Prophecy's Ruin bw-1

by Sam Bowring

  ‘Everything,’ he said, then looked at her. ‘My father, maybe. Does he love me?’

  Heron faltered. It wasn’t the first question she’d expected. ‘I suppose so,’ she said.

  ‘But he hasn’t seen me since I was born,’ said Losara.

  ‘That doesn’t matter. There is a special bond amongst families.’

  ‘Should I love him, then?’ said Losara. ‘I don’t know him. He went to the Open Halls to look for the other part of me. Why doesn’t he like this part?’

  ‘My dear, I’m not sure he knows you even exist,’ said Heron.

  ‘Oh. But you said you supposed that he loved me. How could he if he doesn’t know about me?’

  ‘I …guess I meant he would if he did,’ said Heron lamely.

  ‘Sons are meant to be with their fathers,’ said Losara. ‘But if he doesn’t know about me, maybe he’s all right. I suppose I don’t have to worry about him.’

  Heron faltered again. Losara didn’t have to worry about his father? He was asking these questions out of concern for the man, not for himself?

  ‘I would like to meet him though,’ Losara went on. ‘One day.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Heron meekly. ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘Nice,’ repeated Losara, as if testing out the word. There was a knock at the door. ‘Tyrellan,’ he said. He always seemed to know who was at the door. As Tyrellan entered, Losara slid off the bed. ‘Hello, Tyrellan.’

  ‘Hello, young master,’ said Tyrellan stiffly.

  ‘Hello, Tyrellan’s butterfly,’ said Losara.

  Tyrellan gritted his teeth. ‘Did Heron tell you about your birth?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Losara.

  ‘And you are …’ Tyrellan shifted his stance. ‘Do you feel …confused?’

  ‘Oh, no. Heron told it very well.’

  ‘But …about what you must do. What you will be. It is a large task. An important task.’

  ‘I guess that’s why Heron is teaching me as much as she can,’ said Losara. ‘Everything makes more sense now.’

  ‘I see,’ said Tyrellan, his eyes shining strangely.

  He glanced at Heron, and Heron couldn’t help it – she shrugged. Losara reached out to tug Tyrellan on his trousers, not letting go when Tyrellan glanced down at his little hand.

  ‘Yes?’ said the goblin.

  ‘Do you have a father?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘I killed him,’ said Tyrellan, then blinked.

  Heron didn’t think he would have admitted that had he thought about it, but the boy seemed to bring out an honesty in the First Slave not normally seen. Maybe it was his innocent directness.

  ‘Why?’ asked Losara.

  ‘He didn’t want me to join the military,’ said Tyrellan. ‘He was a farmer.’ The word twisted his lips. ‘He wished me to stay on the farm, sought to stop me leaving and serving the shadow.’

  ‘So you left your father to be what you needed to be?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I guess we’re the same,’ said Losara, giving him a rare smile.

  Tyrellan’s snarl dropped instantly from his face; Heron had never seen him look so openly surprised. He covered it quickly, glaring at her with a hard look that dared her to remember.

  ‘I have matters to attend to,’ he said. ‘Losara …Heron.’ With that he turned and marched from the room.

  ‘Well,’ said Losara, ‘it seems there are all kinds of fathers and sons.’

  Part Two

  The Growing Powers

  —

  I am told that the time during which I grew up was uncharacteristically peaceful. Kainordas and Fenvarrow each knew that the other had a blue-haired boy, and each waited for theirs to turn into whatever it was he was destined to. In the meantime, strength was to be conserved.

  The main difference was that Fahren decided to keep my presence a secret, giving the folk of Kainordas much less to hope for. They knew that Fenvarrow possessed a child of power, and believed it was the only child, which made them afraid the war was already lost. I’ll always consider it a mistake that Fahren allowed such a dour mood to permeate, whatever his reasoning might have been. Although I shouldn’t complain – it meant that when I was finally revealed, the people were all the happier to see me, all the more loyal to my cause. But I get ahead of myself.

  As I grew, I began to feel some of the confusion that comes, you’ll find, when your immortal soul has been torn in two. It wasn’t pronounced yet, just beginning, gnawing away at my edges like a rat at a frozen corpse.

