Prophecy's Ruin bw-1

by Sam Bowring

  •

  Elessa stumbled over a root, her vision blurring out of focus. Her soaked dress clung to her like a second layer of skin, her body racked by an involuntary shivering that tore at her wound. The tips of her fingers were numb and she had to fight just to keep the baby in her grasp.

  ‘Please,’ she choked. ‘Please be close …’

  The baby squirmed and cried out. With the storm subsided, the sound rang crystal clear.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t start that.’

  The baby’s cries echoed through the trees like a beacon. Elessa stumbled again and this time she did fall, her arms clasped protectively around the boy. She hit the ground with a grunt.

  They were partway up a rise littered with pale rocks and topped by a great tree. She managed to crawl up the slope using one hand, holding the babe against her with the other, and propped her back against the tree trunk.

  As she drifted out of consciousness, the image of a shining heart flower filled her mind.

  •

  Tyrellan slipped through the trees, following the sound of the crying child, sending glances at the sky. There were only a couple of hours of darkness left, so he needed to be quick if he was to find safe cover before daybreak. On the way north Fazel had hidden their true natures with illusion. Now they would have to travel by night, or at least heavily disguised, lest they be hunted by every northerner who spied them. Hopefully Battu’s false invasion was keeping Kainordan eyes focused on Holdwith, as they had planned. Soldiers and mages would be called away from their posts, giving them fewer to avoid on the journey home.

  He spied the girl, lying slumped against a tree at the top of a rise. She was dead or dying, for her eyes were closed and the child had slid from her grasp almost completely. Tyrellan produced a dagger and padded silently towards her. He could hit her, dead or not, from this distance and put an end to all doubt. Raising the dagger, he noticed her hand twitching. A wavering thread of light crept from her palm to entwine her fingers. Her eyes half-opened, watching him from beneath tangles of hair. For a moment neither moved nor spoke. Then:

  ‘Go away,’ said Elessa.

  ‘You’re dying,’ Tyrellan observed.

  ‘If you come any closer, I’ll outlive you by a few moments yet.’

  Tyrellan slid the dagger back into his belt. ‘You have no magic left in you tonight, Varenkai,’ he said. ‘I know enough of the stuff to see that. One more spell will finish you.’

  ‘As you say,’ murmured Elessa, ‘I’m dying. So it hardly matters, does it?’ The light around her fingers pulsed and Tyrellan eyed it warily. Elessa’s eyes glazed over and she shifted her head slightly. ‘Mages are almost here,’ she whispered. ‘And soldiers. Can you hear them?’

  Tyrellan could. Someone was hurrying through the woods, not far off.

  ‘A stalemate then?’ he said. ‘Personally I’d try to kill me, if all it cost you was a few extra moments of pain. I’m Battu’s First Slave, someone dangerous to your people, who may return to cause further grief.’ Tyrellan waited, unblinking, as the sounds of approach drew nearer. ‘And revenge would be yours,’ he added, ‘since you have me to thank for that wound.’ He bared his fangs at her.

  Elessa’s dimming eyes grew angry and the light at her fingertips flared. Tyrellan tensed, ready to spring away – but a moment later the mage relaxed.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said softly. ‘You escaped me once before, and I am weaker this time. Go away, goading little goblin. Leave me in peace.’

  Shouts echoed through the trees.

  Elessa smiled wanly. ‘You have no time.’

  Tyrellan scowled. He was so close, yet he dared not tread any closer. If only he could have waited out her death – but she was right. His time was up. He edged away, and as he went she closed her eyes – but the light didn’t stop playing through her fingers.

  ‘May Assedrynn take you for his slut,’ he snarled. Then he turned and fled.

  •

  Death’s embrace tightened, and memories floated by. Her childhood, growing up in Open Halls, her father when he was home from travelling, Fahren’s lessons …and one particular moment bobbed to the surface.

  She had been fourteen.

  A warm breeze was blowing into the study. Fahren stood at the window with a brittleleaf roll, brown smoke oozing about him. The breeze ruffled his long blond hair as he gazed over the land with crystal blue eyes.

