Prophecy's Children: Chapter One

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“This meeting will come to order.” Martyn, the Lord Councilor of Jaharta, sat in his chair, gazing around the room at his advisors.

“Could you,” drawled Lindjer, “tell us why, exactly, you chose to have a meeting at this hour? Could this not have waited until morning?”

Martyn barely kept himself from throwing an irritated look in Lindjer’s direction. He kept his eyes fixed on the papers he carried as if they might disappear should he look away, and simply said, “No.”

“Well, we are all at your beck and call.”

This time Martyn couldn’t help but glance at the man sitting near the back of the small room. The words weren’t particularly incendiary, but Martyn couldn’t bear the mocking tone.

Lindjer smirked back at him, tapping a long brown finger on the enormous oak table that filled most of the room.

“I have an important announcement that cannot wait,” said Martyn, knowing he sounded petulant, but he had more important things to worry about then the irritating advisor he had inherited nine years ago from his deceased father.

“Of course, my lord,” said Lindjer. Tap tap tap went the finger. Martyn gritted his teeth and tried to focus on the other four men in the room, who were at least pretending to wait patiently for the meeting to start.

He set the papers down on the table and took his seat at the head of it. It still felt unnatural to sit in the high-backed gold-trimmed chair. For the first forty years of Martyn’s life, only his father had ever been allowed to touch it. “First, is there any other business?”

“I thought you had an announcement to make,” said one of the other advisors, a man named Fevir.

“I do,” said Martyn. “But as we’re currently all gathered here we might as well give our regular reports for the month.”

The advisors shifted in their seats. Martyn clearly saw Lindjer roll his eyes, but pretended he hadn’t noticed. It was his fault the regular reports hadn’t been very regular recently, but he had other things to think about. He looked around the table at his five agitated advisors. Fevir stared at him, eyebrows raised. Jyt wrung his fingers nervously, obviously discomfited by the silence that had descended upon the group. Marow seemed fascinated with something on the opposite wall. Martyn’s gaze stopped on Lindjer, who stared back, that infuriating smirk still on his face. Martyn had never felt right-footed around Lindjer, for whom every statement was precisely calculated to seduce as many to his point of view as possible. His words were charismatic, convoluted traps, his actions more so. Lindjer frightened him, if Martyn was entirely honest with himself.

In the nine years since becoming Councilor, Martyn had often pondered upon some excuse to dismiss the man from his Court. But advisor was a lifelong position, and normally a Councilor would be unable to dismiss one without showing irrefutable evidence of criminal activity. Even if Martyn got around that, dismissal would look suspicious. Lindjer, an Arkijti knight who had risen quickly in the ranks of the Ceenta Voweiian High Army until he was appointed advisor to the Court eleven years ago, was young and well-liked by the nobility of the city. Dismissing a favorite representative for no reason would not sit well with Martyn’s citizens.

Martyn sighed, aware that the silence had stretched on too long. All he wanted was to leave the cramped little room. Whose idea had it been to start holding meetings there? “Is there no business at all?”

Quann, the fifth and final advisor, cleared his throat, and said, “Yes. The number of merchants coming to the Fairs this year is low. I believe it may have something to do with this perceived barbarian threat.”

Martyn sighed. Every Spring the barbaric Cottock tribes emerged from their primitive winter homes in the Savage Lands, the bloodlust sharpened by long confinement, and laid siege to the northern borders of Ceenta Vowei. And every Spring the Emperor’s army beat them back. No Cottock had ever gotten near Jaharta, the capitol city nestled safely in the rolling hills at the center of the empire. Still, every year the Emperor sent the warning to keep watch, and this inevitably led the Jahartan citizens, a ridiculously high number of whom seemed to be doomsayers, into panic.

“I believe it is nothing of the sort,” said Lindjer. “There were barbarians when your father was Councilor, and his father before him. The Fairs did splendidly until approximately nine years ago.” He looked at Martyn.

“Do you have a grievance, Sir Lindjer?” snapped Martyn, feeling the beginnings of a headache.

Lindjer looked for a moment like he was about to speak, then shrugged. “No.”

Martyn turned back to Quann, and thought he saw something like guilt cross the advisor’s face. But Quann looked back at him with a neutral expression, and Martyn dismissed the thought.

