Chasing the Prophecy

by Brandon Mull

“Why is that funny?” Jason asked.

  “My apologies, my young Beyonder. For how long have you inhabited our world?”

  “Several months, now. Less than a year.”

  “And already you’ve turned treasure seeker?”

  “I’m not a treasure hunter,” Jason said. “I need information.”

  The old man nodded. “Information that will lead you to Darian’s fabled treasure.”

  “No. I need information from Darian.”

  “My boy, surely you are aware that Darian must have died ages ago.”

  This was not news to Jason. Not long after hearing the prophecy, Farfalee had explained that Darian should have died well before even she was born. “Are we sure he’s dead?” Jason asked the guide. “Was it confirmed? Did anyone find a body?”

  The old man made a disappointed face. “Are you one of those?”

  “One of what?”

  “I thought we had seen the last of them.”

  “The last of who?”

  The guide considered Jason shrewdly. “How much do you know about the question you are asking?”

  “Not a lot. But I was told by a trusted source that Darian has information for me.”

  The guide narrowed his eyes. “How trusted is the source?”

  Jason glanced over at Farfalee, who was conversing with a short, plump woman. “Hey, Farfalee. How much can I tell him?”

  “Ask a guide to keep a conversation private and it will,” she replied. “Even so, do not divulge more than seems needful.”

  Jason turned back to the old guide. “Do you have a name?”

  “Bactrus.”

  “I’m Jason. Bactrus, will you keep everything I tell you private?”

  “Every patron has the right to privacy. I will protect that right, if you desire.”

  “I do. I was told to come here by an oracle.”

  Bactrus smiled patiently. “My boy, many profess the gift of prescience.”

  “This was the oracle of Mianamon. The head oracle. She died to get the prophecy she shared with us.”

  “Mianamon you say? A young sect of truth tellers, last I heard, but reputedly legitimate. Perhaps they have fallen into error in the intervening years. This library has sat dormant for centuries, you know.”

  “I know. I’m pretty sure the oracle was legit.”

  “Time will tell. What do you know of Darian? Have you other reasons for suspecting he survives?”

  “Just the word of the oracle.”

  “Allow me to furnish some general background. Like most individuals possessing abnormal skill with Edomic, Darian lived an extended lifetime. More extended than most wizards, in fact, which implies significant power. Thousands of years ago, toward the end of his career, already growing frail with age, Darian left his comfortable home in the city of Darvis Kur.”

  “The Drowned City,” Jason interjected.

  “You know something of our history,” Bactrus approved. “This was long before the incident with Pothan the Slow, but yes, I refer to the same Darvis Kur that now lies in the Sunken Lands. Darian left his comfortable home for a secret abode in the wilderness, where he planned to end his days.”

  “Secret abode?” Jason asked. “How secret?”

  “Most secret,” Bactrus emphasized. “The disappearance produced quite an uproar. You see, Darian was undisputedly the greatest seer Lyrian had known. Past, present, and future were open to him as to no other before or since. Fire aided his visions, earning him the secondary title of pyromancer. He had helped and guided the people of Lyrian for generations. He was old, but there were still years in him. In spite of that, he vanished abruptly and with little explanation, which spawned rumors for centuries.”

  “What rumors?” Jason asked.

  “Darian had many servants and disciples. Some claimed he had seen a vision of the place where he was supposed to die and that he had become obsessed with spending the remaining years of his life there. Others asserted he had been hoarding treasure over the years and wanted to die entombed with his riches. Some rumors even purported that Darian had found the secret to everlasting life and meant to prophesy in hiding until the end of time. These were some of the earliest and best documented assertions. Over the years there has been no shortage of additional speculation.”

  “So he might be alive?”

  The spectral guide chuckled. “It would be an unprecedented feat. No matter his ability, no matter how diligently he conserved his vigor, Darian should have perished millennia ago. But who is an old library guide to label anything impossible?”

  “Did anyone ever find his last home?”

