Chasing the Prophecy

by Brandon Mull

  Rachel had never attempted the lightning command. The phrasing would not allow the directive to be issued on a small scale. Galloran had warned that electric commands tended to be unstable. In ancient times, even the strongest wizards had generally avoided them.

  But could that instability work to her advantage? Might Maldor struggle to counteract lightning? Or would he undermine the command as he had with fire, forcing Rachel to deal with the consequences of a failed mandate?

  The electric command called for huge opposing charges that would produce the equivalent of a serious lightning strike. Such a powerful command could have been created to attack a mighty wizard. But the concept of commanding lightning had seemed familiar to Galloran, which implied that a lightning spell was not particularly unusual. Supposedly, Orruck had developed one of those commands to harm Zokar. If he had developed the command on his own, wouldn’t it be unfamiliar? Or could he have authored a specific type of lightning command?

  Galloran had never mentioned seeing a command turn stone to glass. But Rachel had never discussed that command much with him. She had successfully uttered the command numerous times. It had never seemed remarkably challenging or mysterious.

  Could turning stone to glass be the command Orruck had developed? How could it have harmed Zokar? How could it harm Maldor?

  Maldor was not made of stone. But Felrook was a different matter. Could Zokar have had a similar fortress? Turning the walls of Felrook to glass would certainly make the stronghold more vulnerable. Of course, to accomplish the feat a wizard would either need infinitely more power than Rachel possessed, or else a very long time to transform the fortress segment by segment.

  How else might Maldor be vulnerable?

  Rachel wished she understood more about the relationship between Maldor and the torivors. Controlling them took a heavy toll on him, which meant that they probably weren’t willing servants.

  What did she know about them? The lurkers were not native to Lyrian. They had been summoned from another world. The Myrkstone that Maldor wore was somehow involved with dominating them. Could she turn that to glass? Could she destroy it?

  Was she foolish to imagine that the lurkers might help her if given the chance? When she had communicated with them, they had never felt evil. Alien, yes, but not hateful. If anything, they had seemed indifferent. They fulfilled their orders, but they did not seem to personally care about their assignments.

  Folding her arms on the windowsill, Rachel rested her chin. How essential was she to all of this? Maybe she had already done her part by smashing the gate at West Keep. Did it matter if she escaped? At least if she died, it would mean Galloran had succeeded. That was better than total failure, right? Of course, living to enjoy the victory would be nice too.

  Could Galloran really have found a way to win? The notion seemed impossible, but he was no fool, and Rachel had sensed no uncertainty behind his words.

  The lock to her room rattled, and the door opened. Turning away from the window, Rachel beheld an old crone in a drab, hooded robe. A huge mole bulged near the corner of her eye. She appeared mildly surprised to find Rachel on her feet. A pair of uniformed guards stood behind her. “You woke early,” the woman said, her voice tremulous with age. “How do you feel?”

  Wanting to appear worse off than she felt, Rachel rubbed one temple. “Sore and dizzy. I wanted fresh air.”

  “You should lie down,” the woman encouraged. She waved the guards back, and they shut the door.

  Clutching her side and taking small steps, Rachel crossed to the bed. “I remember your hands,” Rachel said truthfully. The knuckles were red and swollen, the nails dark and sharp like claws. “You’ve been tending me.”

  “I have,” the woman replied. “You have rested fitfully. If you need more of the potion, I can provide it.”

  “I think I’ve slept long enough,” Rachel said, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed.

  The woman tottered close and rested a palm against Rachel’s forehead. Then the crone felt her cheeks, and her neck, and ran her fingertips from the back of her head down her spine. “More potion does not appear necessary. You have mostly recovered. It would be better for you to rest on your own.”

  “What is your name?” Rachel asked.

  “Zuza,” the woman replied with a small nod.

  Can you hear me, Zuza? Rachel asked forcefully.

  The woman hesitated. I hear you, child.

