Prophecy's Ruin (Broken Well Trilogy) (20 page)

‘Admit defeat,’ said Losara.

A look of grim determination came over Roma’s face and he uncurled a shaking finger. A blast of freezing wind hit Losara, instantly forming ice crystals on his white skin. His hair blew back and strands froze crazily in place. As he began to chant, crystals forming on his lips broke into dusty fragments. Frost covered his outstretched hands, hardening his flesh. With a wince, he clenched his fingers, cracking the ice from his skin and snapping the veins of frozen blood inside. He made a small batting motion and Roma went rolling violently across the ground. The freezing blast ceased and Roma lay on his back, blood oozing from his mouth.

‘Admit defeat,’ said Losara, almost sadly.

Roma tried to hoist himself up on unsteady limbs, defiance blazing in his eyes. ‘To the death,’ he spat, and began another spell.

Something grabbed him like an invisible hand, lifting him from the ground. The air began to move, and there was a rasping as dust took off from the ground. Pieces of the smashed stone shield began to bounce and roll, and soon they too were airborne, hurtling around a funnel that stretched to the roof. The wind howled, and the awe-struck crowd knew they were witnessing nothing less than a contained hurricane.

Trapped in the grip of Losara’s power, Roma hung in the eye of the storm, struggling and cursing. Then Losara let him go and he was sucked into the wind like a rag doll. Up and down the funnel he went, round and round, twisting and turning, spinning and shrieking. Vomit joined the flying debris.

Losara’s eyes went blank as he left his body, travelling into the shadow of the tornado itself. Inside the funnel his shadowform grew, billowing upwards to the tops of the columns. The giant shadow Losara reached out a black hand and snatched hold of Roma’s limp body. Roma opened his eyes weakly, hiccupping another dollop of sick. Shadow Losara continued to grow, fifty paces up to the roof itself where storm clouds churned about his head. Rain began to fall and thunder boomed. Blue lightning forked downwards, striking the ground in many places, and the wind wailed high.

Shadow Losara spoke calmly in a voice that was somehow louder than the storm.

‘KNOW MY POWER.’

Losara enveloped Roma’s mind, letting the Arabodedas see him truly. Roma fell still with terror as he sensed the magnitude of Losara’s power. It surrounded him like a great ocean, and he was but a speck floating on crushing waves. He knew in that moment that Losara could have destroyed him whenever he’d chosen. He knew that he’d never had a chance.

A world of pain, you said?
came Losara’s thought in his mind. Suddenly pain was everywhere, as though each tiny component of Roma’s body was charged with it, as though there was nothing else in the world. His mouth opened in a wide O, but no scream could force its way out. The agony went on and on, into forever and back again, his tears beaten away by the rain. Then, just as suddenly, the pain was gone.

‘Do you admit defeat?’ echoed Losara.

‘Yes,’ croaked Roma.

Do you want to live, Roma?

Roma struggled to open his eyes to the monstrously looming silhouette. ‘Yes,’ he said.

You would serve me?

‘Yes.’

Then, when the time comes, I will build you a grand house in Afei Edres and you shall rule the city as my loyal servant.

The rain stopped and the wind died. As Losara flowed back into his body, he set Roma gently on his feet. The mage immediately collapsed to his knees. Losara blinked, and turned to the council, who were watching with fear and amazement. Battu was unreadable, but there was something very intense about him as he sat tightly gripping the sides of his seat.

‘I am victor,’ Losara said. ‘And though Roma’s life is forfeit, I waive my right to it. He fought with passion and commitment, and I wouldn’t rob our land of his skills. We will need mages of his quality once there is war.’

Roma raised puffy eyes to Losara and knew his lord. He would never fight Losara again.

Uneasy muttering broke out amongst the council. It was an unusual outcome, and the demonstration of Losara’s power had shaken them. One day they would be ruled by this mage of whom they knew so little. Except that he was merciful. That was not a trait expected from a student of Battu.

Battu stood. ‘The challenge is met, then,’ he announced. He gestured at the columns and the glow faded from their runes. ‘Losara is named Apprentice. It will be he who makes the journey across the Black Sea to Assedrynn’s Isle. He will depart in three days.’

Losara was surprised at that. He hadn’t expected to be leaving so soon.

It would be his first time out of Skygrip.

