Prophecy (The Sylvalla Chronicles Book 2)
© 2018 A.J. Ponder
ISBN 978-0-473-45107-3
This book is copyright. No part may be reproduced without permission from the author, except for fair use permitted under the Copyright Act. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand.
Typesetting © A.J. Ponder, 2019
Cover Art © Craig Phillips, 2018
Sword and Flame icons © Craig Phillips, 2018
Phantom Feather Press Logo © Geoff Popham, 2014
Thank you to: Eileen Mueller, Peter Friend, Lee Murray, Eli Ponder, Tara Macintyre, Kevin Berry, Richard Ponder and everyone who helped with this manuscript.
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The Sylvalla Chronicles
Quest (book 1 of the Sylvalla Chronicles).
Prophecy (book 2 of the Sylvalla Chronicles
Omens (book 3 of the Sylvalla Chronicles—coming soon)
The Sylvalla Chronicles Prequels:
The Secret Child (Jonathan and Capro Goodfellow must rescue children from slavers). Available FREE on most platforms including Bookfunnel)
The Secret Story (Rats, witches and a ball to forget.)
Prologue
The ancient paper crumbled beneath Jonathan’s fingers. This Maretta Prophecy, like all prophecies, was stuffed with uncertain meaning and bloated with doom. And yet the words felt as if they were written for him. That was ridiculous; Maretta had been dead a thousand years.
§
Words lie—
Twisted upon themselves,
Open to the void,
Open to the chasm,
To the noisome pits of hell.
For in this battle
words are
the darkest shadows of all.[1]
§
Jonathan swallowed down his irrational fear. Just looking at the prophecy was like taking a knife and twisting it into his stomach. Uneasy, he asked again, “So, I am to visit her gravesite tomorrow?”
Mr Capro Goodfellow Senior was bowed under the weight of his head and the overgrown beard dangling from it. “As do all Bairnsley students on their second equinox,” he mumbled through mouthfuls of hair.
Jonathan frowned, forcing himself to think of his father as his university lecturer—and one of the best magicians of this age. And not, as he’d once thought, a charlatan who thought he could do magic.
“We need to show our respect,” Mr Goodfellow Senior continued, “and bless the suffering girl in the hope her soul will find peace.”
Jonathan shook his head. “Girl?” He couldn’t stop picturing a very different girl. Sylvalla. Had she played her role in prophecy, only to be left to rot in a castle? Or did the Maretta Prophecies hold more?
Mr Goodfellow Senior stopped, peered at Jonathan over his reading spectacles, and gave a sly wink. The wink was not meant to reassure Jonathan, not really. More a, Son, you’ll find out later, eh? That’s why you’re going, kind of wink.
Jonathan turned away until he could trust his voice. “I am here to learn,” he said, rising and bowing from the room like a good Bairnsley student.
“Jonathan—don’t forget the correct words for the blessing: Rest in peace, little one, find the paths north of the moon and south of the sun. Rest in peace, hide from sight. Cast aside shade and embrace the light.”
“I still think it’s…strange,” Jonathan demurred.
What would a prophetess like Maretta think of the wizard’s use of the clumsy rhyme in their blessing? Best not to say anything. It might annoy Capro. The thought of being given yet more fasting and contemplation of poetry was too much to bear. Another night of this and he’d be speaking in tongues.
“I have explained it to you.” Mr Goodfellow Senior sighed. “Such large burdens should not be for children to bear. Her sight—however useful to us—was, to her, a curse. Nothing more. We, who most profit from her burden, bless her so she may be free.”
Jonathan nodded. This was his cue to start his pilgrimage, now, while the night was at its darkest.
He made his way to the kitchens. The large brick hearth was cold, the smell of baking stale, the ashes... The ashes hold the sword… The Sylvalla Prophecy burst into his head. But that prophecy had been fulfilled, hadn’t it? Everybody said so.
