Rachel Lee - Shadows of Prophecy

Soon tantalizing smells filled the camp, and, not long after that, hungry children were being fed before their elders dipped in.

He was glad finally to rejoin his own little group: Archer, Ratha, Giri, Tess and Sara. Most especially Sara. Any weariness he might have felt was banished when she smiled at him and squeezed his hand as he sat beside her.

She passed him a bowl of the stew she had made, and he tucked in with great delight.

“You are sure it is he?” Ratha asked Archer.

“Aye. His ugly touch is all over the world right now. After Lorense, there can be no doubt.”

Tom leaned forward. “Who are you talking about?”

Archer looked at the lad gravely. “Have you heard the tales about Chaos?”

Tom felt his heart skip a beat. “He who would destroy the world?”

“Aye, lad. The same.”

“But I thought…” Tom’s voice trailed off as he looked inward and realized that what he had once thought to be a fairy tale for children was no such thing after all. He had sensed it ever since Lorense and what he had seen that day as Sara and Tess had battled Lantav Glassidor. The mage, skilled though he was, had been possessed by something darker and uglier, and Tom had seen it.

He looked at Archer once again. “Glassidor,” he said. “He was but a doorway.”

“Exactly,” Archer replied. Even in the warmth of the rising sun, the day remained cold, and Archer was wrapped deeply in his cloak. For a man who could look like vengeance on two feet when they faced trouble, he appeared singularly inoffensive at the moment.

“But not the only one,” Tom said, though he was hoping he was wrong.

“Not the only one,” Archer agreed, his voice heavy. “We have heard of other hives. You know that. But there is more afoot.”

Tess, who had been drawing in the dust at her feet with a twig, spoke. “There is a larger doorway open now.” She sounded almost as if she were in a trance. “Can’t you feel it?”

Tom felt a shivering within, an unpleasant sensation, not unlike when he feared he might fall from a great height. He closed his eyes, trying to deal with the feeling, trying to find his well of courage. But instead of courage, he found words that insisted on being spoken, though he had little idea what they meant.

“When the three approach, the Twelve must guard the unbound Enemy.”

His eyes popped open, and he found everyone staring at him.

“Well,” said Archer, “that’s clear enough. Would you could tell us the outcome, Tom.”

Tom merely shook his head, wondering at these times when he felt compelled to speak words that did not seem to be of his own design.

“I will tell you,” Archer said slowly, tossing yet another small coal on the fire, “that the Enemy has grown since last he and I crossed paths. In those days he could not have done what I saw him do in Lorense. Nor what I suspect he does with the weather. It will indeed take the Twelve to save us.”

As if his words had drawn the fury of the heavens down on them, the skies swiftly clouded over and the wind became a gale of sleet. From around the entire camp came cries of surprise as everyone hunkered down within cloaks and blankets.

Tom edged closer to the fire. Tess alone seemed oblivious but continued her tracings in the dust of the ages.

As quickly as the gale had arrived, it vanished, as if the peaks around them had swallowed it up. Above, the sky remained clouded but appeared benign enough otherwise.

“That was strange,” Tom muttered.

Ratha placed a hand on his shoulder. “Eat up, lad. Matters will get stranger yet.”

Tom turned to look the Anari in the eye. “If you seek to comfort me, that is an unusual way to do it.”

Ratha laughed, a sound that seemed to drive back the edges of evil. “I was just assuring you that you have much adventure to look forward to.”

It was hard now for Tom to remember that only a few short weeks ago he had been living with his family in the small town of Whitewater and dreaming of great adventures rather than the humdrum life of a gatekeeper’s son. Thinking back on it, he sighed. “I think, Ratha, that I have encountered more adventure than a lifetime needs.”

Ratha leaned close. “Aye, lad, you have. We all have. Unfortunately there seems to be no end in sight.”

Archer had taken note of Tess’s writing in the sand. “What do you seek, Lady?”

Slowly Tess looked up. “It is a symbol I saw in the temple at Gewindi-Telnah. I keep feeling that I should know what it means.”

Archer left the stone on which he had been sitting and went to crouch beside her. “Show me,” he said. “I have some command of the Old Tongue.”

Carefully she traced the flow and curve of the intricate symbol, trying as best she could to get it to resemble exactly what she had seen on the wall.

Archer nodded slowly. “It says, One who blazes with the light of the gods.”

“I wonder why it seems so familiar,” she said.

Sara leaned over. “You forgot part of it, Tess.” Taking the stick from the other woman’s hand, she drew a rounded triangle around the letters. “Does that mean anything?”

Archer’s expression now looked as stony as any Anari’s. “The enclosure means that it holds within a name. The name in this case is…Theriel.”

“The White Lady,” Tom breathed. “She of the legends.”

Reaching out suddenly, Archer rubbed away the symbol with his gloved hand. Then, without a word, he strode away from them.

Tess stared after him. “I upset him.”

“Much about the past upsets him, Lady,” Ratha said bracingly. “Especially when the present is but another maw of the past.”

“What does that mean?” Tom asked.

Ratha cocked his head to one side, as if considering his words with care. “We fight an old battle, Tom. What is to come has already been.”

* * * *

The fleeing villagers rested only long enough to see to their needs and catch a few hours of sleep. By midday they were on their way again, following a path that would have been invisible to all but the initiated.

Everywhere there seemed to be a recognition that they were leaving behind the familiar forever. That at the end of this march, one way or another, the world would change eternally.

Sara found herself walking among the Telneren, with Tom at her side. The women sang in an easy, lilting rhythm that matched their strides, and although Sara could not understand the words, the melodies and harmonies seemed to reach into her soul. She squeezed Tom’s hand and glanced over to him. The look on his face gave her pause.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“They sing with such joy,” he said. “I can’t find any joy in this journey.”

She favored him with a smile. “Not even with me, Tom Downey?”

“Of course,” he said, his voice faltering. “I didn’t mean…it’s just…so much…and so much more….”

“Don’t lose courage, Tom,” she said, giving his hand another squeeze. “They sing with the joy of courage. The joy of those who know their cause is just, who know they will overcome.”

“If the last two days are a portent,” Tom said, “the Bozandari can stamp them out Tel by Tel until there are none left.”

“And if they allowed themselves to stand Tel by Tel, that might happen. But this is why we march to Anahar. I suspect Gewindi-Tel are not the only Anari with this idea.” She pointed ahead. “Look at how Ratha and Giri and Jenah have fallen in as one. Bonds of kinship are strong among the Anari, just as they are in Whitewater. When trouble befalls any, all respond. The Bozandari will regret having burned the tail of this great desert adder.”

“Do you miss home?” he said. “At the mere sound of the word—Whitewater—I see my mother bringing a bowl of stew to my father, then sitting by the fireplace with her knitting. And my heart weeps. I wonder how they are surviving this winter, and whether we shall go home to a ghost town.”