Seventeen / Visitations

Seventeen

Visitations

Visitations

The bolt flew true into the red centre of the target. In the dream, Losara watched his counterpart, that which he had been separated from . . . or was it the other way around? Losara didn’t know how to think of Bel. He certainly wasn’t a brother. He was an
other.
Another side of himself that Losara had never known. Bel seemed so different, but perhaps that was to be expected. Two sides to the coin? A coin cut in half, right down the middle. No wonder Losara sometimes felt so
thin.

He tried to picture himself as he would have been whole, warrior and mage meshed together, and found it difficult. Instead, he decided to learn about what was real, and drifted closer. Bel was excited and impatient about the adventure ahead. Losara himself was to sail away across the Black Sea, to see if he could find Assedrynn’s Isle. That would be an adventure too, he knew, but he couldn’t help thinking his excitement was different. He felt the beckoning of the unknown, of the testing he’d experience, of the expansion of his knowledge. Bel had a louder, thrill-seeking reaction. It was purer, more extroverted, more consuming. It existed for its own sake, for the joy of it.

Another bolt flew, but before it hit the target the dream swirled. Losara found himself drifting through the throne room. Battu paced before the long window, frustrated, ranting to Tyrellan. ‘When?’ he demanded, spinning around. ‘When will he emerge?’

‘Your spies are no help?’ asked Tyrellan.

‘NO!’ shouted Battu. ‘It’s impossible to get a bug-eye across the ward stones, and almost as difficult for the others. The High Mage maintains an admirable defence.’ He turned to the window, glowering across Fenvarrow as though he could see the distant Halls. ‘As for my operatives born of light, well . . . let me just say I hope you’re keeping traitors out of Skygrip as effectively as they do it in the Halls. I have to rely on the shadowdream alone, and it shows me little of what I need to see!’ This last he spat south, as if he were blaming the Dark Gods themselves. ‘I have no idea how many pork pies the soldiers of the Halls eat each day. No idea! The average rate of pie consumption is highly guarded information!’

‘Perhaps Corinas has told his superiors about Iassia?’ said Tyrellan.

‘No,’ said Battu. ‘The bird has bound him to silence. And if that bind was somehow undone, Iassia would know. No, Corlas is hiding. Coward! Does he plan to wait forever?’

The dream swirled again, and now he was in a tavern in Kainordas. The door opened and Bel approached the bar. ‘I’m looking for a young lady,’ he told the barman. ‘Jaya, she was drinking here the other day.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know anyone by that name,’ the barman said, too quickly. Bel stared hard at him, making him falter. His hand went to his side and the barman quivered, but Bel was only reaching for a letter.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Well, I’m
not
supposed to meet her here tonight, so when you
don’t
see her arrive, I’m sure it won’t be difficult
not
to give her this letter. Okay?’

Swirl.

A beautiful girl with blazing red hair stood in a room with the letter in her hands. On the bed sat an older woman with black hair and dark eyes. ‘So what does it say?’ she asked.

‘It says he’s being sent to fight huggers in Drel Forest, but he shouldn’t be away long. I guess he wanted to tell me he’s not disappearing.’

‘You’re a fool, Jaya. The man is a peacekeeper.’

Jaya remained silent.

‘Not exactly our kind of person.’

‘He’s a Sprite, Lerena. That’s
exactly
my type of person.’

‘Well, it hardly matters,’ said Lerena. ‘Tomorrow we leave Kadass. The road to Ismore is ripe with wagons.’

‘Yes,’ said Jaya. ‘But he writes that I could meet him tonight at . . .’

‘Where?’

‘The barracks.’

‘You would place us all in danger with such selfishness?’

‘No,’ said Jaya sadly.

So
, thought Losara,
my
other
has a woman. Is that what the dream shows?

•

Losara closed the door to the roof and produced a key from his robes. He had been told, of course, to return the key to Battu as soon as he was finished in the Breath. Placing it in the palm of one hand, he held the other above it. Darkness oozed from his sleeve to take on shape, forming an exact replica of the key. Losara smiled, and used the shadow key to lock the door. While he would not go against Battu’s wishes, it was nice to know he could if he wished.

Reflecting on what he’d seen, he couldn’t decide if the shadow had sent him a message or if the visions came simply at the whim of the dream. A part of him knew he should feel outraged that Battu was using his father in a plot involving his other self. His own coldness disturbed him. Where was his anger? Did he possess no passion? Deciding that he needed to think, he made for one of Skygrip’s balconies.