  “You must understand, treasure hunters tried to uncover this secret for a thousand years before giving up. The last abode of Darian the Seer is the stuff of legend, a mirage that has been pursued by countless doomed expeditions. Respected oracles and seers have sought the final dwelling place of Darian, including several truth sayers he had personally trained, but their efforts yielded nothing. As with other such legends, the only claims of success over the years came from unreliable sources with little or no proof.”

  “Now I get why you laughed earlier,” Jason said.

  “I am glad you can empathize,” Bactrus said. “The hunt for the last abode of Darian the Pyromancer was abandoned as folly centuries before this library became dormant. I found it humorous that our first visitor in many long years came chasing such a far-fetched legend.”

  Jason sighed. “The idea of finding the last home of Darian the Seer has become a joke.”

  “It was a joke fifteen hundred years ago,” Bactrus said. “Now it has been so long that most have forgotten the idea was ever amusing.”

  Jason glanced over at Farfalee. “The seed people I’m with knew of Darian, but they didn’t seem to know how absurd the quest for his home is considered.”

  “Not surprising,” Bactrus said. “Compared to Darian, even the Amar Kabal are young. The quest you describe is a fool’s errand. The search for his final dwelling place has been long forgotten. Nevertheless, the name of Darian will endure forever. He truly was the greatest seer of all time.”

  “Great enough that if he knew he could live forever, he might have moved away from Darvis Kur before the city flooded?”

  Bactrus smiled. “An interesting observation.”

  “Everyone may have forgotten this was ever a joke, but the oracle I spoke with was the real deal. Her predictions brought me here from the Beyond. She couldn’t see his home, but she seemed certain we could discover the location here. We don’t need the location to find treasure. We need it to learn a secret that can save Lyrian. Can you help me?”

  “You have a flair for the dramatic,” Bactrus said. “And I have a soft spot for the enthusiastic pursuit of hopeless causes. Besides, my job is to serve as your guide. If this is the knowledge you seek, I shall do all in my power to aid you.”

  “Where do we start?” Jason asked. “We don’t have much time.”

  Bactrus furrowed his brow. “How long do you have?”

  “We’re not sure,” Jason said. “Do you know what’s going on across Lyrian right now?”

  “I know much of what is written here,” Bactrus said. “But I have learned nothing from outside since our last visitors arrived. The Maumet sealed us off from the rest of the world.”

  “What happened to the people here?” Jason wondered.

  “Most tried to flee the island. Far as we could tell, the Maumet took them all. Some tried to hide here. The Maumet has never entered the library. It has never tried. Eventually those hiding here either took their chances with the Maumet or starved.”

  Jason frowned. “What happened to the bodies? You know, the ones who starved?”

  “Apart from the Edomic spells preserving the walls, artifacts, and books here, there are a few simple constructs that assist with shelving and trash collection. These constructs deposited the corpses in a storage room.”

  “Gross,” Jason said.

  Bactrus shr
ugged. “Less unpleasant than some alternatives.”

  “Well, a lot has happened since then. You know about Maldor?”

  “The apprentice to Zokar.”

  “Zokar is dead. Eldrin destroyed all the major libraries except for this one. All the wizards are gone now, except for Maldor, who is setting himself up as emperor. His forces will follow us here anytime. If they find us here, they’ll kill us.”

  “An acceptable reason for haste,” the old guide allowed. “Let me briefly review what you can find here pertinent to your search. I have aided many with research on this topic, though as you might guess, I have had no serious inquiries in a great while. The texts you desire are ancient and almost uniformly amount to unconfirmed speculation. All I can offer are a thousand different unverified theories.”

  Jason rubbed his forehead. “The information has to be here.”

  “The correct answer may lie camouflaged among those many guesses. In your lifetime, without interference and with infinite funding, you could perhaps pursue forty or fifty of those leads. The search would take you all over the world.”

  Jason thought of Galloran attacking Felrook. “We only have one shot. Even going straight to the right destination might take too long. Maldor is about to crush us. Are you aware of all the possible sources we could check? Is there another guide who might know something you missed?