  Elessa sat cross-legged on the floor with a book in her lap. It was a strange book, full of odd spells that made no sense. Fahren never objected when she pulled it off the shelf, but he never suggested her reading it either. She liked it for its colourful pictures. She looked at one now: in a gnarled chair slumped an ancient woman whose bony fingers clutched the armrests. Standing behind the chair was a warrior in golden armour, his head covered by a spiked helmet, and behind him was the sun. From the woman’s breast came a glowing stream, and where it ended was a large butterfly, patterned so beautifully that she’d remembered it ever after.

  Underneath the picture were spidery words: The Legacy Spell.

  ‘Ah, my curious one,’ said Fahren, looking over her shoulder. ‘That is not a spell that need concern you for some years, I pray.’

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, fascinated, resting her fingers on the people in the picture. ‘Who are they?’

  Fahren sank onto the rug beside her, his robe spilling around him in a blue and gold puddle. ‘The old woman is a light mage, and she’s dying. See? The Sun God Arkus stands behind her in both his classic forms: a mighty warrior, the defeater of darkness, and as the sun itself – the greatest source of light. He’s reclaiming her life force to take it to his Well, as he does with all creatures of light when they die. But look – see the stream of energy ending in this butterfly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The mage is casting a legacy spell. As her life force leaves her body she diverts part of it, something she can only do as it’s draining out of her. That part is cut off from the rest and moves on, becoming her legacy – something she leaves in the world as she passes. It is tied to the object or place on which it’s cast, never moving far from it. In this case she has shaped it into a butterfly, though the form is up to the individual. It only takes a small amount of life force to create, not enough to mar her return to Arkus …but it is permanent.’

  ‘Permanent?’

  ‘Yes. Once left behind, it cannot be destroyed, or spelled away.’

  ‘Why?’

  Fahren smiled warmly. ‘A difficult thing to describe, my girl. Maybe when you’re older.’

  She pouted. ‘I’m old enough now!’

  Fahren chuckled.

  ‘Our souls, Elessa, return to Arkus’s Well when we die. The legacy spell is a way to leave part of ourselves behind in the world – cut off, then, from the light forever. It becomes something else: neither light nor shadow, but energy without denomination. And neither light nor shadow has the ability to affect it any more, because it exists outside their rules.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Elessa. She thought a moment and Fahren let her. Then, ‘So it’s an invincible magic?’

  ‘It is, I suppose,’ said Fahren. ‘But, as I said, it can only be left behind in small amounts. That, also, I do not understand. Perhaps it is because the gods will always reclaim as much as they can of their creatures’ spirits, or simply that one’s life force does not divide readily. I don’t know.’

  Elessa looked at the picture again.

  ‘It’s a very beautiful butterfly,’ she said.

  •

  Tyrellan paused as a voice sounded in his head.

  Hello, First Slave.

  It was the mage. She’d opened a mental connection with him for some reason.

  Aren’t you dead yet? he asked, moving on, a dark shape slipping between the trees.

  In a moment. I just thought I’d let you know – I plan to have my revenge after all.

  Oh yes?

  Yes. I’m giving you an early bir
thday present.

  Tyrellan choked, his claws going to his throat. He felt as if he’d swallowed something.

  What have you done?

  Why, little goblin, laughed the voice in his head, I’ve made you the cocoon. I thought you might like to know what it feels like to create something beautiful.

  WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

  You have to wait until your birthday to open it. She chuckled softly and the connection was gone.

  Tyrellan felt his throat again, but whatever was there had slipped downwards. He could feel something in the pit of his stomach – something foreign and wrong. Something magic.

  For the first time in a long time, Tyrellan felt very uneasy.

  •

  Through the trees they ran, two mages streaking ahead of the soldiers who followed, fleet on magic-aided feet. They’d felt surges of power in the forest but a short time ago and knew a battle had taken place. They did not know the outcome, but they heard a child crying. Was it with allies or enemies? With reckless haste they went, anxious and uncertain, until they came to a rise in the forest floor.

