Prophecy Of The Sun (Age Of Oryn Book 1)

by Liam Reese

  “I want to meet him.”

  Captio snorted. “That’s not possible. He can only be reached when he wants to be.”

  Croenin marched to the straw bed he had slept on the night before, throwing himself down. “Fine,” he said. “Then I’ll look for him myself.” He scrunched his eyes closed, ignoring Captio and Bruta’s questions as to what he was doing. “I’m tired of all this cryptic stuff. Show me my great-grandfather,” he said firmly, silencing the room.

  Perhaps it was because he was angry, or perhaps it was because he had said it with such force, but unlike the smooth yet quick pull Croenin usually felt, he felt himself now being yanked roughly from his body. He began moving faster than he had before, hurtling over large distances in mere seconds, so fast that he couldn’t make out villages or settlements as he flew over land. He traveled thousands of miles in the space of seconds, halting abruptly and plummeting until he was just above sand, the Southern Ocean of Rassement stretching out before him. Of course, he did not recognize this place, but he would come to in time. Croenin saw no one on the beach, and his consciousness shifted downward to where someone had traced a message in decryti in the sand.

  Foolish child, he read. Do not try that again. He sighed and felt himself begin to be pulled back into his body. When he sat up, gasping for air, the room was silent, the three faces before him grim. He shook his head, letting them know that he did not see his great-grandfather, and Captio breathed a sigh of relief.

  “You can’t go about being so rash, Croenin. Some things are done for your protection, not to make your life harder.” He clapped Croenin, who was coughing, on the back.

  “Alright,” Croenin panted. “I get it.”

  Just like Ayne, he told himself, thinking about how she had blocked his attempts at seeing her as well. He wondered what his great-grandfather was up to in all of this. He tried and failed to put together a timeline of his great-grandfather’s life and doings in his head. The man had been alive since the war against the Aes Sidhe, assembled the Maelstris Nequitum at some point after…or possibly during? He asked himself, wondering if magic had been used against the Aes Sidhe. At any rate, he made the prophecy of the near-ending of the Age of Oryn and the deaths of his great-grandchildren after the Aes Sidhe had been banished to the Unknown. And then? He asked himself. Old Haega hadn’t mentioned what had become of the man, why he was no longer living in the village. He wondered if his grandmother had known that he was still alive. Bruta had said his grandmother had more to tell him. Perhaps this had been part of it.

  ”C’mon,” Rozaelle said, pulling him into a standing position. “You can’t stay here and mope all day.” She tossed him a set of plain clothes. “We have to get going soon.”

  Croenin nodded, avoiding her eyes as his own filled with tears of frustration. He hadn’t cried in anger since he was a child, but the stress of what was to come, feeling as if his great-grandfather was taunting him, and the exhaustion of the past few weeks suddenly came crashing down on him. He swiped his forearm over his eyes and blinked rapidly, dispelling the tears before changing out of the Faero Ursi uniform. The young man followed Bruta outside, where Mordyre and two other horses he didn’t recognize were waiting. He looked to Rozaelle, who nodded to him, and swung his legs up and over into the saddle. He leaned over, untying his horse’s reigns as the two girls mounted their own horses.

  “What’s wrong with your horse?” Rozaelle asked, frowning at Mordyre.

  “He’s a Beltor,” Croenin responded, shrugging. He saw Rozaelle’s confusion and continued. “It’s an Aes Sidhe breed of horse. They’re carnivorous.”

  He looked at the girls’ horses, realizing for the first time just how different Mordyre looked from other horses. He had grown used to the horse’s strange appearance, and it slowly dawned on him just how terrifying the Beltor horse looked. Not only was he larger, but his snout was wider, with a more prominent jaw and incisors that protruded past his top lip. His chest was much less barrel-shaped than the other, fatter horses, and he looked sleeker overall, with two-toed hooves rather than the one-toed hooves of normal horses. His eyes, too, were more forward-facing than the other horses’, pitch black that stared ominously at all he saw. Croenin shrugged.