Must just be the silence, he thought. The sad echo of his footsteps replaced the usual clatter of dishes, the brassy impact of Cook’s voice across the room, and the babble of fellow students. All gone. He left alone, barefoot and carrying only a satchel of bread and water, as was the custom.
§
I was lucky enough to be among the senior staff, discreetly watching as Jonathan stepped out onto the Bairnsley paths, hands carefully folded inside his robe to prevent accidental travelling[2]. We set Jonathan on the correct path, and watched until the smooth stone around the university transformed into the rough gravel and mud paths frequented by country people.
§
Jonathan walked through a day and a night, and on through the next day, until he reached the gravesite nestled in the lee of snow-capped mountains. It was little more than a wooden marker buried in a tangle of blue and white flowers and surrounded by a jumble of steel rings, straw dolls and simple toys, intended to make Maretta’s spirit happy and help her look kindly upon the living.
Long ago, silver and even gold had decorated the wooden marker proclaiming Maretta’s resting place. Those riches were long gone. Only the inexpensive charms remained.
Standing vigil wasn’t so bad. Anything, but read another dusty prophecy. Tumbling through the sky, the angry sun blazed a trail. Villagers gathered. They pointed at him, and muttered about his odd clothes and the danger of wizards. One whispered that it was dangerous it was to sleep with one, lest any offspring be two-headed. Another quipped that wizards were anatomically different, anyway.
It was all nonsense.
At last, the first rays of the sun’s gentle sister, the moon, fell upon the wooden grave-marker. The soft light glinted on the steel rings wrought to trap evil spirits and guide good ones to the realm of the dead in time for their rebirth. Superstitious twaddle, the wizards called it. And yet the wizards seemed to have their own superstitions.
Behind him, the villagers were silent, as if holding their breaths.
Say the words.
Words are important. All Bairnsley wizards know this. They must know how to split infinities, fragment sentience, and understand the full potential of the spoken word, the ships of power that sail the world.[3]
It was such words that Maretta had so famously cursed in her prophecy, The Twins.
§
Words Lie.
They are the darkest of shadows.
§
Or was it all prophecy that she’d cursed? There had been so very, very many. And perversely, Maretta—a girl no older than ten—had issued most of them.
Say the words.
Not the words of prophecy, Jonathan told himself. The words of the anti-prophecy: the words of the wizards’ poorly-structured blessing. But the wrong words lay on his tongue, black and thick, and yes, evil.
Was this temptation? Perhaps that was all this girl and her prophecies were. A test. A wizard held power and responsibility. He had to remember to control it. Always. That’s what all his lecturers had told him anyway. If only he could...
The words of one of Maretta’s least-known prophecies came unbidden to his mind.
§
Prophecy,
Cursed prophecy
,
An unclear glimpse into an uncertain world.
Shun them all you please
Disavow
And remain ignorant until the end
Until the things once prophesied come true
And terror stalks in the wake of words,
The ships of power that sail the world.
If it haunts thee
This prophecy
Perhaps it is merely an Omen of things to come.[4]
§
Jonathan curtailed his rash impulse to say the prophecy aloud, and instead blessed Maretta’s spirit as he’d been taught—the benediction every student before him had used over the last thousand years. “Rest in peace….hide from sight. Cast aside shade and embrace the light.”
A sigh of relief echoed through the small crowd. Distantly, he could hear them chattering again.
The benediction hadn’t helped Jonathan. The words of prophecy remained there in his mind’s eye; he could not seem to push them back. And the picture of Sylvalla, the feisty, irrepressible Sylvalla came with it.
Shun them all you please.
“I am not asking. I did not come to ask—” No–that was untrue–a lie he’d told himself. But he hadn’t asked, and he’d been given an answer. An answer he never expected:
An icy breeze fell on him, as if from the frozen mountains themselves.
White and blue and black orbs floated in front of him… Eyes.
Of course those blue eyes were involved. They always were.
The princess Sylvalla!
...one must awaken to the night...
Jonathan’s stomach stabbed with pain. His head swam, and he collapsed to the cold hard earth.
