Chasing the Prophecy

by Brandon Mull

  Darian was supposed to be a seer. The oracle had made it sound like Jason was destined to come here. This couldn’t be coincidence. The face was too spot on. This hole mattered.

  Unsure exactly what he was looking for, Jason went to the bin of large balls and started sorting through them one by one. Would he find his father’s face again? Perhaps it would be an image somehow connected with his father. Like what? His car? His dental office? A toothbrush?

  After going through all the large balls, Jason had found no obvious candidate. He supposed a smaller ball could be placed in a large hole, so he moved down to the medium spheres. He stopped sorting through them when he found his mother’s face.

  The image gave him chills. It was just as accurate as the picture of his father. This was no coincidence.

  Jason looked around. Was he really still in Lyrian? This almost felt like an elaborate practical joke. He half expected friends to jump out and yell, “Surprise!” But no friends appeared. There were no hidden cameras either. Just torches and a gloomy old room. Gazing at the image of his mother, Jason thought about all that had happened to bring him to this place. It was no joke. No accident. He was supposed to be here.

  Confident that he had found the correct match, Jason placed the medium ball into the hole under his father’s picture, then backed away. He could hear the ball rolling, followed by some clicks, and suddenly the floor of the room began to gradually descend.

  Jason considered retreating to the hallway, but he opted instead to stay put. As the floor sank deeper, a passageway was revealed. When the floor rumbled to a halt, he could see down a long corridor lined with red torches. Apparently, he had made a decent choice.

  The long corridor ended at a large square room with multiple circular tunnels in three of the walls. Four sconces held four more burning torches. Mystifying engravings decorated the fourth wall. Among them Jason found a brief message in English.

  Proceed along the passage of your choice.

  All the round tunnels were the same size—small enough that he would have to crawl. To reach some of the tunnels he would have to climb using the openings to lower tunnels. Tiny paintings wreathed the mouth of each tunnel.

  Jason started studying the images, wondering if he would encounter another familiar face. To the side of one of the higher tunnels on the opposite wall from the entrance, Jason found a familiar logo—the profile of a white batter silhouetted against a blue and red background, a white ball coming his way. It was the logo for Major League Baseball!

  That had to be for him, right? Baseball didn’t exist in Lyrian, and Jason loved both watching and playing the sport.

  Just to be sure, he investigated the pictures around all the other tunnels. None of them resonated like the baseball logo. That had to be it.

  Jason climbed back up to the baseball tunnel and started crawling down it. He had not gone far when a heavy gate clanged into place behind him, sealing off his retreat. Without his seaweed Jason would have been left in darkness.

  The round tunnel curved, climbed, descended, and turned. His elbows and knees throbbed, still tender from crawling too rapidly in some of the tighter sections of the Scalding Caverns, but his only choice was to press onward.

  At length, without ever forking, the tunnel emptied into the largest room yet. Against the walls eight brazen dragon heads were spaced around the room, each bigger than a pickup truck. In the center of the room three bronze bins held stone balls. Holes of three sizes pocked the floor around the bins. Elsewhere on the floor were engraved messages. Jason skimmed the spidery runes until he located the message in English.

  Drop one ball down one hole.

  “I could have probably figured that out on my own,” Jason said to nobody, his voice echoing gently.

  Again pictures adorned the balls, and the holes in the floor had accompanying images as well. It took some time, but Jason eventually found a small ball with a tiny portrait of his sister, and a large hole beside the smiling face of his brother.

  After dropping the ball down the hole, Jason heard it rolling, then rattling, followed by multiple noisy crunches. Hinges squealing, one of the dragon heads yawned open, revealing another corridor.