  “He tries to bite sometimes, but beyond that he behaves like any other horse.”

  The girls watched, horrified, as Mordyre lowered his head and snatched at a field mouse running past, tossing it up into the air with his front teeth so it fell into his gaping maw.

  Croenin coughed into his fist, shrugging once more. “And he does that, sometimes too.”

  Without another word, the girls kicked their horses, setting off. Croenin followed behind on his own, smiling to himself at their reactions to his strange, Aes Sidhe steed. After being blindsided by so much information from the Maelstris Nequitum about his family, it felt good being the one to surprise and shock. Now, if only he could surprise his great-grandfather. The man obviously knew much more about what was coming than Croenin had been told. Even Ayne seemed to doubt that the prophecy had to happen, and he wondered if there was a way to circumvent it, to prevent the return of the Aes Sidhe without dying. Ayne, after all could make things that she wanted to happen. Why couldn’t he? She had said they were evenly matched, and he wondered for the umpteenth time if that meant they might have the same abilities. How would I even test that? He wondered. He looked around, seeing nothing but fields and moor. Focusing his intention, much like he had the first time he saw beyond himself, he began to whisper.

  “In a short while, we’ll come upon a tree struck by lightning.”

  That seemed a good sign that he could shape his environment. It wasn’t something that was seen every day, so it most likely wouldn’t be a coincidence. As they rode he remained alert, hoping to see his damaged tree, but nothing happened. There were no trees as they road over the flat land, and he soon grew bored with nothing to see.

  “How long until we get there?” He called, and Bruta glanced back.

  “It should take three days riding to get to the castle,” she responded. “but we’ll leave the horses when we’re one day off so not as to arouse suspicion.”

  Croenin sighed. He hated riding long distances in a hard saddle, but steeled himself for the long ride. The days passed quickly, and as they came to a thicket of trees on the third day, he and the girls dismounted, tying the horses in the trees.

  “Captio will come with some of the others, and they’ll care for the horses.” Bruta explained as Croenin hoisted a bag of provisions over his shoulder.

  “From here it should be a day and a half of walking,” Rozaelle said, coming up behind them.

  Croenin nodded, and they began to trudge through the thicket of trees and over flat moorland once again. It was a monotonous walk, much like the ride before it, with nothing around them but grass and wildflowers. Croenin’s feet began to hurt after hours of walking, and they stopped when the sun was setting to eat and rest, Croenin wary of how exposed they were.

  “Should we worry, being out here?” he asked. He could see all around him for miles. “There’s nothing to hide us.”

  “There’s few large animals out here, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Bruta said.

  “And even fewer people,” Rozaelle added, flopping down into a bed of heather.

  “If you say so,” Croenin responded, lying down a short way off from the girls and falling into a restless sleep.

  They set off once more at dawn, and they saw a large, white spot on the horizon a few hours after walking. As they drew closer, Croenin was awed by the immensity and architecture of the castle that rose before them. Unlike the Aes Sidhe who built castle of Toque Staetym into a large, heavy fortress, those in Rassement built a delicate palace of opal, its turrets spiraling up into the sky like the tips of conch shells, no doubt inspired by the shells on the beach behind it. Croenin and the girls stared up in awe at the elegant, swirling towers, and as they drew closer they saw the translucent moonstone gat
es, rising from the ground like icicles, that surrounded the palace. It was the most beautiful sight Croenin had ever witnessed, and he stood, along with the girls, mouth agape in front of the gates.

  “I’d heard the palace was beautiful,” Rozaelle said in a soft voice, “but I didn’t expect this.

  “Let’s pick our jaws up from the ground, you two,” Bruta said grimly. “We aren’t here to gawk. We’re here to work.”

  Croenin frowned. “Work?” he whispered, and then he understood.