“Attendance, I assume, is still high at Lake Armand.” As much as Martyn hated to admit it, Lindjer was right in that it wasn’t just barbarian threats keeping the merchants away. For the past nine years he had tried, and failed, to reverse the decreasing value and popularity of the annual Market Day Fairs, one of Jaharta’s main sources of revenue. In his father’s time the traveling foreign merchants who were the lifeblood of the Fairs had already begun to shift their allegiances toward a similar festival held in the neighboring province of Armand. During Martyn’s time that trickle had turned into a flood. He had been unable to figure out why the shift had started or what to do about it.

Quann shrugged apologetically, and continued, “As a result, I am predicting low revenue this year, so we must cut back on frivolities this winter.”

“I will remember that,” said Martyn. “Thank you, Sir Quann. Is there anything else?”

Beside him, Fevir yawned.

When no one else reacted, Martyn continued. “I received a message this afternoon from the Ryn.”

Everyone in the room sat up a little straighter, even Lindjer. Martyn allowed himself a smile. He had been pleased to hear from the Ryn, ruler of the Jahartan province and real royalty, only one rank below the Emperor himself. “One of his High Advisors has recently passed. I have been chosen to replace him.”

“An honor!” said Marow, looking excited.

“The Councilors of Jaharta have a long history of becoming High Advisors,” said Jyt. “Though it has been many generations since the offer was last extended. You will accept?”

“Of course he will,” said Quann.

“I think that would not be wise.”

All heads turned to Lindjer. Martyn briefly closed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Atro is only eight,” said Lindjer. “You would make your only son Councilor so young?”

“No,” said Martyn. “An excellent point you bring up, Sir Lindjer, but I have permission of the Ryn to remain Councilor until Atro is of age.” He hoped Lindjer would leave it at that.

“Provided he lives that long,” said Lindjer.

The other advisors shifted uncomfortably and looked at Martyn, who summoned every ounce of willpower he had not to scowl at Lindjer.

“He is not near dying,” said Martyn. “He suffers only from a common childhood illness.” This was a lie, and Martyn hated telling it. But the advisors did not need to know the real reason for the boy’s illness.

But it seemed Lindjer wasn’t finished. “Our lives are just fleeting moments against the background of time,” he said. “The only way we can truly become immortal is through our children. Our bodies may die, but our blood lives on in our descendants.” He smiled at Martyn. “But your son is near death, and will almost certainly leave us long before he is grown. Your wife is dead, so this time there will be no miracle child to replace him.”

Jyt stood, his fingers gripping the edge of the table hard enough that his knuckles were white. “Sir Lindjer, I must protest! That is not an appropriate topic to discuss at this time!”

“That will be quite enough, Sir Jyt,” said Martyn, annoyed at the man for his clumsy attempt to avoid the uncomfortable subject, yet grateful that an attempt had been made at all.

“My lord. . .” insisted Jyt.

“Sit down and let him finish.” His head was pounding, and he had to resist the urge to banish Lindjer from the room forever. He had no right to speak of Martyn’s deceased wife so openly, nor to mock the difficulties she’d had conceiving a child.

“On the contrary, this is the perfect time,” said Lindjer. “It is at times like these, after all, that we realize how fragile our positions are. I believe finding an heir for the Councilorship is very much a business we must discuss immediately.”

“We have an heir for the Councilorship,” growled Martyn.

Lindjer leaned over the table, his gaze never wavering from Martyn’s. “I have heard the physicians can do nothing, that they have not the first clue what ails your son, nor what can be done about it, and he worsens by the day.” He straightened up, making sure all eyes were still on him before continuing. “Assuming, of course, that the unthinkable happens, it would be wise to have a secondary heir.”

“If I feel there is ever a need for that, which there is not, I will choose an appropriate advisor to succeed me,” said Martyn through gritted teeth.

“And what credentials are required for an advisor to be ‘appropriate’ for the Councilorship?” Lindjer stared impassively at Martyn.

So that’s what he wants, thought Martyn, resisting the impulse to break his gaze.

“I see,” said Quann, evidently having reached the same conclusion as Martyn. “You want to be assured of your place as next in line.”