  Jason trotted down the corridor until it delivered him to a vast hall. Torches hung high against the walls, leaving the middle of the chamber heavily shadowed. Containers of every description crowded the entire length of the floor, some resting on tables or platforms, others unsupported. The collection included trunks, chests, crates, baskets, coffers, cabinets, caskets, coffins, sarcophagi, barrels, kegs, strongboxes, jewelry boxes, and covered vessels. Exemplifying unlimited styles and sizes, the diverse containers were fashioned out of combinations of iron, bronze, copper, tin, stone, wood, ceramics, gold, silver, crystal, jade, ivory, enamel, and wicker. Wide varieties of craftsmanship were represented, from the ornate and the elaborate to the plain and even the shoddy.

  At the far end of the room, illuminated by extra torches, rose a dais surmounted by a majestic throne. Plinths supported identical female statues at either side of the dais, and a broad altar rested upon a lower platform at the front.

  This had to be the destination! He had made it! He could hardly believe his eyes.

  “Hello?” Jason called, interrupting the silence of the cluttered hall. “Darian? Anybody?”

  Lonely echoes formed the only response.

  Weaving among the numberless containers, Jason made his way across the long chamber. As he neared the dais, he realized that what he had mistaken for an altar was actually a crystal-and-gold casket with a body inside. The casket rested atop a granite slab with abundant writing on the side. Among many unrecognizable glyphs Jason found the words “Darian the Seer.”

  Jason jogged to the casket. Inside rested an old man, small, shriveled, a few wisps of white hair on his spotted head. He wore scarlet robes embroidered with golden designs. Matching slippers covered his bony feet. His eyelids were closed and sunken. His lips were sewn shut. There was a yellowish cast to his wrinkled skin. He had clearly been embalmed.

  Shivering, Jason gazed at the cadaver. This was an eerie place to encounter a dead body on display. How long had it been here? People had warned him that Darian should be dead. Still, he could hardly believe that this long, hard road had led him to a corpse. Why had the oracle sent him here?

  Just in case, Jason tapped on the glass. “Hello? Are you kidding me? Hello?”

  The cadaver did not stir.

  Jason looked around in disgust. A gaping, blackened fire pit was set into the stone dais between the throne and the casket. From his slightly elevated position, he surveyed the enormous hall. The disorderly profusion of strange containers made the room look like a flea market or some overgrown garage sale.

  He was meant to be here. The oracle had insisted. The faces of his family proved it. He had reached the end of the path. He had found Darian the Seer. Well, sort of. The old guy was fairly well preserved, but no more alive than a mounted deer head.

  What was the point? Had his friends suffered and died for nothing? Had Galloran marched off to fight a hopeless battle?

  Jason scrutinized the body. The face looked peaceful. Jason studied the faint white eyebrows, the curve of the slightly hooked nose, the little knob of the chin.

  Backing away from the casket, Jason looked around the room high and low. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted, “Hello? Anyone? I need some help!”

  His plea went unanswered.

  There had to be more to this. He roamed the dais and found engravings on the back of the large throne. He hunted eagerly for an English message among the nonsense and found it toward the bottom.

  Open a single container. You will either find a prophecy, or you will die. Do not disturb more than one.

  A flood of relief temporarily overwhelmed Jason. The seer had died, but he had left prophecies behind. Maybe this wasn’t a dead end after all.

  Returning to stand beside the casket, Jason stared out at the sea of c
ontainers. Which would the old seer have expected him to pick? Jason scowled. Would there be an obvious clue? A familiar face? What if he selected the wrong one?

  Leaving the dais, Jason roamed among the receptacles. At first he felt most drawn to the big wooden chests bound in iron, partly because they looked like pirates might have hidden treasure inside. But there were numerous chests of that description. He scoured some for clues but found nothing. He decided he should look for something more unique, a container that related to his life in some way. He found a porcelain vessel shaped like a titan crab. The top of it obviously could be lifted off. But the titan crab had been a negative experience, so he kept looking.

  Maybe he should pick the fanciest box he could find; then he could keep it. Something with jewels. Would Darian have foreseen he might choose that way? He examined a delicate ivory coffer inset with enamel and crusted with sapphires. It would be worth a fortune. But did it reflect anything about him? What box would Darian most expect him to select?