  They were to be three young persons in search of work, no doubt having heard of the king and his brother who set themselves up in this marvelous palace. That would be how they got past the gates. As if on cue, two guards walking past spotted them.

  “You three!” One called, approaching the small traveling party. “What are you doing hanging around the gates?”

  “I’m sorry sir!” Bruta spoke up, feigning a higher, more innocent voice. “We were hoping to find work here. My cousins and I have traveled a long way, and we were told that the king here is in need of more servants.”

  The guard looked dubious, but the other clasped his shoulder and nodded. Croenin was confused. The brother that had reported from this castle had said that Eudys was using his crown to control everyone. Just like Gallys is what Captio had said, he thought. Yet, these guards weren’t glassy-eyed and were thinking for themselves. He hid his confusion as the guards opened the gates, ushering them in.

  “Where did you come from?” The first guard asked.

  “Terr Ferrme in the north,” Rozaelle rattled off.

  Croenin frowned, then. It seemed the girls had been given more information about this plan than he had. He wondered if he was being kept in the dark on purpose.

  “Ah, they were afflicted with drought, weren’t they?” The second guard asked them.

  Bruta and Rozaelle nodded, and Croenin quickly followed suit.

  “Bad luck,” the guard said, leading them through the large, mother-of-pearl double doors that served as the entrance to the castle. “You’ll be wanting to send pay back to your families, no doubt?”

  Again, the group nodded. Croenin held his breath. He feared they may be walking into another ambush, much like he and the Faero Ursi had at Gallys’ castle, but, as he and the girls were directed to the head of the household, a large, plump woman wearing a too-tight burgundy gown, his fears abated.

  The hefty woman smiled primly at the group, taking in their rough, simple clothes. “I don’t have much time for introductions, I’m afraid. I am Jehayne. I ensure that this palace runs smoothly. You three look strong and sturdy, and luckily for you I prefer those from the village over the city. I find you lot already know how to work. But your stay here won’t be long if you don’t work hard. We’ll try you out for a few weeks, and if we find your work ethic adequate, you stay.” She paused, crossing her arms. “This is doubtful, though I am required to ask. Do any of you know how to write?”

  The three looked at each other, before Croenin spoke up timidly, unsure of whether he should divulge the fact that he could. Jehayne seemed pleasantly surprised when he said he could.

  “I shall give you your position in a moment, then, once you prove the skill. You two girls will head down with me in a moment to the laundry, where the head laundress needs as much help as she can get.” Jehayne sighed, before walking them through their daily schedules. “Breakfast at dawn, and then to your stations. The laundress will tell you more, and you,” she pointed at Croenin, “will get much more direction from the king’s brother, who you’ll meet soon.”

  Though worried about being separated from the girls, Croenin was curious to see what his post would be. His curiosity was soon satisfied as he was led away from Rozaelle and Bruta and up to a small room whose shelves were lined with books, much like the ones Old Haega had. Croenin looked around him in awe. He had never seen so many books, and he knew how valuable such a collection must be now that he had learned to write. He imagined the labor that must have gone into creating so many books. His own hand tired after copying just a few sheets of parchment. He couldn’t imagine copying an entire book. He was so lost in ogling the collection that he didn’t hear the footsteps behind him as a man entered the room.

  The man was tall, towering over most men, his long, curling hair and beard, having long gone completely grey, fanning out from his head and face like a lion’s mane and contrasting with his tan skin. His keen, green eyes watched Croenin carefully, twinkling with delight at the young man’s awe at his collection of manuscripts as he played with a moonstone pendant before tucking it under his dark, velvet tunic. He cleared his throat, smiling as Croenin turned abruptly, startled by his presence.

  “I see you’re appreciating my books,” he said, voice deep and booming in the small space.

  “Yes!” Croenin gushed, unable to help himself. “I’ve never seen so many in one place!”