“I am the youngest and most logical choice,” said Lindjer, smiling politely.

“I have no intention of giving over the Councilorship to Lindjer or any other advisor,” Martyn interrupted. “My family has ruled here for seven generations, and it will remain that way. It was my father’s dying wish that I keep the Court in our name.”

“My lord, if I may be allowed to speak?” said Marow. Martyn nodded at him, surprised. Marow was a quiet man and rarely talked. It was even rarer that he had anything worthwhile to say.

“You have no siblings nor cousins,” said Marow. Martyn waited for more, but apparently the man had said his piece.

“I think the honorable Sir Marow is correct,” said Lindjer. “Who, exactly, remains to hold your name except for you and your dying boy? We must face the possibility that you are the last of your line.”

“Atro is not dying,” said Martyn.

“I say he is, and you are foolish to think otherwise.” For a moment even Lindjer almost looked shocked at his own bold statement, but his features immediately flattened back into concerned politeness, though that smirk still flitted around the edges of his mouth.

It was more than Martyn could stand. “Get out, now.”

“As you wish, my lord,” said Lindjer, the picture of humble obedience.

“All of you.” Martyn pointed at the rest of the advisors.

“My lord, you are being entirely irrational!” said Marow. “You cannot be ruled by your emotions!”

“I said leave.” The excitement Martyn had felt at his appointment to High Advisor to the Ryn was gone now, replaced with anger, fear, and worry. Of course he had considered what might happen if Atro died. In the darkest corners of his worst dreams there was even doubt that the boy would survive the Summer. Lindjer was right. The physicians had never seen an illness like it. Even wasting sickness could be treated, and occasionally even cured. But nothing the physicians had done could stop whatever disease was ravaging poor Atro’s body. Martyn sometimes wondered if this was his punishment for the lies he had told and the secrets he had kept the past nine years. Atro’s protection was the only reason he had lived with his lies and told even more, and to think that it might come to nothing weighed heavily on Martyn’s mind.

Lindjer and Marow left, but the other three advisors remained sitting. Martyn looked pointedly at the door, though he made no move to leave himself. This room was part of the Court, and the Court was his domain, not theirs.

Jyt cleared his throat, but said nothing. Fevir looked at Quann and nodded slightly. Finally Quann spoke with a sigh.

“His point stands, my lord. It would be wise to plan for the worst.”

Even Quann, the advisor he most liked, was against him. “Don’t think I’m not aware of that,” said Martyn. “But I will take the Ryn’s offer, and Atro will become Councilor when he reaches his twentieth year. This meeting is adjourned.”

As the advisors filed out, Martyn sighed. But he barely had time to replay the disastrous meeting in his head before a young servant crept into the room almost immediately after the last advisor had filed out.

“Councilor Martyn?”

Martyn didn’t look up from the desk. His papers had blurred in front of his eyes. “Yes?”

“A merchant is here to see you.”

“Sir Quann deals with the merchants,” said Martyn. “I wish to be alone.”

“I'm sorry, my lord,” said the servant, “but this man insists on seeing you. He says his name is Neeln.”

Damn it. This would have to be seen to. Martyn stood up, brushing past the servant and out the door, emerging behind the altar of the large main Courtroom. He stepped down into the center aisle, walking past the stiff wooden benches that faced the dais with a severe rigidity. At the end of the aisle, just inside the front double doors, stood a tall man with thinning brown hair. Martyn, aggravated, wondered if the servant had let the man inside. No one from outside the Court should be allowed in the Courtroom when it was not in session, not even this man who had styled himself the official representative of the foreign merchants at the Fairs.

“Neeln,” said Martyn. He did not offer to shake the man’s hand.

“Lord Councilor,” replied the merchant. He wore a green velvet tunic over a clean white workshirt and brown trousers. His worn black boots looked recently polished, though dirt had already begun to settle in the creases of the old leather. It rankled Martyn, this display of the humble working man trying to look his best for nobility, because that was all it was: a display. Neeln was a clothier known for his fine work for the rich and was probably possessed of more money than most of the city’s nobility. Martyn hated false modesty, and his bias was more pronounced with Neeln, who had unwittingly played a starring role in the events that had led to Martyn’s most shaming lie nine years before. The Councilor only wished the man would leave forever.

