The Lost Prophecy Boxset

by D. K. Holmberg

If it was not, she needed to let go of her anger toward the Deshmahne. Wasn't that what the gods taught? That had to be why she had come north.

  “We can't do this on our own. We had a hundred with us—now less—and a little more than three times that with some other allies,” she said, not wanting to let on that the Antrilii fought with them. “But not enough against the numbers of groeliin we face. Don't you think you owe it to the people you protect to help with this? Isn’t that how you can honor the gods?”

  Fenick stared at the fire. After a while, he said, “I will speak with the captain. I will share what we have seen. I can make no promises.”

  Roelle nodded slowly and stood. That was all she could ask.

  And perhaps that would be enough.

  The bars of the cell were thick, nearly as thick as two of her fingers. Isandra didn’t think she could do anything about them in a healthy state, let alone in her weakened form. She slapped at them in her frustration.

  She heard a sound from down the hall. She tried looking to see what caused it, pushing her face through the bars, but couldn’t see anything. It was too dark. She was forced to wait to see what it was that had made the sound.

  Part of her didn’t care. They had tortured her in so many ways, that one more seemed like nothing. Occasionally, they would make noise in a place that she couldn’t see and would not come down. Other times, they did come down. It was those times that she wished they hadn’t.

  She looked down at her ankles as she waited to see if this were one of the times they would actually come. Different men had come each time; it was never the same torturer. Each seemed to have a specialty, though, and each knew how to cause pain.

  It was her ankles that hurt her the most. The Deshmahne advisor had done something to her, had branded her somehow, and with the branding, she could feel her mind closing off. Each day, it grew harder and harder for her to open that which made her Mageborn. Each day, the sense of the manehlin faded. Each day, she swore something different at the jagged brands upon her skin. They disgusted her. Pained her.

  A sound came again from down the hall, and she moved toward the bars to see again. A light bobbed along the wall, a candle that threatened to blow out with every step, and she knew someone came again. She waited.

  As the candle came closer, she saw a face that revolted her. It was the face of one she could honestly say she detested. The face of Tresh Longtree. She resisted the urge to spit at him. It was difficult.

  She’d come to help him, but he was Deshmahne, and likely had been when he’d gone to Vasha in the first place. How had the Magi made such a mistake? They had practically invited the Deshmahne into Vasha.

  Longtree laughed at her. It was a deep laugh that filled the corridor. It didn’t seem to fit one so frail as he seemed. Then again, that was what put her in this situation in the first place. She had assumed he was frail. Had assumed he was weak and would not be able to accomplish what the Council asked of him.

  “How does your cell fit you today, Elder?” he sneered at her, her title mocked. “I trust the rats have been good company?” He laughed again.

  She forced a smile. She would not allow herself to show weakness in front of this boy. “Better company than I have now, Longtree,” she answered. She again repressed the urge to spit at him.

  He laughed again. “You and the other Magi,” he spat, “think the Urmahne the way to the gods. You have failed to see the true path to them.”

  She listened to him without response, keeping her face neutral. The boy did not deserve to see a show of emotion from her. It was hard for her, though. She was acutely aware of the brand on her ankle, aware of what was stolen from her, all because of him, because she’d made the mistake of coming here, thinking that she would help him.

  “You even thought to follow me here,” he motioned with his hands, “to my father’s city after I had already deposed of my other ‘keeper.’”

  She had seen with her own eyes what had happened to Wendiy and understood why they had not heard from her. She had seen the Mage’s eyes and tongue in the jar on the Deshmahne’s desk in the room where she had been branded. She had even seen Wendiy herself, branded as she was, cowering in a nearby cell. She had tried several times to offer her support, but in her weakened state, she could offer nothing more than sweet words. She thought the whimpering was less, though, and was glad of it.

  As he talked, she knew he was right. She had not expected to encounter any serious threat when she came into Rondalin. She had not been sure what she would find, but certainly not the scene that she did encounter: the city run by Deshmahne.

  Isandra shook her head at her own arrogance thinking Rondalin was too far north for the Deshmahne, the same arrogance that the Council had in sending their delegates out. Were any of the delegates useful?

  She had not counted on nor expected the king’s advisor. The man seemed pure evil and had somehow robbed her of her Mage abilities. Then he branded her, stealing that which she had always known as her birthright. Wendiy was lost, trapped in her own hell down the hall. And what of Salindra? She hadn’t discovered what had happened to her and hadn’t seen any sign of the Mage who had served as the advisor to the Rondalin king.

  “Why did you come here today, Longtree?”

  He sneered at her. “Only to make a promise. When the last of your power is gone, mine will be the last face you see before you leave this earth. I hope you look forward to it as much as I do.”

  She shivered, in spite of trying to control it.

  The other reason she’d come north, searching for the apprentices, had failed as well. There had been no sign of the young Magi. She had hoped to find Roelle and the others, to advise them that no help was coming from the Council, yet that plan was thwarted with her capture.