  Lothaire laughed. Few in the castle had much use for knowledge, more concerned with the baubles and instruments the Aes Sidhe had left behind than their books. Lothaire had spent countless hours deciphering the thin, spidery script the advanced beings had used. What had interested him most, though, were the books he had found locked away, written in decryti by an obviously human hand. These were in terrible shape, parchment eaten by worms in places and leather covers hanging off their bindings. They shouldn’t have existed, he knew, if the history he had come to know of the human world was correct. He thought back to his own father, a bard who had memorized long stanzas of the “Haemne d’Oane” the oral history of man that he had learned from his father, who learned from his father before him, and so on. His father had added the stanzas of the war and the beginning of the Age of Oryn, but what came before, the very beginning, always made him feel some shame for his race, the poor weak race of man, that knew nothing until they saw and copied the Aes Sidhe in the building of tools.

  Instead, it seemed, the Aes Sidhe had come and interrupted a civilization, destroying all human knowledge and razing cities and monuments to build their own on top, erasing human history and accomplishments. Though Croenin didn’t know it, some of what he was looking at was part of Lothaire’s personal project, new books, hidden in plain sight, copied and compiled from the old human books by Lothaire. They contained snatches of true human history, from a time before the Aes Sidhe, before humans found themselves stunted by endless centuries of terror and fighting for their survival. With the right guidance, Lothaire believed, mankind could reach that state of development once again. As Croenin, unable to hide his awe at the collection, stood before him, Lothaire saw in him a protegee, someone who would appreciate the hidden knowledge of the human and Aes Sidhe books alike. For now, though, Lothaire needed to know that he could trust the young man.

  Croenin coughed into his hand, trying to draw the large, lion-like man before him back out of his thoughts. He felt awkward, both because he felt naked at having his shock and awe at the collection of books laid bare for the large man and because of the long moment of silence that now lay between them. He watched as Lothaire’s clouded eyes became clear once more, focusing on his slender form.

  “You can read and write, yes? You must be able to if Jehayne sent you here. Where did you learn to do so?”

  Croenin nodded. “My father taught me,” he lied. “Just before his death.”

  Lothaire nodded slowly, striding over to one of the bookshelves and pulling down a manuscript he had copied recently. Turning to an innocuous page of poetry, he handed the heavy tome to Croenin. “Read the first 4 lines of this for me.”

  Croenin took the book from him and read.

  “With fear and with self-hatred, with little hope,

  With toil and with a cry of praise,

  I cry out to the heavens, letting my voice echo

  For all around to hear my despair.”

  “Good,” Lothaire mused, impressed by Croenin’s steady and clear interpretation of the words.

  “What was that?” Croenin
asked. The snatch of poetry was quite different than the messages and reports he had read under Captio. “I’ve never read anything like it.”

  “That, young man, is poetry,” Lothaire said proudly.

  “Poetry? What is it used for?”

  “To move the soul, to tell a story, to relay a history in a manner that is pleasing to the ear.” Lothaire shrugged. “To please. Many have used it to remember our history, using the pattern of the flow of words to aid in memorizing what occurred before the Age of Oyrn. Here, I’ve written it down. What you read there was a bit of a story my father passed down to me of a soldier whose entire family had been killed by the Aes Sidhe.”

  Croenin was astounded. He had never heard the history of mankind, just stories that provided snatches of the past and of course legends that came from human interactions with the Aes Sidhe. He looked around him once more, feeling a deep longing for knowing what the books surrounding him contained. You’re not here to learn, the voice in the back of his head interrupted his thoughts. You’re here to find Ayne and fulfill the prophecy. That was true. His goal was to infiltrate Eudys and Lothaire’s household and find his sister, not sit pouring over the heavy tomes that filled the shelves around him. He sighed inwardly, swallowing his curiosity and turning to Lothaire, who had placed the book of poems on the small almond-wood desk at the center of the room and pulled out a sheet of parchment and an engraver from one of the desk’s many drawers.