  Elessa lay against the tree, her white dress stained with blood and dirt, torn in many places. Her hair fell forward over her slumped head, her face was downturned towards her lap, where the source of the sound that had spurred them on continued to wail at the sky. A baby, with blue hair.

  With great reverence and respect, they lifted him from the dead woman’s arms.

  •

  Dawn approached and, a league south of Whisperwood, Rhobi hid inside a cluster of bushes. The thick leaves and low earth were the best protection from sight he had come across since leaving the forest. Truth be told, he wasn’t much of a navigator. With the burden of the child, and the sky lightening in the north, he hadn’t dared to press on further.

  He sat against a low-lying branch that ran parallel to the ground, twirling a dagger as he stared at the child. The baby, for his part, didn’t pay Rhobi any attention. He simply lay there, staring up at nothing.

  Rhobi didn’t know much about babies, and certainly not Varenkai babies. The only thing he’d thought to do was build a fire, which he now wished he hadn’t placed right in the centre of the available space. As a source of warmth and light, it offended his sensibilities.

  ‘You’ll have to get used to the damp and cool soon enough, little Varenkai,’ he sneered at the child.

  That, however, was a concern for the Shadowdreamer, and in the meantime the last thing Rhobi needed was for the stupid creature to get sick and die on the way home. He hadn’t reached his current rank by taking chances.

  He heard a twig crack and his head snapped towards it. Just a bird. If it had been Tyrellan, Rhobi mused, he probably wouldn’t have heard a thing.

  Ah, Tyrellan, he thought. Your guts will hit the ground before you do. How the glory will be mine when I return the sole survivor of this mission, bringing the Shadowdreamer his treasured prize. I don’t see how he could refuse to make me First Slave.

  When would he kill Tyrellan? His finger stroked his dagger absently, almost obscenely. Part of him knew it would be better to wait until they were almost over the border. Whatever else Rhobi thought of Tyrellan, his commander was a survivor, and united they stood a better chance of returning home. He also knew that Tyrellan might kill him , especially if he suspected the hatred that brewed in Rhobi like fermenting poison, as he surely must by now. If Tyrellan was in any way suspicious, he’d think nothing of murder to quell his doubts. Also, Rhobi didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to control himself. Tyrellan might do something to push him over the edge, and the idea of a head-to-head confrontation made him greatly afraid. There were reasons why the First Slave had lived so long with his title. There were reasons why hardly a creature living in Fenvarrow didn’t treat him with fearful deference.

  So, Rhobi was decided. He would find the first opportunity after Tyrellan rejoined him, something very low risk. A dagger while he slept or walked ahead. No drawn-out death. Although Rhobi lusted for it, he’d leave nothing to chance. As he thought about it, he knew he was right. Tyrellan wouldn’t leave anything to chance either, would he?

  No, he would not.

  A dagger wheeled out of the bushes and sank into the side of Rhobi’s neck. He gasped wetly as Tyrellan stepped from the foliage, watching him impassively. The First Slave bent down in front of his soldier, batted Rhobi’s bloodied hands away from the wound and wrenched the weapon free. Rhobi stared back with hateful eyes, a black stream pumping from his neck. He tried to speak, but the blood filling his mouth made for a burbled mockery of words.

  Tyrellan arched a hairless eyebrow. ‘Yes?’

  Rhobi fumbled for one of his own daggers with shaking hands.

  ‘This?’ asked Tyrellan, reaching to draw a dagger for him, then plunging it through the other side of his neck. He withdrew his hands and rested them on his knees.

  ‘Next time,’ he said, ‘serve the darkness half so well as you serve yourself and you may not return to it so quickly.’

  Rhobi gurgled and died.

  •

  Tyrellan wiped the daggers on his tunic, taking Rhobi’s to replace the one he’d flung into Elessa. He scowled at the fire. Smoke would be seen for leagues in these flat grasslands, and they were still close to Whisperwood. He set about piling earth on the flames, sending glances towards the baby boy. Who was watching him.