  I thought Maldor got rid of everyone with Edomic talent.

  He spares a few of us as he sees fit. My ability is small. I make myself useful.

  You’re a healer?

  Yes.

  “Maldor wants to train me,” Rachel whispered.

  “I am aware,” Zuza replied.

  Where does he keep the torivors? Rachel wondered. She studied the old woman for a response, her eyes and mind straining.

  What do you care about torivors?

  Rachel could sense no answer peripheral to the reply. She pushed to uncover hidden thoughts. I need to speak with them.

  The old woman made a sound that was half laugh, half croak. You would do well to keep away.

  Do you love Maldor? Rachel questioned.

  I love that he no longer tortures me, Zuza answered. I love that he lets me live. I help him recover when he is overspent.

  Rachel nodded. I must speak with the torivors. I have my reasons.

  Zuza gave a derisive snort. You must still be addled by the potion. You should lie down.

  Where are they kept? Rachel repeated.

  Can you not feel them, child? Their power is muted by their prison, but not entirely contained.

  Rachel searched with her mind. Zuza was right! As Rachel concentrated, she could vaguely sense them near, but it was hard to get a sense of direction. Are they all around us?

  The woman shook her head. You need much more experience before attempting to consort with the darklings. Put them far from your thoughts. If you continue to please him, Maldor will doubtless introduce you to them in time.

  Rachel closed her eyes, actively trying to identify where she felt the lurkers. Below her. Not directly below. She pointed a finger. Opening her eyes, she saw that she was pointing downward, away from the window.

  Zuza looked where Rachel was pointing. More or less.

  Not far down, Rachel conveyed. Not down in the dungeons. Not too far from here.

  Maldor likes to keep his pets close, Zuza explained. You are also near his quarters. You are better off near him than in the dungeons, you have my word on that. “You should get back in bed.”

  “I’ve slept long enough.”

  “Maybe you should consume more potion, sleep through another day. The additional respite may not be necessary, but it might do you some good. Tomorrow will not be pleasant out there.” Zuza inclined her head toward the window.

  How tight is his hold on the torivors? Rachel asked.

  Tight enough, Zuza responded.

  I need your robes, Rachel conveyed.

  No, Zuza told her firmly. Do not make me call the guards.

  Rachel sighed and lowered her head. “Maybe I’ll have some of your potion after all.”

  “Very prudent, my dear,” Zuza approved. She tottered over to the pitcher and poured the pungent fluid into a cup.

  Rachel scooted back into bed. As Zuza shuffled toward her, Rachel issued an Edomic suggestion for the old woman to drink, pushing as hard as she dared. Zuza raised the cup to her lips and began swallowing. Rachel repeated the suggestion every few seconds. The old woman’s eyes grew wide with panic, but she kept drinking, thin streams of fluid running down the sides of her chin.

  Rachel rolled out of bed and took the nearly empty cup from Zuza, and she forcefully suggested that she sleep. The old woman sagged so suddenly that Rachel dropped the cup and nearly dropped Zuza as well. With an effort Rachel scooped the woman up and dumped her on the bed.

  Rachel stripped off the woman’s robes and arranged the covers so that Zuza could
not be seen, reducing her to a vaguely humanoid lump. Rachel stashed her own clothes behind the bed and dressed in the hooded robes. She pulled the cowl as far forward as it would go, tucked her hands back into the sleeves, and tried to mimic Zuza’s hunched stance.

  With Edomic words on her lips, Rachel rapped on the door. The lock clicked and the door opened. Rachel did not dare look the guards in the eyes. Instead, she shuffled from the room, head bowed, eyes on their boots.

  “Back to sleep again?” one of the guards inquired, poking his head into the room.

  Rachel nodded and gave an indistinct grunt.

  “Off to your quarters, then,” another guard said, prodding Rachel.

  “Why did you cover her head?” a third guard asked, stepping into the room.