  As if one does not have sufficient concerns merely from being eighteen years old.

  Thirteen

  Castle Captives

  The blue hair that fell freely to his shoulders contrasted sharply with his porcelain skin, as did his eyebrows and eyelashes. He was slim of build, medium height, with a face that retained a soft boyishness. He wore a simple black robe, and under the fingernails of his smooth hands were trapped specks of shadow, which occasionally slipped free to zip back into whatever darkness was closest. He moved with a quiet grace, his bare footfalls making no noise on the stone, seeming to glide, and favouring areas where the shadows were deepest.

  It was a long journey from the top of Skygrip to the bottom. The castle was almost immense enough to be considered a city in its own right. Here and there magical portal doors shortened the distance between points, but Losara avoided them to enjoy the walk instead. There were corridors so narrow that only one man could walk them at a time, which turned into wide pathways lined with carvings before constricting again. Passages could be straight, bent, or twisted like the insides of a writhing snake. In some places light was non-existent, in others nuggets of ice glowed softly in recesses along the walls, and in others windows or skylights let in the cold grey day. Sometimes the air blew sharp and fresh, sometimes old and stagnant. Walls were bumpy or smooth, crumbly or hard. There was no uniformity to any of it.

  At one point he stopped to listen to two female Grey Goblins, who didn’t notice his wafting presence. They intrigued him with their chatter, these simple creatures whose greatest concern was keeping abreast of washroom gossip.

  Eventually he reached Skygrip’s main entrance cavern. Skirting the edges of the circular chamber beneath the gaze of towering statues, he stopped inside the open double doors. Outside in the morning mist, figures moved about the castle fortifications. None came near the entrance unless they had to. Even the guards posted there tended to keep well forward of the doors. Losara could see them down the path: four Black Goblins who carried horns in case they needed to sound the alarm. Their breath steamed in the cold air, exaggerated by brittleleaf smoke.

  Losara sank down into the archway. From somewhere came the smell of baking bread, which made him realise he was hungry. He produced a strip of meat from his robe, unwrapping the cloth that bound it. He chewed slowly, sucking the juices through his teeth. Heron had told him that in Kainordas it was common practice to cook meat. He’d enjoyed cooked meat on occasion, mostly for its ability to soak up other flavours, but he wondered why anyone would ritually burn all the blood and nutrients away. Those were the things that connected you most with what you ate, that made you realise it was flesh, that struck a primal chord.

  ‘Me wonders who dares sit there eating such treats in front of Grimra.’

  Losara tore a piece from the meat and tossed it up into the archway. The air around it thickened, there was an indistinct flash of white, and the meat disappeared. Losara continued to munch on the remaining piece.

  ‘Not even a full bite for Grimra,’ came the voice. It floated, sometimes high in the arch, sometimes next to Losara’s ear, dry and hollow. ‘Not big enough to get stuck in his teeth.’

  ‘Haven’t they fed you yet?’ asked Losara.

  ‘Theys be late,’ said the voice. ‘Or else Grimra is forgotten. If this be so, perhaps he takes a guard from up the path. Theys thinking Grimra cannot reach them way on u
p the path.’ The air swirled and there was another flash of white. ‘Theys be wrong.’

  ‘I wouldn’t take any more guards, hungry ghost,’ said Losara. ‘Tyrellan won’t approve.’

  At Tyrellan’s name Grimra hissed, and for a moment Losara saw monstrous claws shining in the light. ‘Perhaps Grimra eats Tyrellan then, next time he comes this way.’

  ‘Only if you wish your amulet smashed,’ said Losara.

  This sent Grimra into a fury, churning the air so it rustled Losara’s hair. Losara waited patiently as the Golgoleth Ghost worked off his anger. The entrance guards glanced back at the commotion, but quickly looked away again. Losara wondered if it was the angry ghost who made them uneasy, or him.

  The air calmed, and some moments passed in silence. ‘Grimra be glad Losara visits today,’ said the ghost eventually.

  Losara smiled. ‘Why is that?’

  The ghost didn’t respond right away. It seemed to Losara that he was thinking. ‘Grimra be glad whenever Losara visits,’ Grimra concluded.

