Sam Bowring - Prophecy's Ruin

They went east along the border, and eventually the land on both sides became fertile once more. Where the Dragon’s Sorrow River crossed into Fenvarrow, it became the delta that surrounded the Dimglades, and here they stopped.

Losara sat by the stream with his legs tickled by reeds, careless of the moisture that soaked his robe. Frogs croaked, and dragonflies chased each other across the delta. The air was temperate and still, as lazy as he felt.

A fluttering of wings heralded the arrival of Lalenda. She touched down lightly and sank to her knees.

‘Hello there, Miss Pixie,’ he said.

‘This is a strange place,’ she said. She took hold of a reed by the water’s edge, pulling its puffy white end up towards her. ‘Of all that we’ve seen, this one makes me uneasy.’ Her finger curled and a single claw flicked neatly in and out, cutting the head from the reed with a quiet snick.

‘Is that because it reminds you of Swampwild?’ he asked.

‘No, my lord,’ she said, and he believed her.

‘Why then?’

‘Because it is so …between.’

Losara knew what she meant. Here on this fertile borderland were creatures that lived happily in both shadow and light. The frogs did not seem to mind whether they hopped about on the Fenvarrow or Kainordas side. Amphibians were used to living in two worlds, Losara supposed, but four? Water, air, shadow, light? Birds from the Dimglades flew down to catch insects in Kainordas, and fish swam the channels and ponds around the entire circumference of the delta. These were lives on the edge of two places, and they didn’t seem to notice or care.

‘Why cannot light and dark exist like this?’ he wondered aloud. ‘Living side by side without discernment?’

‘I don’t know my lord,’ said Lalenda quietly. ‘I only know that they can’t.’

‘Why?’

Lalenda struggled to find an answer. Perhaps she felt it instinctively, he thought, like those shadowmanders. She was born of shadow, after all. He was not – he had been born in a between place too, he realised, in Whisperwood. Did he therefore not possess the hatred of the light that would carry him to victory? Perhaps there was another way. But how could that be the conclusion of his pilgrimage? Why would the Dark Gods, who wanted only triumph, send him to learn such a lesson?

‘My lord?’ said Lalenda.

He stirred from reverie and turned to look at her. She didn’t seem to realise, but there was a silver-winged fly tangled in her hair. He reached up to offer it his finger and it pulled itself free.

‘Will you punish the creature for sullying my hair, my lord?’ she asked, a playful note in her voice.

‘I think you know me a little better than that by now,’ he said.

‘I do.’

What a beautiful thing she was, he thought. He had seen plenty of beautiful things on their journey, but this …this was different. Why had he brought her with him? It wasn’t just that she’d needed rescuing, it wasn’t just compassion. He knew the answer, dimly, far back in his mind. He knew why most men would ask a woman to accompany them.

‘My lord?’ she said. ‘You’re …well, you’re staring at me. I don’t mind, of course, it’s just …well …are you …that is to say, I’ve been wondering –’

‘Lalenda,’ he interrupted, ‘I wonder if perhaps …the time is long past that I should have attempted …’ He felt the sentence growing long on his tongue, clunky and awkward. These were not the right words, he knew, but could not stop them. ‘…to make known my admiration of you. By way of some …action, perhaps. With your permission, of course.’

She stared at him in a way that made him feel strangely uncomfortable, then shifted towards him a little. ‘You’ve never needed my permission for anything,’ she said. ‘But you gave me back my permission to give …and I do.’

Clumsily he put an arm around her, hesitantly, lightly. ‘Lord,’ she whispered, ‘I will not break like glass.’

The realness of her penetrated his calm exterior, awakening something inside him, bringing him out of his head. He kissed her, and felt her lips soft, and her cheek too. As he ran his shadowy hands over her skin, she gasped and he pulled back in concern.

‘Your touch,’ she said. ‘It’s truly like no other.’

She pulled him back to her, and he let the shadow spread out from himself over her, caressing her, exploring and, as they grew more entwined and her cries of pleasure became more insistent, seeking out the shadows within her.

Losara had never had fewer thoughts in his head.

When he became aware of himself once again, he was lying on his back with her small form slumped across him, her lashes tickling his chest as she dozed. He didn’t feel like moving, so he closed his shadowed eyes and joined her in sleep.

The dream he dreamt gave him the reason for his pilgrimage.

Losara floated, disoriented for a moment, uncertain of where he was. He steadied and turned to see the Throne standing silhouetted by the open end of his quarters, a glass of bloodfire in his hand. The sun was low in the sky to the south, and the liquid caught its rays brightly, casting a red wash over the rest of the room. The Throne did not turn as Bel and Fahren entered, and waited in silence. Losara drifted backwards to take it all in, losing himself in the flow of the dream.

‘Are you not to blame?’ muttered Naphur eventually. ‘If you had not pursued Corlas, Baygis would still be alive. It was you who placed my son in harm’s way.’

He raised the cup and drank deeply. Bel opened his mouth, but Fahren caught his eye and shook his head.

‘Fahren has told me of the bird Iassia,’ said the Throne. ‘Of the part he played.’ His tone grew resentful. ‘You should know, then, that I have called off the hunt for your father.’

A moment of relief passed over Bel’s face, but he quickly returned to his stony demeanour.

‘As long as he flees far,’ added Naphur, ‘and stays a horizon’s length from my sight.’ He turned, but the glaring sun behind him still hid his face. ‘But that does not mean I am not angry.’

‘Naphur,’ began Fahren.

‘Enough, High Mage!’ said the Throne. ‘I’ve heard you speak, and granted the mercy you begged me for. But now I will have my revenge.’ He stalked forward, revealing the dark belts under his eyes. ‘We attack Fenvarrow with all possible haste!’ he said. ‘And you, Bel, will lead. The child of power will fulfil his obligations.’

‘My Throne,’ Fahren tried, ‘I have told you that Arkus charged us to find –’

‘Curse Arkus!’ shouted Naphur. ‘I am old, heirless, and done with waiting.’ His look to Bel became almost imploring. ‘If I must not blame you, Bel, nor your father, then help me attack those I can blame. We must let Kainordas see you, rally to you, as we march to crush the dark. I have already sent out word, on wing and hoof in every direction. I promise that war is coming, with or without you, and on this I will not be dissuaded. But will you help me, Bel? Will you help me cut down those who have brought such ruin upon us?’

Fahren cast Bel an alarmed look – it was obvious he didn’t agree with such action – but Bel didn’t care. Ever since Arkus had spoken to him, his destiny had felt like a crushing weight across his shoulders. It wasn’t a burden he’d chosen to bear, and Naphur was offering a chance to be rid of it. Why did he need to join with Losara if he could just kill him? Without its champion, the shadow would fall.

‘I will,’ said Bel. ‘The sooner I have something to kill, the better.’

The Throne’s eyes gleamed. ‘We’re of like mind,’ he said, and gave a twisted smile.