“What brings you here this evening, Merchant Neeln?” said Martyn. “I have to say, your timing is not the best.”

“The merchants want to know what you are doing for their protection.”

“I’m sorry?” said Martyn, startled by the man’s bluntness. Protection? Outside of legal matters, when had the merchants ever wanted his protection? An independent lot, the merchants rarely bothered with the Court unless they had some grievance to settle with their neighbors.

“The barbarians,” said Neeln, drawing out the words as if he was talking to an idiot. “The threats? Everyone knows about this, so surely you must, Lord Councilor.”

Was everyone in the world determined to mock and sneer at him today? Martyn sighed, trying to get the better of his temper, and pointed outside. Perhaps he would be calmer if the infuriating man was no longer loitering inside the Courtroom. “Shall we walk?”

Neeln turned and left without a word, taking off at a fast clip that the shorter and stouter Martyn had to struggle to keep up with. After they had rounded the building that housed the Courtroom and entered the small orchard lining the back wall of the Court, Martyn spoke.

“I have to say I’m afraid I don’t see an issue, Neeln. There are barbarian threats every year. The Emperor’s army will see to them quickly. There is no need to worry that they will ever make it near the city.”

Neeln slowed his pace and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “Half the merchants are convinced the Cottocks are already here.” He raised one hand as Martyn scoffed at him. “I do not believe it myself, but there are rumors. Merchants going missing. Travelers disappearing on the road between here and Ryntre’il. I myself expected a friend, a fellow merchant from Okkland, three days back, but have seen no trace of him.”

Martyn stopped walking altogether. Merchants going missing in the boundaries of his city? Martyn had not heard these rumors, and unsubstantiated or not, it troubled him. Jaharta, and indeed the entire Ceenta Voweiian empire, was founded on trade, sitting as it did at mid-continent, the ancient and powerful empire of Kandel to the west, the city-states of Okkland to the east, and the kingdom of Arkijt, once the ruler of this very land, to the south. Merchants were why Jaharta existed, why Ceenta Vowei was so prosperous. As Lord Councilor it was Martyn’s job to attend to the foreign merchants as diligently as he would his own citizens. Why had Quann not said anything? As the advisor the merchants spoke to directly, he should have kept abreast of any and all rumors flowing through the Market Day Fairs.

“Councilor? Lord Martyn?” Neeln was talking to him, but Martyn had seen something that immediately drove away all thoughts of Quann and merchants and rumors.
A page was approaching the two of them at a fast clip, one hand firmly clamped around the forearm of a small, thin, struggling boy who was demanding to be let go at once, childish arrogance petering off into outright shrillness when he realized where the page was dragging him.

“Atro?” said Martyn. He glared at the page. “Why is he outside? Why is he even out of bed?”

“I found him out here,” said the page. “At the back of the orchard. He must have snuck out. My apologies for that.”

“Yes, we’ll discuss that later. Why are you bringing him to me? Take him back to his rooms at once.” Martyn’s words were harsh, but it had been nearly two moons since he had seen the boy on his feet, and if one ignored Atro’s pale skin, too-thin limbs, and sunken eyes, it was almost possible to believe there was nothing wrong with him at all. But being outside in the elements, especially the cool evening Spring air, would surely be the death of him.

The page gritted his teeth, glancing sideways at Neeln, who pretended not to listen. “I thought you should know, my lord, since you did ask us to tell you, that he--” another quick glance at Neeln before lowering his voice, “—he’s doing it again.”

Martyn glared at his son, who looked scared but not the least bit sorry. It had been a long time since this had happened. Sick or not, Atro’s actions were wrong and would not be tolerated. Martyn had thought—foolishly, he now saw—that Atro understood that. “Thank you,” he said to the page. “Take him to his rooms. I will talk to him later.”

Before the page could obey Atro spotted Neeln. He jerked away from the page and raised his arms. “Look what I can do!”

“No!” Martyn shouted in protest, but it was too late.

