Son of a Dark Wizard (16 page)

The winds rushed through the trees, twisting
branches, making them writhe like the arms of monsters searching
for prey. Sorren kept his eyes on the owl, brushing his hair from
his eyes every few minutes. The owl led Sorren deeper and deeper
into Owl’s Fortress, down countless hills and slopes as the forest
grew thicker and the trees grew wider, their roots breaking through
the rocky ground and webbing across the forest floor like a mess of
giant tangled snakes.

Sorren’s legs grew tired, his injured leg
causing him to almost stagger along. The icy wind made him shiver,
and when he clutched at his coat, he noticed that Thale’s blood had
dried and darkened across his shirt.

At long last, Sorren found himself standing
on an unnaturally rectangular stone pressed into the ground. Just
ahead, more stones stretched on, winding down a hillside between
two large stone walls. As Sorren realized he’d been led to a
staircase of some sort, the owl landed on his shoulder, its long
talons gently digging into his skin.

Sorren began descending the staircase. The
steps were crooked and uneven, some half-covered in dirt. Weeds and
wildflowers grew between cracks in the stone; the staircase had
obviously been made long ago, and was losing a slow battle with the
ever-changing forest.

Venturing down between the stone walls was
almost like venturing into a cave, but there was no roof overhead,
only the barely visible swaying branches of the trees, so high
above that they seemed like part of the sky. The space between the
walls grew narrow and the staircase wound this way and that. The
green flame of Sorren’s staff sent sharp black shadows stretching
across the path ahead.

Sorren smelled incense in the cold air, the
same sort of incense he’d smelled in his hut when he’d first
wakened from his injuries.

Stepping around one last bend of the
staircase, Sorren came to a wide circular stone room without a
ceiling. The flat stone floor was covered in strange symbols: a
bird, a moon, a candle, a sword, a lion. Many other shapes he
didn’t recognize. The walls were half-covered in dirt and moss.
Words were etched into them, writing in a language Sorren couldn’t
read. Countless sticks of incense stood in tall vases that lined
the walls, coils of smoke twisting into the air, filling the room
with a gray haze. Two mighty orange-pink flames roared in what
looked like giant pots, casting dancing beams of light through the
smoke.

Between the flames, sitting on a throne of
stone with an enormous book spread across her lap, was Maewyn.

As Maewyn glanced up from the book, the owl
soared across the room, breaking through the haze and landing
beside Maewyn on the throne’s right arm.

Maewyn turned to the owl and smiled, stroking
its feathers. “This is Chronicle, my owl.” She glanced back at
Sorren. “He’s over eight-hundred years old. No ordinary owl. He’s
seen the cycles of the world.” Maewyn gently closed her book and
leaned forward, resting her arms on the book’s wide cover. “Why did
he lead you here, Sorren?”

Sorren stepped forward, trying to get a
better look at Maewyn. Perhaps the haze was playing tricks with the
light, but the flame of his staff seemed to grow more blue as he
neared Maewyn’s throne; it became almost teal. “You recognize the
staff?” he asked.

“I do,” Maewyn said, “but I knew it was you
on the night we found you.”

“You’ve seen me before?”

“No. But there are other sources of power
besides your Nyrish moon. You are not the only one here with
powers, Sorren.”

“Did everyone know?”

“I told no one,” Maewyn said. “You came to
Owl’s Fortress for a reason. I have to let your story take its
course.”

“My story?”

“I have to be careful with what knowledge I
share,” Maewyn said. “The cycles of the world are delicate. One
must be allowed to make his own decisions based on what he knows,
even when those decisions lead to tragedy. It’s all part of the
cycle.”

Sorren took another step forward. “Were you
there when it happened?”

“When what happened?”

“When Thale . . .” Sorren
couldn’t finish the sentence. Already the memory seemed like
something from a dream.

“When Thale was killed?” Maewyn asked. “No.
I’ve been here for some time. But I knew something treacherous was
coming. Thale’s death is part of the reason you came to Owl’s
Fortress.”

“I didn’t come to this forest for a purpose,”
Sorren said. “My airship crashed.”

“It may not have been
your
purpose at
that moment. We are part of a cycle that works beyond our intents
and desires. Everything happens for a reason, and your decisions
determine your past as much as your future.”