  It was fortunate that the Halls wouldn’t know, for a while at least, that this second child existed. Without witnesses to tell them otherwise, they’d assume that their blue-haired boy was the only one. Nevertheless, Tyrellan was bothered. He had a good working knowledge of magic, despite not being able to wield it, but he had no idea why there were two boys. It was a puzzle, he decided, for the Shadowdreamer. He simply had to deliver the boy he did possess.

  The fire was out. Tyrellan understood why Rhobi had lit it, but his subordinate was far too limited in his thinking. While he found such physical contact deeply offensive, Tyrellan knew that the best way to keep the boy warm without alerting others to their presence was to huddle against him while they slept. Not that Tyrellan ever really slept.

  With nothing to do save wait for the cover of night, he turned his attention to the child. The boy lay still, but strangely alert. His eyes followed as Tyrellan crouched over him, brown pupils set in the clearest whites the goblin had ever seen. His blue hair was a limp mess of strands atop his head, and his skin was almost ivory. Tyrellan reached down to poke him in a stomach devoid of the usual chubby fat. Suddenly the boy smiled and caught Tyrellan’s poking claw with a tiny hand. Tyrellan started.

  Many shadow creatures were pale in their looks. The Arabodedas, hard men of the south, had skin pale from generations spent in the absence of sunlight. This boy was even paler than they were, though his face seemed to hide a darkness behind it, like a mask. Tyrellan grew lost in admiration, even forgetting for a moment the disturbing sensations the cursed mage-bitch had left in his gut. It was a strange thing, that a creature born so far from Fenvarrow would have such a dark aura about it. It had troubled Tyrellan that his master sought a child who should, by rights, have been strong in the light. He’d assumed Battu intended to turn the child somehow into a creature of shadow. Now he had a feeling that this babe needed no such conversion.

  Tyrellan decided the boy was blessed, and thus his safeguarding was a grave honour and responsibility. He silently swore to watch over the boy always, protecting him as he grew to power.

  •

  In Whisperwood, at the base of a blackened tree, ashes stirred as if there was a breeze. Floating low across the ground, they began to collect around pieces of scorched bone.

  Six

  Through Dead Eyes

  Borgordus was the northernmost of the five states of Kainordas. A fertile region of hill, farm and wood, it was said that here the sun passed closest to the land, as it rose from behind the Morningbridge Peaks. It was also here that the Thrones kept their stronghold, the Open H
alls.

  The Halls were built on a green plateau above the capital city, Kadass. Both Halls and Kadass were enclosed by stone walls: two great circles connected by a corridor that provided protected passage in a time of war – though no enemy army had ever penetrated that far. The Halls themselves were a collection of white buildings great and small, but all constructed without roofs. In buildings over a storey high, many of the outside walls were missing as well. These skeleton structures were open to air and light and the lazy breezes that rolled in from the Shallow Sea. An ancient enchantment diverted rain from falling into these roofless dwellings, and a form of subtle magnetism kept anyone from falling from high open places or exposed stairwells. The only way to fall was to be pushed, or to leap deliberately. The Halls were quiet too, for the enchantment stopped sound floating freely out of rooms for all to hear, and blurred the vision of anyone who tried to peer directly into another’s home. The High Mage Fahren called the enchantment the ‘Essence of Walls’.

  To the west stood the Open Castle, a huge block some thirty levels high. It wasn’t a beautiful building by any means, looking from a distance like a white brick riddled with holes. Inside, however, was plenty of colour and garish excess, and a bustling menagerie of brightly feathered courtiers and nobles. On the castle’s roof was the Sun Court and the great seat of the Thrones, Borgordusmae.

  To the south of the Halls stood the barracks, surrounded by training fields for soldiers. In the east, student mages were schooled at the Academy of the Sun. Overlooking it was the Open Tower, which was missing so many of its outer walls it looked as if it should topple. The Tower was home to many mages, including the High Mage Fahren, whose chambers lay at the very top, the highest point of the Halls. It was here that Fahren tossed and turned, water squeezing from between clenched eyes. He jerked awake, forehead slick with sweat. Outside, the sky was lightening.