  Bactrus bristled at the question. “I am the chief guide for ancient history. And the last abode of Darian the Seer is an area of personal expertise. Any of the other guides who wished to be of service would refer you to me. I personally know the contents of every scroll, map, and volume relevant to your inquiry. You will find no other pertinent text in this library, unless you can read ancient Petruscan.”

  Jason turned to Farfalee. She did not look like she was getting favorable news from her guide. “Hey, Farfalee. Do you know ancient Petruscan?”

  She brightened. “Petruscan? Actually, yes. Petruscan is the most obscure language with which I am familiar.”

  CHAPTER 16

  THE PETRUSCAN SCROLL

  Did you catch that?” Jason asked, turning to Bactrus.

  “I heard her,” Bactrus said, bewildered. “That language is not just dead. The cemetery where it was buried has crumbled to dust. Many of our guides possess extensive linguistic expertise. None here knows Petruscan. There was no need. We had no Petruscan texts. Very few survived elsewhere. How does she know Petruscan?”

  Jason looked to Farfalee. “He wants to know where you learned Petruscan. Why won’t he just ask you?”

  “The guide will only directly address the patron holding the stone,” Farfalee said. “But he’ll hear my response just fine. In my youth I worked as a researcher for Eldrin in the Great Document Hall at Elboreth. He had assembled a sizable team to comb through ancient writings in pursuit of Edomic references. The task required several of us to master dead languages. To my knowledge, the only Petruscan texts in existence resided in the Great Document Hall, and a small team of experts on-site were the only people keeping the language alive. I was one of two among the Amar Kabal who learned to read it.”

  “Who was the other?” Jasher asked.

  “Kale, son of Hannock,” Farfalee replied. “His seed perished in the war with Zokar. After the war, when Eldrin razed the city he had founded and obliterated the Great Document Hall, I never expected to encounter Petruscan again.”

  Bactrus gave Jason a significant stare. “How is it that this remarkable woman came to be in your company?”

  “The oracle sent seven of us to find Darian the Seer.”

  Bactrus giggled excitedly. “This oracle told you the information was here and sent the seedwoman with you—probably the sole person in all of Lyrian who can read Petruscan.”

  “Right.” Jason struggled to restrain his excitement. It certainly appeared to be more than coincidence. Maybe the oracle had a more detailed plan than any of them had realized!

  “Allow me to relate a brief account,” Bactrus said. “High in the Sturloch Mountains northwest of here, there once stood a minor storehouse of ancient texts, most in unreadable languages. The modest collection was cared for by a small but long-standing order of loremasters. As the forces of Zokar began to plunder villages in the region, the loremasters sent many of the texts here to the Celestine Library for safekeeping. Those writings continue to reside here on loan, since the loremasters have never come to collect them. Presumably both the order and the storehouse perished. Among the loaned texts are the only Petruscan works currently within these walls—relatively recent acquisitions.”

  “Ask him why he suspects that any of those texts might be relevant to our search,” Farfalee said.

  Jason asked the question.

  “The name Darian is mentioned several times on one of the scrolls,” Bactrus said. “Petruscan characters were not used for his name, so it is the only discernible word on the document.”

  “Why would Darian be mentioned in a Petruscan scroll?” Farfalee wondered. “The Petrusian society was extinct long before he was born. By the time Darian lived, Petruscan was already a dead language.”

  “You heard her?” Jason asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What can you tell us?” Jason prompted.

  “I found the anomaly intriguing,” Bactrus said, “but without a Petruscan translator I had no means to investigate. Petrusians wrote on metal plates. At least those were the only writings that survived. The text in question is written on a scroll. These writings could have been transcribed from metal plates, perhaps by a relatively modern scribe who translated the name Darian into more familiar characters. The scroll might preserve an arcane Petruscan prophecy regarding Darian. Seers have been known to prophesy about one another.”

  “Or it could be a hoax,” Drake pointed out.