Neeln watched, his eyes growing wide as a ball of light formed above Atro’s fingertips until it was approximately the size of his head. The boy flung his hands up and apart; the ball disintegrated, leaving shattered pieces of light to sparkle on the ground while Atro giggled with amusement.

“Take him to his rooms!” Martyn snapped, finally losing his temper. This could not be happening. Neeln had seen everything. He would demand explanations. What Atro had inherited would no longer be a secret. Martyn’s thoughts tumbled one over the other as he desperately thought of something to say that would throw Neeln off, something that would protect his and Atro’s secret. There was nothing, and if the leader of the merchants knew, how long before the whole city found out?

He had already started thinking of plans to convince Neeln to stay quiet, or how to discredit the man if he didn’t cooperate, when Neeln, shaking himself as if he had been in a deep trance, finally responded to what he had seen. “What is this? Who is that boy?”

Atro was being dragged away by the page, but he heard and planted his feet, turning around and glaring at Neeln, affronted. “I am Atro, son of the Lord Councilor!”

This was getting worse and worse. Martyn had felt a moment of hope that Neeln did not recognize the boy. Perhaps he could have passed him off as a servant’s child. But that was impossible now.

“I don't understand,” said Neeln, watching as the page finally removed Atro from the orchard. “How is that boy possibly your son?” He looked at Martyn. “Explain.”

Martyn knew it was wrong, but his loathing for Neeln, a loathing that had begun long before the merchant became a speaker for the people, boiled over and he snapped, “I won’t explain myself to the likes to you. You have no right to demand it.”

Anger flashed in Neeln’s eyes. “That boy possesses natural magic, and that would mean he has salkiy blood, and I know your wife was as human as I, so where--” He stopped, his eyes growing wide. “But no . . . by the Gods, you didn't!”

Martyn scowled. Neeln was smart, he had to admit that, and now he had figured out his own role in this scandal. There was nothing left to hide now. “It was not my idea. My wife persuaded me.” He felt even worse for invoking his dead wife, blaming her for something that really was his fault, but perhaps if he could make Neeln understand the man wouldn’t spill his new knowledge to everyone he met.

“But--” Neeln visibly gathered himself and took a deep breath, the actions of a man who was trying very hard not to explode in fury. “But I took her back. All the way to Okkland. She never said anything, not a word, not a hint . . . and yet it seems she gave birth to your son, and then left him behind with you!”

“It was part of our agreement,” said Martyn. More lies, but he seized the opportunity. If Neeln believed the salkiy woman had been complicit in everything, perhaps there was hope after all.

“Your agreement?” Neeln spluttered. “You purposely got a child on a salkiy, and she agreed to leave her newborn child behind so that you could lie to your people and tell them your barren wife had finally given birth.” He shook his head. “I journeyed with Mynlai. I came to know her well. She would have never agreed to leave behind her baby and never speak of him.”

“She did.” That was the best Martyn could come up with, and he could see by Neeln’s seething anger that he did not believe him. “I cannot say why salkiys do the things they do. I needed an heir, and she was willing to give me one.”

“But why?” cried Neeln. “A salkiy! If you and your wife had given up hope of a child, why not a human mistress? It’s not an uncommon practice.”

She seduced me, thought Martyn, but he had realized long ago he was the only one to blame. He couldn’t explain to Neeln how alluring Mynlai’s brilliant blue eyes had been, how her laugh pierced him to the core and shut out the world until only she was left. She had been an addiction, a weakness he had thought he turned into an opportunity. “I was in love with her.”

Neeln ran one hand through his thinning hair, shaking slightly. “A mistress is one thing, but a salkiy? He’s your heir! Your people will never accept him!”

“Which is why they will never know,” said Martyn, staring at Neeln with defiance.

“I’ll tell them.”

“You’ll do no such thing.”

“They have a right to know!” Now Neeln did explode, his shouts ringing through the orchard. “I thought this city was about openness and honesty, that the Court was about fair and unbiased judgment in the eyes of all citizens regardless of class! Jaharta is known the world over for this. Or does that not apply to the great Lord Councilor himself? The same one who swore to have no secrets from his citizens?”