“You burn a lot of incense, don’t you?”

Maewyn only smiled. “I sound like a lunatic.
I only see too much. In this realm, we experience time like an
arrow, the unchangeable past behind us, the unknowable future
ahead. But beyond our realm, there is no time. Only a great
eternity. Our stories exist all at once,” Maewyn tapped the cover
of the book on her lap, “like a stack of pages. And they bend and
fold as one. That is what makes prophecies possible.”

“Prophecies are . . . page
folds from the future?”

Maewyn laughed, shaking her head. “Prophecies
come from seeing the story as a whole. You are here now. There is a
reason for it. There is something you must learn here.”

“I only followed your owl.”

Maewyn put a hand on the back of the owl.
“Chronicle became part of your story. He saw that you needed to be
here for some reason. You may not be able to see it yet. Perhaps it
is something you will never understand in this realm at all.”

Sorren glanced at the symbols under his feet.
A coiled snake, a chalice, a rosebush.

He remembered he wanted to ask Maewyn
something. He looked up. “Atlorus killed my father with a small
black crystal that opens a portal to an abyss,” he said. “Did you
give it to him?”

“Ah,” Maewyn said, “I did not realize you
knew about the weapon.”

“Someone must’ve given it to him. Where did
it come from?”

“A good question,” Maewyn said. “But I cannot
give you a complete answer. I can only tell you that his mother
gave him the crystal. It had been part of her family for
generations. She knew she would give birth to the Chosen One. Using
the crystal to open the portal takes a sort of power itself.”

“But he still needs the
crystal . . .” Sorren thought aloud. “Is it possible
that if someone else in his family, generations earlier or later,
had been given the crystal, that
someone else
could’ve used
it to fulfill the Candlewood Prophecy?”

Maewyn turned her eyes skyward, seemingly
confused. “That is something I do not know. I cannot see. Too many
things have to come to pass.” She shook her head and looked at
Sorren. “But it doesn’t matter. Atlorus
is
the Chosen One
now. And
you
are part of the prophecy too. I can see that
you understand this all too well.”

Sorren leaned on his staff. He wanted to ask
Maewyn for everything she knew about the Candlewood Prophecy. But
the question that came first slipped out without thinking. “Is
Atlorus going to kill me? Is the prophecy unchangeable?”

“By their nature, prophecies are
unchangeable,” Maewyn said. “They have already been fulfilled, in a
sense. Page folds from the future, as you understood it. But the
Candlewood Prophecy—”

Chronicle turned his mad-eyed head and
shrieked, flailing his gray and black wings.

Maewyn shushed the bird, petting the feathers
on his back, calming him down. “Yes, yes. I know, Chronicle. I must
be careful what I say.” She turned back to Sorren. “I do not have
all the answers myself, after all, so it would be foolish, if not
dangerous, for me to speculate. But as you may guess, there is more
to the prophecy than has been revealed in any book. Consider what
you hold in your hand.”

Sorren gazed at his staff, letting its teal
flame blind his eyes for a moment. What did the staff have to do
with the prophecy?

Maewyn leaned forward. “A miracle it
survived, isn’t it?”

Sorren had never thought about it. His
imagination had been consumed with images of his father’s body
twisting into the void. He had never considered the staff. How
had
it survived? And hadn’t Atlorus insisted on facing his
father alone? Why?

“But it’s not the prophecy you fear, is it?”
Maewyn said, leaning back in her throne with her eyes closed. “I
see what you fear now. It’s not the threat of death.” She opened
her eyes. “You’re afraid of who you are. You’re afraid if you find
out who you are, you won’t like it. And so you do not look.”

Sorren wasn’t sure what to say. He almost
wanted to laugh. “I am Sorren, son of a dark wizard, heir to the
throne of Morrowgrand.”

“You know
what
you are,” Maewyn said.
“But you’re afraid of
who
you are. And so you look outside
yourself. Your name, your age, your relations. Your looks, your
accomplishments. Your desires. Your power. But you know you search
in vain.”

“So who am I?”

“No one can tell you. But you will not look
if you’re afraid. And you will not find if you will not look. And
for that you are a fool.”