  “Why do you do this?” she asked him suddenly. In the many times he had come to taunt her since her capture, she had never asked the question.

  He looked at her, and she could see even with the weak light of the candle that his face scrunched up in concentration, and she understood something about him at that moment. He might have converted to the Deshmahne, but he was not like the advisor. Longtree was soft. Deep within, he was soft. He could be broken. If she had any hope of escape, she would have to break him.

  “Why?” He leaned toward the cell and grinned. “The Magi think you have control when you abandoned that long ago. You believe you have the way to the gods, but you know nothing. The Deshmahne know the way to the gods. Strength is what matters.”

  “And you think you’re strong?”

  “Stronger than you think. I have been shown the power I will reach.”

  Isandra focused all of her being into opening that part of her mind that made her Mageborn. She stretched with all that she had to fill it. As she did, she could feel herself slip through the brand, could feel her consciousness stream from her wound, but it was not enough to stop her from doing what she wanted to do. A focused thought and the light of the candle snuffed out. It was harder to do and required more focus than any she had ever needed before.

  Longtree gasped, and try to move away, but he was not fast enough. She darted a hand out between the bars of the cell and grabbed him by the throat. She was stronger than he, much stronger, and she slammed him up against the bars several times, banging his head with all the strength she had left, trying not to think about how that fit with her experience of the Urmahne. What did it mean that she turned to violence?

  “I will get out of this cell, boy,” she hissed at him, holding his face smashed against the bars. “And you will regret ever crossing me.”

  She slammed his face into the bars two more times for good measure, as much as her fading strength would allow, and then let him go. He slipped to the floor before crawling back away from her.

  “Leave me!” she shouted. It had the desired effect. He scurried away from her faster than she would have thought possible for him.

  She knew she would suffer for what she did to him, but
at the moment, she did not care. The thought of escape was all that mattered, all that filled her mind. She needed to get away, needed to warn Alriyn and the Council about Rondalin. She needed to warn the Councilors before they, too, were caught and branded. Most of all, she needed to escape so she could find some way to be healed. Much of her doubted it could be done, but a small part of her held out hope.

  It was all she could cling to.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Allay awoke in a darkened room. Walls of stone surrounded him. The air felt moist, humid, and he suspected they were near the coast, though it reminded him of Saeline. At least in Saeline, he hadn’t been captured. Beaten, yes, but not captured and tormented like this.

  His head throbbed. He struggled to work through what had happened.

  He was able to remember the attack he’d witnessed in the city. He recalled his and Mendi’s abduction. Beyond that… there was nothing.

  He sat up, moving his arms and legs, trying to work the pain out of them. Had he returned to Gomald only to get captured? It seemed a cruel twist of fate. Not only was he a prisoner in his own homeland, but he was also separated from Mendi after all they had been through to return.

  Allay looked around the room. It was a small cell, likely nothing more than a closet with a stout door, and a little light leaked beneath the crack of the door. He stood, feeling a little unsettled as he did, nausea threatening to overwhelm him, and reached the door. Though he knew it would be locked, he tested it anyway.

  He was well and truly trapped.

  The rebels had caught him, and they intended to kill him, just as he was sure they had killed Theodror. The only question now was when. Trapped as he was, he could do nothing more than wait.

  He sat against the wall opposite the door. As time passed and his eyes adjusted, he could make out gradations in the shadows. With nothing else to do, his mind worked through all the ways that he had failed since leaving Vasha.

  After struggling with the decision to even seek out Locken, he failed to gain Queen Theresa’s trust and thus failed to learn Locken’s whereabouts. The Mage sent to accompany him had been turned by the Deshmahne, slaughtering the Denraen who had been there to protect them. That left him wondering about the other delegates. Had they been turned while in Vasha too? Had he failed to take note of their betrayal to the Urmahne? And then there was Mendi. He’d lost the person closest to him, failing to protect her from being abducted right along with him.

  Mendi. What would his abductors do with a slave? Would they harm her?

  Allay knew how his father would treat such captives, and shivered.

  It didn’t do to dwell on such thoughts, but there wasn’t anything else for him to do.

  So he sat.

  Allay didn't know how long he remained like that when he heard a noise outside his door.

  Sitting up, he stared at the line of light below the door.

  Something jostled in the lock. Allay got to his feet, ready to attack. There might be little he could do, but he wasn't going down without attempting to fight. If nothing else, he would do it for Mendi.

  The door opened, and he gasped. “Mendi?”

  She stepped in and reached for him. Allay didn't hesitate, and pulled her close, hugging her. “We should hurry. We don't have much time.”

  “How? How is it that you're here? How is it that you are able to free me?”

  “The rebellion.” It was all she would say as she led him out of the cell and down the hall.

  Walls of stone and a line of wooden doors along the hall told him it was a simple building. There was something familiar about it, though he wasn’t certain what. Mendi said nothing as they walked, moving quickly and quietly.

  They reached a landing with narrow sets stairs leading both up and down. Mendi took the stairs up without hesitation. At the next landing, she paused, looking down the hall. At the end of the hall, he saw movement. Mendi motioned to him, and they hurried up more stairs.