  “The scroll could certainly be fraudulent,” Bactrus told Jason. “Swindlers have created many false trails to the last abode of Darian the Seer. In bygone days, certain adventurers would pay handsomely for clues to unearthing the fabled treasure.”

  Farfalee raised a finger. “The scroll could be neither prophecy nor fraudulence. Some clever soul might have translated a sensitive message into Petruscan in order to conceal it.”

  “Is that possible?” Jason asked Bactrus.

  The old guide scrunched his face in thought. “Perhaps even probable.”

  “Can you guide us to the scroll?” Jason asked.

  “It would be my privilege,” Bactrus replied.

  Jason looked around. Drake, Jasher, and Farfalee had already returned their stones to the counter. Nia had exchanged hers to reanimate Tibrus.

  “Nia,” Jason scolded lightly, “what’s with the soldier? Didn’t Tibrus already tell us he isn’t big on history?”

  “I know,” Nia replied. “But he isn’t too proud to use common speech. My other guide insulted me. It looks like you four have this search for Darian well in hand, so I thought I might do some other research.”

  Jason glanced from Nia to the strapping warrior. “I’m not sure it could ever work out between you two.”

  “You deserve someone more substantial,” Drake added with a smirk.

  “At least tangible,” Jason said.

  Nia gave an exasperated sigh. “I really need his expertise. It’s only a coincidence that he’s attractive.”

  “Are you serious?” Jasher asked.

  “Absolutely,” Nia responded.

  “Very well,” Farfalee said. “The rest of us will accompany Jason and Bactrus.”

  Jason wagged a playful finger at Nia. “We had better not catch you in the poetry section.”

  Drake turned away, a hand over his mouth. Jasher developed a sudden cough.

  Nia put a hand on her hip and cocked her head. “Very mature, Jason. It’s important research. You’ll see.”

  “What research?” Jason pressed. “You could be more specific.”

  “You’re right. I could. But maybe I don’t think you deserve to
know.”

  “No hint?” Jason asked. “Not even a category?”

  “You’ll find out later,” Nia replied.

  “Tragic romances,” Drake deadpanned.

  Everyone laughed besides Nia and the guides.

  * * *

  Even with a guide escorting them along the quickest route, it was a long hike to the scroll. The Celestine Library went on and on, room after room, level upon level. They passed numerous stairways and branching corridors. In some of the larger chambers, bookshelves towered like cliffs, accessible only by systems of ladders and platforms. Aside from endless texts, the group passed masterful paintings and murals, meticulous mosaics, exquisitely detailed sculptures, mounted weapons of the finest craftsmanship, and tempting displays of priceless jeweled artifacts. Since the library was abandoned, Jason supposed he would be justified in salvaging some of the costly relics. Without the warning from Farfalee about Edomic traps, he would have paused to fill his pockets on more than one occasion.

  Bactrus walked beside Jason the entire way. Despite his holographic appearance and the fact that his footsteps made no sound, the guide moved around as if he were subject to the laws of gravity.

  “We’re in the middle of a desperate war,” Jason mentioned to Bactrus as they mounted a broad stairway. “Are there any weapons here at the library that we could borrow for the cause?” He tried to act casual, even though he had spent some time deciding how best to phrase the question.

  “Most of the weapons and armor you see on display are priceless pieces of our permanent collection,” Bactrus replied. “We did not even lend our books out to the wisest of wizards, let alone any of the artifacts housed here. I am afraid the armaments must remain.”

  “That’s what I expected,” Jason said.

  “You could always try the cloakroom,” Bactrus mused. “Visitors left their weapons and armor there. The policy was mandatory. Anything remaining will never be claimed and does not belong to the library.”

  “Worth a look,” Drake said. “Nearly anyone with the funding or initiative to come here would have been well equipped.”

  “Although they probably would have retrieved their gear when they tried to flee,” Farfalee speculated. “Also, some who fled might have claimed the equipment of others. But still, I agree, worth a look.”