  Rachel shrugged with attempted nonchalance. There had been three guards, not two, waiting in the hall. The one who had entered the room was about to discover Zuza beneath the covers. One of the remaining guards held the keys. In Edomic, Rachel suggested that the guard hand her the keys, and then followed that up by suggesting the guards enter the room. She motioned through the doorway for emphasis.

  The guard passed her the keys, and both strode through the doorway as if the idea had been their own. They paused after a few steps, but it was too late. Rachel hauled the heavy door shut.

  Banging and yelling ensued. The protests were audible, but the iron door muffled the worst of the noise. Anyone happening by would hear the faint commotion, but thankfully the protests were not carrying very far. The noise was less than ideal. She knew a command to induce sleep, but it only worked well if the subject was unaware and unoccupied. And she doubted whether she could have held control of all three guards for long enough to coax them into drinking the sleeping potion.

  Rachel tried to calm herself. For the moment she was free. The moment would not last. How best could she use this opportunity? She could not imagine successfully using Edomic to bluff her way all the way out of Felrook. There would be too many guarded checkpoints. With Galloran’s army outside, the whole fortress would be on high alert. But the lurkers were not far.

  Lowering her head, Rachel reached out with her mind for the torivors. All she could sense was a direction, not the halls she needed to travel to get there. She began making her best guesses. She walked down a hall, turned a corner, and then quickstepped down another. She was up too high. More and more the torivors seemed directly beneath her. She needed stairs.

  She passed a pair of soldiers who paid her no mind. Apparently, mysterious cowled figures were not an uncommon sight.

  Eventually Rachel had to backtrack. A locked wooden door blocked the new way she wanted to go. She knelt and peered at the keyhole, then spoke a quiet Edomic command. She willed a twisting movement from the moving parts inside the lock. It had worked on 90 percent of the locks Ferrin had provided. It worked on this one.

  The door clicked open, revealing a short hall. Behind an unlocked door she found a stairwell. Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, she felt much nearer to the torivors. They were still lower than her, and off to the side. Her path toward them led her around a corner and into the view of two armed guards flanking an iron door. They wore the armor of conscriptors, and they clutched poleaxes. Swords and daggers hung ready at their waists.

  Rachel knew that if she turned around, she would attract more attention than if she proceeded. Beyond the iron door the hall continued and then rounded a corner. If she walked past the guards and around the corner, she could regroup and figure out how to deal with them.

  “Who goes there?” one of the conscriptors inquired before Rachel reached them.

  Keeping her face down, Rachel stopped walking and shook her head, hinting that they shouldn’t question her identity. She waited in silence.

  “We have to ask your business down here,” the other conscriptor apologized, obviously concerned about who he might be addressing.

  Maybe she could fake her way through this. Rachel did not try to disguise her voice, but she made it cold. “Maldor should have warned you I was coming. I am here to inspect the torivors.”

  “Inspect the torivors?” the first conscriptor exclaimed. “Who are you?”

  “That is none of your affair,” Rachel replied harshly.

  “I’m afraid it is,” the other guard said, starting to sound rankled.

  Switching to Edomic, Rachel suggested they flop to the ground. Both complied, their dropped weapons clattering. Rachel suggested that they keep still; then with a command and an effort of will she levitated both poleaxes and held the blades to their throats.

  The combination of suggestions and commands left her feeling taxed, but she tried not to show it. She stood with her head bowed and her hands behind her back. The men were no longer pinned by her will, but the weapons at their throats seemed sufficient to keep them still. “Will you open the door, or do you mean to delay me further?”

  “We don’t have the key,” the first conscriptor said, no defiance in his tone. “Only the emperor comes here, and never often.”

  “I know,” Rachel lied, showing the keys she had taken from the guard upstairs, perfectly aware that none of them would open this door. “I am asking whether you intend to keep wasting my time.”

  “If Maldor sent you,” the second guard responded, “and if you have the key, you are welcome to enter.”