  As they climbed, he watched her, looking for signs of harm from her capture. Instead, she appeared well. He had worried for her while in that dark cell, wondering what would come of her. Within Gomald she was a slave, which meant she had no rights and mattered little. Other than to him. Those leading the rebellion likely wouldn't feel the same way.

  “How is it that you know where we’re going?” he asked.

  Mendi did not look back as she answered. “Allay, there are things you don't understand.”

  “What aren't you telling me?” He stopped on the stairs, looking at her. Finally, she turned back to face him.

  “Allay—”

  “There's something going on here that I need to understand. If this is about the rebellion, I need to understand. I need to help stop it.”

  “That's just it,” Mendi said.

  “What do you mean?”

  Mendi sighed. “The rebellion. It can't be stopped.”

  He blinked, starting to piece together what might have happened. Could the rebellion be tied to more than his father’s plans? “Why can’t it be stopped? Wait… Are you a part of it?”

  A pained look came across Mendi's face. “I… I was supposed to get close to you. I was supposed to use what information I learned from you and feed it to the rebellion.”

  “You've been providing them information all this time?”

  She met his gaze. “As I've told you, Gomald is not my home. Your father claimed my home.”

  “Have you only been pretending with me…”

  He couldn't finish. What was there for him to finish?

  He thought that they were friends. The longer he knew her, the more he began to hope for more than friendship, though he knew how unreasonable that was. If she was a part of the rebellion, if she was a part of this attack, had everything that had been shared between them been fake?

  “Where are you taking me?” he suddenly asked.

  “Allay—”

  “I need to know. Where are you taking me?”

  “I need to get you out of here. The rebellion…”

  “I know about the rebellion. I didn't know you were a part of it.” He said the last with more hurt and anger than he intended, and his voice carried.

  And yet Mendi being a part of the rebellion made sense, didn't it? Why wouldn't slaves be a part of it? What loyalty would they feel toward the people of Gomald?

  They weren't Gomald. They were slaves, people of Salvat, once proud and free until his grandfather had enslaved them. His father had done nothing but oppress them since that time, making their slavery that much worse.

  “I'm trying to get you to safety,” Mendi said.

  “How do I know that's true?” he asked.

  “Because I—”

  Armed men suddenly appeared on the stairs on both sides of them. Their swords pointed toward Allay and Mendi. A horrified expression twisted her face, and she looked up at the gray-bearded man who stood at the top of the stairs, watching them with eyes narrowed to slits.

  “You think to help him escape?” the man asked. “This man who has been part of our oppression for so long?”

  “I—”

  The man cut her off with a shake of his head and slammed his sword into its sheath. “Grab him.”

  “You don't understand! He's not what you think,” Mendi said.

  Allay realized that she was arguing on his behalf. Could her feelings have been real?

  Rough hands grabbed him, jerking his arms behind his back.

  Allay didn't struggle. There seemed no point. He was captured, trapped in some unknown building, possibly no longer even in Gomald. And now, Mendi was trapped with him.

  Worse, there was nothing he could do to help her. Her decision to help him had cost her her own freedom.

  Why would she have made such a choice?

  He looked at her, not wanting to believe that she could have been lying to him all this time, and hopeful that what had been between them had been real.

  As he was dragged away, dragged once
more to the cell, he couldn't take his eyes off her. She watched, and it broke his heart to see the pained expression on her face.

  When the door opened the next time, Allay sat slumped against the wall.

  Day after day it had been the same. The door opened just enough for someone to slide a meal tray through, and then shut quickly. Most of the meals were a thick stew, though he was occasionally given a lump of bread or cheese. Those were days when he was spoiled.

  After the first few days, he feared he would lose track of time, so he had started making marks the wall, determined to keep track of how many days he was in prison. He expected them to decide about him sooner rather than later, thinking that they would use him in some way as a martyr to the rebellion. They would bring him out, show off how they had captured the son of King Richard, and likely leave him to the same fate as his brother. The longer he was captive, Allay’s hope that he might regain his freedom slipped further and further away.

  A part of him hoped for another visit from Mendi, wishing for a chance to understand what she’d done, but she hadn’t returned.

  Was she even able to come?

  Maybe she’d been tormented for her role in trying to assist him. It should matter little—she’d been lying to him for years. He should not concern himself with her anymore.

  Yet she had attempted to free him. That meant something, didn't it?

  It was his own fault that she hid who she was from him. He had treated her well, but he hadn’t released her from her service. He hadn’t defied his father and done the right thing. He might not have treated her like a slave, but he never attempted to free her.

  That hurt the most. Realizing that he could have done things differently, that he could have been someone different to her.

  And so he sat, day after day, making marks on the walls, eating his stew and occasional bread and cheese, wishing that he had done things differently with Mendi.

  There had been many days when he’d heard the sounds of fighting in the city. There had been screams and explosions, and once, Allay had noted the ground rumbling.