  It had been three years before that Losara had first met this strange companion. Probably the ghost was his only real friend. As Battu’s protégé, he was feared by all and consequently friends were hard to come by. The fact that the first thing Grimra had offered to do upon meeting him was slice his head off and drink the blood from his neck like wine from a glass made him stand out from the crowd. The only other people who spoke to Losara were Heron, who was miserable, Tyrellan, who was busy, and of course Battu himself, with whom his relationship was confusing. One moment Battu would be patiently guiding him through some basic magic; the next Losara would be lying dazed on the other side of the room with Battu shouting about some instruction he’d failed to follow. Often Battu would appear kindly towards him, with a voice calm and deep, a steady hand upon his shoulder. Yet for all the apparent goodwill, Losara had never felt any real love from the man.

  The question was why ? Why did a man as powerful as Battu care what Losara thought? The question had first occurred to him when he was six, the same day Heron had told him of the events surrounding his birth. Shortly after that, Battu had summoned him to the throne room.

  •

  Battu had turned from the long window. ‘Ah, my boy,’ he’d said, his voice soft and carrying as if it wafted on the breeze. ‘Come stand by me.’

  Losara went.

  ‘Heron has told you about your birth?’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘Good, good. As your understanding increases, so must your education. Now, you know that I am called the Shadowdreamer, but do you know what that really means?’

  ‘Heron told me,’ said Losara.

  Battu did not seem to hear. ‘I rule the land, that much is simple, but a Shadowdreamer is more than just a ruler. I am the shadow’s servant in this world, its conduit of influence. Even now I can feel the shape of the land where the shadow falls. I’m connected to the Cloud, which comes from deep beneath us in the earth and makes its way up through the castle walls. It’s all around us, above and below. The power of Skygrip is mine to draw on, the Shadowdreamer’s right and privilege. Are you understanding me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Battu smiled. ‘Yes what?’

  ‘Master.’

  ‘Good boy. Now come. I will show you the Cloud.’

  Battu had led Losara to Skygrip’s roof, from which the stream of black and grey vapour curled slowly upwards. ‘The Breath of the Cloud,’ he announced. ‘A gateway, for those gifted enough to survive it.’

  ‘Where to, master?’ asked Losara.

  ‘A place where you can see the shadows of past, present and future. Like all shadows, these can be shifting or uncertain. Hence what we see are nothing more than dreams, yet the dreams of the whole world.’

  ‘Shadowdreams,’ said Losara.

  ‘Yes. With the Cloud running throughout Skygrip, there isn’t a night that shadowdreams don’t visit my sleep – but they are strongest here, between earth and sky. Would you like to see?’

  ‘Yes,’ Losara had whispered, fascinated. ‘Master,’ he added quickly.

  ‘Then come,’ said Battu, leading Losara to stand before the Breath.

  Losara had reached out to touch it, but Battu seized his hand. ‘Stupid boy! You do not have the skill to do this by yourself!’ Losara cried out at the Shadowdreamer’s grip and Battu relaxed it. ‘You must hold my hand as we go in,’ he said. ‘Don’t try this by yourself, until I tell you otherwise. Are you ready?’

  Losara nodded. Holding the boy’s pale little hand in his own, Battu led him into the Cloud.

  A fine sheet of moisture coated Losara instantly. He blinked, but couldn’t see. Darkness moved against his skin like slow wind. It didn’t occur to him to be afraid; instead, wonder filled him. So this was where the dreams came from. He’d always had them, as far back as he could remember in his short life. He’d always known them for what they were – reflections, half-truths, memories, possibilities, dim and half-remembered. How he’d known, exactly, did not seem to matter. Had someone told him, right at the beginning? He had an impression of whiskers and scales.

  From somewhere beside him came Battu’s voice. ‘Breathe it in, boy.’

  Losara breathed, and darkness suffused his body and mind. A moment later he could no longer feel his physical form, but seemed to float without a body. He spun, disoriented, but the presence of Battu hovered nearby, holding him steady against the tumbling eddies. Somewhere Losara heard a tumultuous noise, far away yet all around, there, but impossible to listen to.