§
A malnourished girl in a torn dress approached Jonathan, her mouth pursed in a determined moue. Her brown eyes sad in the moonlight, her bare feet bleeding on the dusty road.
Her dog, Radag the Faithful, cringed along beside her. A surprise, that. He’d been taught that the dog of the ancient child-prophetess was merely folk-legend.
Even more of a surprise was the shadow that swirled around the girl’s shoulders like a cloak. An absence of light in darkness, the fabric was almost impossible to see.
With a flick of her wrist, the ghostly child jerked the cloak.
Velvety gloom fluttered toward him, and, for just a moment, he caught the shadow in his hands.
A scream tore from his throat…a prophecy.
Mighty are the fallen three
Death stalks, evil walks,
My words,
My gift to thee.
Jonathan spasmed. His eyes bulged, and flicked from side to side, as if he were watching visions they could not see. His mouth moved. Mumbling words that tumbled out, unheeded.
Villagers came running. Someone tried to pick him up. Dust him off.
His fingernails broke as he clawed the dirt. His tongue protruded.
And then they realised what he was saying…
“Flee the tempest when it finds thee
“And bound to paths that cannot win free
“Lose all there is to lose
“From your victory will come ashes–”
Hands over their ears, the villagers backed away in horror. Then they ran, ignoring the stooped long-bearded man who pushed purposefully past them.
§
Mr Goodfellow Senior stopped, leaned heavily on his staff, and stared at the scene in front of him. He shook his beard in disbelief. Should he interfere? Were his instincts overly protective? He was supposed to be lecturer, not father, here. His job was to follow the pilgrim secretly, and only reveal himself in great need.
It was traditional. Five hundred years ago this trip had been dangerous. Students had died. Now it was thought to be barely more than a rite of passage for young wizards to gain strength, courage and wisdom, through the simple act of thinking of someone smaller and less fortunate than themselves.
Jonathan spasmed, words tearing from his throat, as if in agony.
Mr Goodfellow Senior cursed in fear. “By the gods, why now?” He reached out.
At his touch, Jonathan fell silent.
Mr Goodfellow Senior picked up his boy in arms that looked too thin and weak to carry anything heavier than lunch. Then, faster than anyone would have believed possible, he ran back down the path, and opened a shortcut. In moments he was knocking at the university door.
§
Days later, Jonathan half-woke. His father sitting in silent vigil by his bed. Jonathan squeezed his eyes closed and opened his mouth. He wanted to say something difficult and painful and terribly, terribly important…
But Mr Goodfellow Senior spoke first, “Foolish boy, what were you thinking? The ways of magic are too strong for someone who knows so little. You were there to observe. To say the benediction. Nothing more.”
Jonathan almost cried in reply. He had an Answer. It was on the tip of his tongue–but he couldn’t quite say it. He had forgotten. Forgotten everything but the staggering importance of it all. Instead, all he said was, “Capro, I am no longer a boy. I can do a little more than Granny’s Cure All now. I’d have thought that would make you happy. I’d have thought you’d let me tell you about the girl.”
“Girl?” Mr Goodfellow Senior enquired.
Eyes shut closed against the world, Jonathan said, “The girl was really important.”
“Which girl?” Capro asked, roughly shaking Jonathan by the shoulders. “Which girl? Damn that Prophetess for getting under your skin. Did you mean Maretta? Or was it Sylvalla? Which girl?!”
Jonathan frowned. Forcing himself up from the pillows. “Girl?” he said. “Was I talking about a girl?”
Trouble: Part 1
Arg, but Chaos is a Mighty Enemy
It Delights in Bad News
On the Wings of Butterflies.
NAME:Sylvalla.
CLASS:Ruling.
FAMILIAR:With horse and sword.
SPECIALTY:Escapism.
RÉSUMÉ:Princess Sylvalla’s unseemly behaviour is the talk of the kingdom.
The tales of Sylvalla’s wild adventures, wandering the countryside with ruffians and wizards are no doubt, exaggerated. As is the outlandish nonsense about her killing monsters and even dragons.
