his fellow masters mounted their horses and led the way to their place of concealment.

  Conveniently out of sight, there was a place for their mounts to graze contentedly, though they had to be hobbled against the coming landslide.

  The party clambered back up over steep rocks until they could peer between sharp teeth of granite at the defile, now safely in the distance. The soldiers were getting closer now. A keen eye could just about pick out the individuals amidst the sudden, sharp bursts of light reflecting off their shields.

  “They expect to be met,” Archer murmured.