The passages were quiet this close to dawn. Losara heard a couple of patrols tramping about, but didn’t cross their path. He came to a passage where the air blew cold and fresh, and followed it out onto a stone balcony. Not far away someone was leaning against the wall, looking out into the night. It was the Mire Pixie, Lalenda. This time he could see her face clearly, her black tangle of hair swept back by the breeze. Long lashes curved from her cobalt eyes, and her mouth was downturned at the ends, as if the expression had etched its way into permanence there. Her lips were a darker brown than the muddy colour of her skin, as were her fingernails and the toes of her bare feet. Though she stood shorter, she had the proportions of a young human woman. There was a crystal shine to her cheek where a stream of tears had begun to dry. She was the saddest and most beautiful thing Losara had ever seen.

Without thinking, he stepped from the shadows. ‘Hello,’ he said, and she spun with a yelp of surprise. ‘Please,’ he said, raising his hands, ‘don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.’

She stooped to curtsy, her hair falling over her face again. ‘Master Losara,’ she said, shaking. She was terrified, that was plain. Losara walked forward to rest his hands on the balcony wall, looking out over the dark expanse. Lalenda remained bowed, her eyes cast downwards.

‘Please stop that,’ he said softly. ‘I’m only here to look upon the night, and I saw that you were doing the same. I thought perhaps we could both do with . . . company. Will you not come back to the wall, as you were before?’

‘As my master commands,’ said Lalenda.

•

Lalenda hardly heard what he was saying, so scared was she of Battu’s Apprentice. When he’d come across her in the library, she’d considered it a grave misfortune. Now she feared she’d displeased him with her hasty escape and he’d tracked her down to punish her for her insubordination.

‘It wasn’t a command,’ he said. ‘Will you not look at me, Lalenda?’

She forced her head up and found herself transfixed by his dark stare. She was exposed, helpless, a mouse before a cat.

‘It wasn’t a command,’ he repeated. ‘It was a request. I’m
asking
if you’ll stay a while.’

She was confused, but she couldn’t do anything about it. She would simply have to obey, as ever. ‘Yes, master.’

Losara gave a little sigh. ‘You’re free to go, if you want. I wouldn’t keep you here against your will. On the balcony, I mean. I know you can’t leave the castle.’

Her gaze faltered.

‘Go, then,’ he said, turning away. ‘If I am so truly terrible.’

Despite her fear, Lalenda noticed his odd tone. He sounded offended, or, even more inexplicably, pained. She saw a sadness in his ivory face and for a moment was dumbfounded by it. Then she wondered if it was a trick. Battu could feign all kinds of moods, so why wouldn’t his Apprentice be the same? One thing she did understand clearly, however: she would displease him if she left. Warily she said, ‘I will stay, if it pleases my master.’

‘I’m not Battu,’ said Losara, as if he’d read her thoughts. Maybe he had? ‘I don’t kill people because I’m bored, or roast the cook who ruins my favourite dish. Have you ever heard of me doing anything like that?’

Lalenda stared, uncertain of what to make of this calmly expressed but seemingly heartfelt outburst. ‘No, master,’ she said.

‘I do not mean you harm, Lalenda, please believe me. Stay if you wish. Go if you wish.’

She tried to seem, if not relaxed, then less afraid than she was. ‘I will stay, master,’ she said.

•

Losara was intensely aware of her standing so close, of the nervous intake of her breath. She hadn’t run away this time, but he did not believe that she really wanted to remain. Now that she had, he found he didn’t know what to say. There was a lot, of course, that he’d never told anyone, but they weren’t thoughts to be shared with a frightened stranger. His mind raced over the castle chat he’d surreptitiously witnessed and grabbed the first thread that came to him.

‘Have you . . . heard any of the washroom rumours?’ he asked.

Lalenda gave him an odd look. ‘No, my lord.’

Losara collected his thoughts. ‘I heard Gedri soaked Counsellor Tysek’s favourite underclothes too long, and sent them back too small. Apparently Tysek looked uncomfortable all day.’

He glanced at Lalenda and she quickly averted her eyes. She seemed confused by what reaction she was supposed to have, and Losara was confused too. When he’d heard the goblins in the corridor tell the story, they’d thought it was hilarious.

‘Will he be punished?’ Lalenda asked hesitantly.

‘Who?’