Still, all this might have been hushed up, except for the demands from the neighbouring kingdom of Scotch Mist that she be brought to justice. The crimes she stands accused of are as follows: threatening a King; attempted Regicide; threatening an innkeeper; inciting riot; thievery; murder; mass murder by way of ordering the death of twenty-five fully-armed and armoured peasants; and improperly controlling her liege-man, Dirk, who stands similarly accused.
Sylvalla’s parents still hope the King of Scotch Mist will forgive her once she has thrown her childish fantasies of adventuring aside and settled down to the pastimes that befit a young princess. To this end, they have betrothed the young lady to the handsome Francis, long lost and very-recently-discovered Prince of Havendale, whose worthiness was proved by pulling a sword from a stone.
Sylvalla’s parents have also employed, at great expense, Mahrawyn, an exemplary young lady in waiting, in the hope that her guidance will make a positive impression.
PASSED: KILLING, SWORD FIGHTING, HAND TO HAND COMBAT & ARCHERY. Under protest she also scraped through: DIPLOMACY, DEPORTMENT, READING, WRITING & ARITHMATIC. (Arithmatic being a fancy word for a subject that is little more than addition, subtraction and multiplication and so shouldn’t be confused with arithmetic and the more advanced concepts of mathematics.)
FAILED: TAPESTRY, ETIQUETTE, TAPESTRY, ETIQUETTE, SEWING, ETIQUETTE, ETIQUETTE, ETIQUETTE.
§
Sylvalla stood on the battlements of Avondale, digging her fingers into the rough stone of the crenulations. Her gown, and her golden hair—held by a few delicate golden pins—catching the wind. She’d stood at this spot all morning, waiting for the hunting party to leave. She twisted her matching golden handkerchief around and around her fingers, determined
not to wave them goodbye—not even to commit the smallest gesture that could be misinterpreted as such. For it was not love that kept her here, the very picture of a princess newly-betrothed. No last lingering glance at her beloved that kept her rooted to the spot so long after her mother had slipped back into the castle to enjoy the unaccustomed peace and quiet.
“Fools,” Sylvalla said to nobody as the dim winter sun, its light stabbing through grey clouds, finally reached its zenith. “The slack-jawed, know-nothing idiots didn’t take me. Wouldn’t take me.”
Sylvalla cursed some more as the horses wheeled and the men set off. Biding her time was such a good idea—Francis had said so. Dirk as well—only they didn’t have to wait about in a draughty old castle with nothing to do.
Sylvalla gripped the unforgiving stone until her fingers ached. It was such a horrid thing to call a person a girl and take away the rights afforded to the other half of the world.
When the men were gone—and the last mote of dust had settled—Sylvalla unwound her golden handkerchief.
“Sylvalla!” Mahrawyn’s voice cut through her reverie.
Sylvalla let the handkerchief fall free. It fluttered over the battlements catching a ray of light, before being snatched up by the wind and carried away.
“Sylvalla, there you are. It’s time for your lessons.”
§
Sylvalla clutched the quill, scraping it across the parchment in blotchy scratches. “I cannot be bothered with this nonsense,” she said, not entirely to Mahrawyn, who grimaced and concentrated harder, either on ignoring Sylvalla, or improving the already perfectly neat rows of figures beneath her pen.
Sylvalla tried to take a calming breath and failed utterly. Which instrument of torture she should throw out the window—the pen, the parchment, or the ridiculous corseted dress?
“Please, Sylvalla.” Mahrawyn grimaced momentarily before forcing a smile. “We’ll soon be done and then we’ll see your brother. He’s so cute, I think…”
Sylvalla flinched. Her quill she was holding broke with an inaudible snap, spattering ink over the page. And the stupid dress. “Damn it all to Hades,” she cursed, not caring that this was the sort of curse favoured by loud brash males proving to the world how unshockable and daring they were, and not the curse of a princess about to marry her dashingly-handsome prince charming.