  Do you hear that? came Battu’s thought.

  Yes.

  It’s the sound of the world from beginning to end. Don’t listen too hard or you will be lost. Just drift.

  A heady ecstasy coursed through Losara. Images rose out of the void to catch him, like bubbles. He shadowdreamed …

  …he’s older now, sailing alone across black waters. Ahead is darkness like a great cave mouth swallowing the sea. He rows towards it, the splashing of his oars the only sound …

  …sharks are swimming side by side as they hurry after prey. One male leads, the biggest of the pack. A hunted serpent rounds on the male, flaring spiked frill and baring fangs. The male attacks, all snapping jaws and swiping tail, and soon the serpent is dead. The big male gorges himself on bands of its flesh while the other sharks circle uneasily. Their leader is strong, but he takes more than he needs, and he shares his mind with another …

  …an old mage with golden hair stands above a gravestone, incanting uneasily, performing a spell that makes him afraid …

  …a blond woman with pointed ears runs through a forest into a clearing. A man is there, tall and bare-chested, chopping wood with a huge axe. He drops the tool when he sees her and she runs happily into his arms. He swings her around, laughing …

  …the city of the Graka, high in the Bentemoth Mountains where the air is thin and the temperature freezing. Graka emerge from caves onto stone platforms, four of them carrying a casket between them, beating their wings to rise into the sky …

  …a little boy with black hair runs through dry mud streets. Behind him come three older boys, chasing him with sticks …

  …Battu, now the Shadowdreamer’s Apprentice, raises a hand and points. Three men begin screaming, and die painfully …

  …And then a scene of the present , of himself , of his other self …

  •

  Bel bounded down the Open Tower staircase three steps at a time. At six years old he was physically strong in a way that Losara had never been. His face was round and friendly with some slight freckling on his nose. His Sprite eyes were amber flecked with gold, sparkling infectiously. Losara had no such eyes, and circled closer with interest.

  Bel ran to a log house, away a bit off the path between the trees. Was that where he lived? There were two other houses close by, and a leather ball lay on the grass. ‘Hiza?’ called out Bel. ‘Vrymus! Are you not here, you lazy louts?’ He kicked the ball.

 
; He calls out to friends , thought Losara. Were there other families living in those houses? He pondered what it would be like to have friends his own age.

  Bel ran on, until he spied another boy, who was sitting beneath a bush tugging up grass. ‘Hello, Lyndal!’ he said, jogging up. ‘Having fun?’

  Lyndal, slightly younger, regarded Bel suspiciously. ‘No.’

  Bel kneeled and tore up a clump of grass. He considered his handiwork briefly, then sprinkled the tufts on Lyndal’s shoes. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘This isn’t fun. Have you seen Hiza or Vrymus?’

  ‘No,’ said Lyndal, brushing the grass off his feet.

  ‘Why are you so sour?’ said Bel. He leaned closer, staring intently into Lyndal’s eyes. Lyndal shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you go away? I’m busy.’

  Bel glanced at the severed grass, his fingers playing over it idly. Then he smacked Lyndal in the knee.

  ‘Ow! What was that for?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Bel said jovially, standing up. ‘Shouldn’t kill the grass, Lyndal! But I guess we didn’t all get the evil taken out of us when we were born.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Bel.

  Losara felt a moment of sickness. Bel did know about him, but thought that he was evil. Was that true? Had Losara been a canker best removed?

  Bel ran through scattered trees towards a high hedge. Children weren’t allowed on the barracks grounds without an adult, but Bel and his comrades sometimes came here to climb a gnarled tree that grew next to the hedge. As he reached it he heard the clang of practice blades from the other side. He swung himself into the tree, eager to see the fighting. About eight paces up he found a branch well hidden within the foliage, which held a good view of the training ground.

  A large man was advancing on a spotty youth, sixteen at most, batting his sword away while barking commands. Watching were a group of ten or so students. One of them, Losara noted with interest, was a Saurian. The creature stood man-height but had lizard-like features and watched the fight through double-lidded eyes. It was a Ryoshi Saurian, Losara knew from his lessons. Not as dangerous as a Syanti Saurian, the Ryoshi’s snake-like cousin.