“I seem to hear that a lot.”

“Yet you don’t listen,” Maewyn said. “I can
give you this warning: If watching Thale die in your arms was
difficult for you, then you are not prepared for the path you are
taking.”

“That’s rather vague. You could just as well
tell me to beware.”

“The path you are taking will affect
countless lives,” Maewyn said. “You must travel it with
caution.”

“If you think I’m on the wrong path, why
don’t you stop me?”

“We both know I cannot,” Maewyn said.

“But you
do
think I’m on the wrong
path?” Sorren asked.

Maewyn nodded. “You are a fool who makes
foolish choices.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“Side?”

“Atlorus wants to kill me and take my
kingdom. I’m working to stop him. You knew him, you watched him
grow up. You only just met me, and you know I’m a dark wizard.
Which one of us do you want to succeed?”

Again, Maewyn laughed and shook her head.
“The question makes no sense to me. It’s like asking who I want to
be born a hundred years ago. There is only one way your conflict
will end, and I’ve already seen it.”

“Then why are you warning me? If the end can
already be seen, why do my choices matter?”

“Because
you
are creating that end.
Don’t you understand? Just because I can see the end doesn’t make
your decisions any less yours. You know how yesterday ended, do you
not? Yet that does not mean the choices you made then didn’t
matter.”

Sorren didn’t bother trying to understand.
“I’m only wondering if I can trust you in regards to what I’m
doing. Or if your preferred path for me would lead me to my
grave.”

“An understandable concern,” Maewyn said,
“but one I can offer no help with. I can only warn you that your
current path is dangerous and foolish.”

“I hope Chronicle didn’t lead me here for
only the sake of an obscure warning.”

Maewyn shrugged. “Owls are full of wisdom and
madness. It’s hard to tell the difference sometimes.”

Sorren made no response. He twisted the staff
in his silver-copper hand, watching shadows from the blue-green
light flicker across the gray owl’s face. The old creature didn’t
seem to care. The bird just sat there, staring back at Sorren with
his wide wild eyes.

Well, what is it?
Sorren thought.
Why did you bring me here?

When no answer came, Sorren turned to go.
“Will you see to it that Thale is buried somewhere the sun can
find?”

“They’re burying him now,” Maewyn said.

As she said it, the low tones of a long bone
whistle echoed through the air, barely audible, but definitely
there. Sorren recognized the sound and the melody it played.
“Atovin’s lullaby.”

“Every night,” Maewyn nodded. “The lyrics are
right over here.” She pointed to a stretch of foreign words
chiseled into the round wall on the side.

Sorren walked over to the words, brushing his
flesh-and-blood fingers over the grooves that formed the letters,
digging out some of the moss and dirt that had worked its way
inside. “It looks like old Tavendin,” he said. “I can’t read
it.”

“I know,” Maewyn said. “You would’ve
recognized it. It’s the Candlewood Prophecy.”

Sorren glanced back at Maewyn. “Atlorus’s
mother plays a lullaby based on the Candlewood Prophecy every
night?”

Maewyn nodded. “Part of the prophecy, anyway.
Strange that she would play it while they bury Thale. Perhaps she
can sense the connection.”

Sorren imagined Thale’s body in a shallow
grave, the wet dirt swallowing him, Atovin’s shadow stretching over
the grave as she played a lullaby meant for someone else.

Sorren realized he’d been staring at
Chronicle, and something clicked in his mind.

Atovin.

The bone whistle.

The lullaby.

In that moment, Sorren understood how to
defeat Atlorus.

He turned to Maewyn and smiled. “Goodbye,
Maewyn. I found what I came for.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned to the
winding stone staircase and left. Chronicle began shrieking
again.

“Sage!” Sorren called out, striding up the
airship’s loading bridge. “Sage!”

Sage appeared in the doorway to the cargo
room, his face blank, as though he’d been pondering death for the
past few hours.

“Sage, I need you to do me a favor.”

Sage said nothing.

“You may not like it.”

Silence.

Sorren approached Sage and lowered his voice.
“We’re close to the end now. I know how to defeat Atlorus. But I
need your help, and you may not be comfortable with what I need you
to do.”