Neeln had taken on a mocking tone, and Martyn felt disgusted at the man’s naiveté. He couldn’t have anyone know that Atro was half-salkiy. He knew what the commoners thought of salkiys, the horrible stories they told. The forest-dwelling creatures with strange powers came from Okkland, and were rarely seen in Ceenta Vowei. The commoners saw them as demons.

But Neeln’s outburst did serve as a reminder that beneath the riches and the understated finery and the man’s leadership there existed only a commoner, with a commoner’s education and social standing, a commoner who was admired only by other commoners and through sheer luck and a small amount of wit had nearly reached a status none such as he should hold.

No more. It was time to put an end to Neeln’s increasing reign over the city. He was not one of Martyn’s advisors, and he would not be allowed to continue acting like one.

“I am your Councilor, and I command it,” said Martyn. “You will not spread lies about my son. If I hear that you have abused the scant power you have somehow gained over the people by telling them a ridiculous story about my son being a salkiy, you will be arrested. I don’t think either the Ryn or the Emperor would object if the charge was treason.”

“Treason?” Neeln choked. “Lies? Scant power? You can’t do that!”

“I can,” said Martyn. “I am the Councilor, and you have nothing but a few merchants worshipping your feet.”

Neeln stared at him, eyes wide, face red, body shaking. For a moment Martyn wondered if he had pushed the man too far. He felt relief rush through him as, after several long moments, Neeln took a deep breath. It seemed the man was willing to be reasonable. Surely he understood his power was nothing compared to Martyn’s own.

“What about the boy?” Neeln said through gritted teeth. “Do you intend for him to receive training?”

Martyn was momentarily thrown by this seeming change in subject. Whatever was the man talking about? Before he’d gotten sick, Atro had three tutors and lessons seven days out of every eight. The Councilor’s son certainly didn’t lack for education. “For what?”

“His abilities.”

Despite himself, Martyn let out a hoarse laugh. Was this man serious? “The last thing my son needs is training for . . . that. He’s been ordered to stop using them entirely.” He would have to have another talk with Atro about that. The boy was only eight, but it was time he started realizing his precarious position and the need for secrecy.

“It doesn’t work that way,” growled Neeln. “I grew up in Okkland. I’ve met many salkiys and I’m familiar with their ways. An untrained salkiy, half-blood or not, is a danger to everyone, most of all himself.”

“That’s nonsense,” said Martyn.

Neeln turned even redder and choked out, “I know what I’m talking about.”

“In merchant matters, perhaps,” said Martyn. “In this you know nothing, I assure you.”

Neeln spluttered, and Martyn smiled. The man was wrong-footed. Good. Now to get rid of him. “You are dismissed from the Court, Merchant Neeln. I don’t expect to see you back here again.”

Neeln still stood there, staring, until Martyn nodded to one of the guards stationed among the orchard. “See this man to the front gate please.” As a guard approached he turned back to Neeln, lowered his voice, and said, “Remember, if a word of this leaves your mouth you will suffer the consequences.”

“You will hang yourself in this lie,” said Neeln, but then the guard was there and the merchant, thankfully, left without another word.

One problem solved, thought Martyn. He wasn’t sure if Neeln would continue to attract supporters, but he would probably think twice about visiting the Court again, and once the people saw he held no real power they would forget about him. That was the way of commoners. Still, Neeln’s words echoed through Martyn’s head. The Councilor knew nothing of salkiys. In the short time Mynlai had been at Court they hadn’t spent much of it talking. Neeln was from Okkland and could conceivably be more knowledgeable on that front, not that Martyn would ever voice it outside of his private thoughts. Perhaps Atro did need a salkiy teacher, one that would at least help him control his fledgling magic so that he would never use it again. Perhaps that was even contributing to his illness. Martyn could send for a salkiy, could pretend to hire it for entertainment as he had Mynlai. The nobility would find it amusing, and the salkiy could do his work with Atro and leave as soon as possible.

Yes, that worked. He walked back to the Courtroom, climbing the outer stairs to his office on the second floor, and called for his page. “Find Sir Jyt. Tell him I need word sent out immediately that I am looking for a salkiy who wants to work in exchange for food and shelter.” He thought for a moment. “And perhaps a small income if he proves worthy.”

“Yes, my lord,” said the page, bowing.

So word is sent, thought Martyn. Now I wait.

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