‘Gedri.’

Losara sighed and closed his eyes, feeling the breeze on his lids. ‘I didn’t think it was very funny either,’ he said.

•

Some moments passed and she worried that she had offended him.

‘I often enjoy silence,’ he said, ‘but I’ve never known it to be so uncomfortable.’

‘My lord?’

‘What do you think of silence, Lalenda?’

‘Oh,’ said Lalenda, her brow creasing. ‘I . . . my part of the castle is very quiet, so if there’s a noise it will usually startle . . . Silence is a companion you didn’t know you had until it’s broken . . .’ She was rambling and she realised it. She tried to clamp down on her tongue, but it kept starting sentences she had to finish. ‘Most of my companions are books, master, and they don’t need sound to speak.’ She managed to stop, and looked horrified with herself.

Losara raised an eyebrow. ‘Books don’t need sound to speak?’ he echoed.

‘I’m sorry, master, it was a stupid thing to say.’

‘No, it wasn’t.’

He’s so calm
, Lalenda thought suddenly. She hadn’t seen it before as she was so frightened, but now, for a moment, she did. His voice was so even, his gaze so constant. The wind rustled the fine threads of his hair, and the folds of his cloak flapped about him, but he himself was as still as a statue. She felt as if it was the first time she’d ever truly seen him.

‘I like books also,’ he said. ‘Though I don’t read as many as I should. Always been a slow reader. Think too much as I go, you see.’

‘I’ve read many, master. A word can paint a thousand pictures. And it’s my only way to leave the castle.’ On making this statement, she began to tremble. ‘Forgive me, I don’t know why I said that.’

‘Probably because it is true,’ said Losara.

‘Master?’

‘Heron tells me you’ve been kept a prisoner here since you were a little girl. I’m sure you hate it utterly.’

She was astonished by his words.

‘I have also been here for as long as I remember,’ he continued. ‘Though I am luckier than you. I can go into the dream and visit other places, even if they are muted and cannot be touched. I suppose your books have the same effect. Worlds created insubstantial; a look through a window at other people’s lives. Yes, we have that in common, it seems.’

Lalenda could not reconcile her assumptions of this man with the way he appeared to her now. Was he toying with her, or was this really him?

‘While we’re talking,’ Losara said, ‘there’s something I’d like to ask you, you being the one who foresaw my birth. Will you tell me what you saw?’

Lalenda shifted her feet. If there was one thing she had no trouble with, it was remembering her vivid visions of prophecy, which stood out like lights in her dull past. If this was what her master wanted, this she could provide. She cleared her throat and spoke.

‘It was not a universal vision, lord, but a vision had by me alone. I see a wood of grey trees and, walking through it, a strong man with a beard. He is looking for a special herb that his wife wants him to find. She has warned him not to pluck the stems, as the plant will not recover, but only to take its tiny leaves. He finds the herb, and fumbles at the leaves with big fingers, being very careful.’ She paused, aware of the detail she was going into. ‘Do you wish me to be briefer, master?’

‘No.’

‘Er . . . yes, master. Eventually the man has collected enough and goes home to a hut in a clearing. Inside is his pregnant wife, asleep. He brews the herb in a tea, and strokes her hair to awaken her. She drinks the tea, which is supposed to nourish and strengthen the unborn child. The herb is potent with an ancient magic, the wild magic that still lingers about the wood. In the dream I know this, because the woman knows this. The next day the woman awakes to find her hair has turned blue. The man is beside himself with worry, but she is not as concerned as he. I awoke from the dream knowing I’d seen Whisperwood, and that the woman would surely give birth to a blue-haired boy. Battu sent Tyrellan forth the next day to fetch you.’

‘And a mage called Fazel,’ said Losara.

‘Yes, lord.’

Losara was silent a moment. ‘Sounds like they loved each other.’

‘Lord?’

‘My mother and father. You know, Lalenda, what you’ve just told me is the most I know of them. Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ she said awkwardly.

‘Let me ask you another thing,’ said Losara. ‘You used the term “universal vision”? I have little understanding of the art.’

‘I shall explain as you wish, master. A universal prophecy is one that goes out to all prophets in the world. The foretelling of your birth was such a prophecy. That’s why it has been common knowledge for the last century. More common is a personal form of prophecy, which more closely reflects the life of the prophet herself, or those around her. I have been known to dream of what I would have for breakfast the next day.’