  Paying close attention, unsure what exactly he hoped to see, Jason wandered aimlessly. He looked for words in English, or references to his world, or people he knew, and generally tried to stay open to any item that might call to him. He meandered for a long time. Many objects looked unique or valuable, but he could find nothing that he considered more personally suited to him than the rest.

  Maybe he had already passed the container he should have chosen. Maybe he should have gone with his first instinct. Which had been the first container he had wanted to open? A big chest back near the dais. But wouldn’t most people choose something near the dais? After reading the instructions, the first containers they encountered would be those by the dais. Maybe he should go to the far side of the room. Or maybe he should go back to the crab. Or the priceless ivory box. No, if he had been meant to choose those, he would have already done it, right?

  Staring at the ground, Jason strolled away from the dais until he approached the far end of the room. Closing his eyes, he turned in a circle with his finger extended, came to a stop, and peeked. He was pointing at an elaborate container the size of a lunch box, carved out of glossy golden wood. It was an impressive piece of workmanship, but the embossed images were all vines and flowers. It looked sort of girly.

  Jason sat down on the floor. Maybe he was going about this all wrong. If Darian was such a great seer, shouldn’t the message be waiting in whatever box Jason opened? If the task was to guess what container Darian would have picked for him, the cause was hopeless. There were just too many possibilities. Who knew what criteria the seer would have used? But if Darian could really see the future, it shouldn’t matter which box Jason picked. Whatever he chose would have to be the right one.

  Standing up, Jason looked around. A golden coffer inlaid with tear-shaped jewels and lustrous pearls caught his eye. Resisting the urge to second-guess his decision, he walked over and opened it. The coffer did not explode. No poisonous gas leaked out. Inside he found a scroll.

  Sitting and crossing his legs, Jason unrolled the scroll and found a message in English addressed to him. Relief flooded through him, and he began to read.

  My Esteemed Lord Jason,

  Although we have never met, I feel as if I know you. I have watched you extensively from afar. Should you ever read these words, you will have obtained them at great cost. You will certainly have reason to grieve, and you probably feel distraught and alone. Know that I appreciate what you and your comrades have suffered in order to receive my counsel. On behalf of Lyrian, I thank you.

  Tears blurred Jason’s vision. He wiped them away. Strange how appreciation in a note from some dead guy could matter, but it did. He felt a little less alone.

  Please pardon my grasp of your language. I apologize in advance if anything I express seems unclear. I have not yet had occasion to communicate in English during my lifetime, nor do I expect to enjoy the opportunity before I expire. I learned your language exclusively by gazing into my flames. My only firsthand practice has involved the composition of messages to potential readers fluent in the future common tongue of Lyrian.

  You possess a curious nature. The vital words I must share are few, so allow me the luxury of explaining my mission. Toward the end of my life, I learned to see the past and the future in exquisite detail. Through my visions I recognized that I was the truest seer Lyrian would ever know, and I beheld that without my aid Lyrian would fall into darkness.

  I left my home and absconded to a remote setting where I could better control who would access my prophecies, a place that would endure until after my last prophecy held any relevance. You have found that secret lair. I tried to ensure that you would reach my final resting place through assignments given in other prophecies. One of those requests sparked the creation of the Petruscan scroll that led you here.

  Although I enjoy vivid visions of the future, I cannot always be certain which of the branching paths the future will take. I see a multitude of possibilities with tremendous clarity, many of them conflicting. There are numerous possible futures where you never read these words. If you are reading these words, many other prophecies I authored have become irrelevant. I have done my best to guard Lyrian as far into the future as I could foresee. Only the coming years will reveal the degree of my success.

  More than five thousand prophecies reside in this room. At best fewer than fifteen hundred will actually be read. At worst just more than seventy will be shared. Beyond the five thousand prophecies the room also houses more than a hundred thousand lethal traps, most involving poisons of one sort or another. The vast majority will never claim a life.