  With a word and a gesture, Rachel sent the poleaxes sliding down the stone floor of the hall. “Stay on the ground until I am gone, worms. See that I am not disturbed.”

  The guards remained motionless on the floor. Rachel stepped past them and scraped a random key against the keyhole. She uttered a quiet command and felt the workings of the lock stir, but not enough to grant her access.

  Despite her increasing heart rate, Rachel tried to stay calm. The mechanisms of some of the trickier locks at East Keep had to be turned left first, and then right. While she continued to rattle the key against the keyhole, Rachel uttered a pair of commands, first twisting the innards of the lock one way, then coaxing other moving parts in the opposite direction.

  The lock disengaged, and Rachel opened the door. Deciding that it would be most convincing to offer no additional comment, Rachel stepped through and closed the door. She was left in total darkness.

  For a panicky moment she envisioned lurkers all around her. No, they were in the vicinity, but she still could not sense them clearly. Some barrier still intervened.

  Starting at the doorway, Rachel felt her way along the wall to a corner three paces from the door. Following the next wall, after several small paces, she discovered a step down. She was on a landing at the top of a stairway. The stairs descended directly toward where she sensed the torivors.

  Feeling higher along the wall, Rachel found a sconce holding a torch. She lit the torch with a word and removed it from the sconce. The trembling flame revealed a long stairway, probably forty steps. Unsure how long she had before the guards she had bluffed would initiate an angry pursuit, Rachel rushed down the stairs.

  At the bottom of the stairs, a short hall ended at a large mirror. Closer inspection revealed that the mirror was a polished metal door perforated by a grid of tiny holes. Eight pegs resided in the centermost holes of the top row. It was a lock like the ones Jason had described at the Repository of Learning and at the lorevault of Trensicourt. She had no idea how Edomic might help her open it. Inserting the pegs by trial and error would take weeks or months or years. Maybe longer.

  Rachel could perceive the torivors behind the door. Can you sense me? she wondered, projecting the thought with all of the energy she could muster. I need to speak with you. Can you answer?

  Although she could discern their collective presence, she recognized no individual thoughts. She was on her own opening the door. If she failed, this entire excursion would be for nothing. More likely than not, the day would dawn with her chained in the dungeon.

  Rachel studied the door. It looked as though it had been fashioned from the same me
tal as the torivorian swords. The door itself was not going anywhere. But the door was anchored into the stone of the wall.

  As soon as her thoughts turned to the message from Darian, Rachel knew what to do. Summoning her inner strength, she spoke a command to turn all the stone around the perimeter of the door to glass. She felt the directive succeed. The stone took on a glossy sheen and gained a hint of smoky translucence.

  Raising her voice and extending one hand, Rachel mentally rammed the door with everything she had. For an instant the door shuddered. Tiny fractures zigzagged across the surrounding glass. Dropping to one knee, Rachel kept up the pressure. The effort made her teeth ache down to the roots. Responding to a final surge of willpower, the door exploded inward, tearing free as its glass moorings shattered in a shower of shards.

  Rachel dropped forward to her hands and knees, her torch clacking against the floor and rolling in a semicircle. She felt the cool stone beneath her palms. She could taste blood in her mouth. Her headache was returning. Her teeth ached and tingled. Her tongue felt numb. But her mind remained clear. She retrieved the torch and stood.

  The room beyond the empty doorway was black. Her torchlight did not penetrate the darkness.

  She could feel the lurkers beyond the threshold, their presence no longer muted or indistinct. There were dozens.

  I need to speak to a representative, Rachel conveyed.

  You, a torivor replied with recognition. We are seldom visited.

  I may not have much time, Rachel emphasized. I need to understand your relationship to Maldor. I may not be exactly like you, but I am a Beyonder as well. I want to free you.

  Others have tried, the lurker conveyed. When Maldor sends us on assignments, we are not at liberty to communicate. But here we are, not operating under active instructions. Ask your questions.