  I have done what was necessary to protect my messages. I have foreseen many who will seek to undo my work, and I have ensured that if they find their way here, they will perish.

  You recognized clues to reach this chamber. A variety of choices lead to this room. Many more alternatives lead to certain death. I spent a great deal of effort ensuring that the choices of those I wanted here would bring them safely to this hall, while also ascertaining that the choices of my enemies would prove fatal.

  I did not use clues on any of the receptacles that hold my messages in an effort to thwart cunning enemies who might use such a hint to intercept a prophecy meant for another. I trusted my visions to get my scrolls into the intended hands.

  You were meant to find this message, Jason. In truth, of all the prophecies available here, yours is one of the most precious. If you read these words, it is because Lyrian teeters at the brink of unending darkness.

  Should Maldor succeed, I am unable to view a time when Lyrian recovers. And I can see well beyond your day. Before the end of his reign Maldor will raise up others like him, and their dynasty of tyranny will endure for centuries beyond counting. Perhaps the only blacker end I have perceived for Lyrian involves the plague of Ebera sweeping the continent, an eventuality which has been prevented for the present if you have obtained these words.

  I know you have fretted over why you were chosen to obtain this prophecy. Allow me to help alleviate that distress. It might be of comfort to know that some of the greatest figures throughout history have failed to recognize their own worth. In short, only with your involvement was there a chance for any who opposed Maldor to succeed.

  Jason reread the words. Could they be true?

  I can see that you will doubt my words. You want reasons. You want to understand. I will cite a few examples. If you are reading this message, you helped make key choices that saved your mission. You took action at pivotal moments that rescued your mission as well. But perhaps more than anything, your influence was required to assemble a team of dissenters with a chance for success. You were like a conscriptor working against Maldor. Without you the quest for the Word would not have been revived, and Rachel would have only associated briefly with Galloran. Nedwin would have never located his master. Tark would have never joined the cause. Nor Drake. Nor Aram. Nor Ferrin.

  From across time I searched far and wide for a cham
pion to rescue Lyrian. I had to search beyond our boundaries. Of any I could lure here, only you made victory possible. Both your direct actions and your indirect influence were necessary to give the free people of Lyrian a chance to avoid the tyranny of Maldor. Do not doubt your worthiness. Without you, in every scenario I examined, victory stayed entirely out of reach.

  It remains to be seen whether all the rebels you united will play their parts as well as you have played yours. As you read this, victory remains possible, although by no means certain.

  You came here for knowledge. The information I have for you will not assure victory. But it will make victory possible.

  I helped steer the prophecies that brought you here. The oracle Esmira lacked the talent to upset Maldor’s aspirations. I mean no insult to her gift. Even to me the problem appeared nigh insurmountable, and in the end our combined efforts might fail. For the good of Lyrian I reached out to Esmira from across the ages and helped guide her visions. We communed most clearly at the end of her life. I could not show her all she needed to know, but I was able to convey enough to point Galloran in the proper direction and to direct you here to discover the rest.

  There are occasions when knowledge proves more powerful than physical might. Maldor commands with Edomic more potently than I, and his armies vastly outnumber the host Galloran has assembled. But one secret from the past can give Galloran the advantage he needs. The secret is ancient even in my time. I learned it by looking back, not forward. The message you must share with Galloran is that the mount where Felrook now rests was once known by another name. In ages past it was called Mount Allowat.

  Jason paused. The name seemed vaguely familiar, but he could not place where he had heard it.

  This knowledge may baffle you at present, but Galloran will surely grasp the relevance. Let us hope for the sake of Lyrian that it will help him achieve victory.

  I have a second message for you to relay. It pertains to your past, and my future. Again it is not a clue that you will decipher, but it may be of service to another. The message is for Rachel. It may save lives and spare you some grief. Tell her that Orruck already taught her all she needs to know. The former apprentice of Maldor meant to turn her into a weapon, and he shared a certain command he had crafted back when he aspired to overthrow Zokar. The command might serve her well in an hour of need.