Prophecy's Children: Prologue

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Three shadows crept to the edge of the trees, pausing once as if to check for intruders, and then moving into the center of a dark and silent clearing. No insects sang in the surrounding forest. It was too dark for them, and too cursed. The faint gray circle of the moon, at the beginning of its cycle, offered nothing. There was only starlight, until one of the figures called Fire to a torch. The flare threw them into relief, revealing three creatures carefully hooded and cloaked. The flame flickered, the light falling upon a moss-covered stone denoting the borders of a city that was once great. In the distance loomed more ruins.

Aside from the moss on the stones and in small, scattered patches on the ground, no plants grew in the clearing. All was gone now--had been for hundreds of years--and neither trees nor animals moved to reclaim the land. The forest edge ended abruptly as if there was an invisible force keeping everything out.

The three figures did not believe in such a supernatural force, and so they did not hesitate once they were inside the clearing. They believed the forest knew the land was rotten, and that was why no trees ever grew past the boundaries of the valley. Great evil had been done there and it was not, even after centuries, purged from the land.

The tallest figure looked around sharply and whispered, “There is no one here.” He pulled off his hood, revealing an aged and lined face. The other two did the same, revealing faces just as old. While the tall one had long gray hair, the second had only a few straggly white strands left. The third still had dark hair, but a presence that showed him to be, if not older, far wearier than the other two.

“There is never anyone here, Darmon,” the one with dark hair muttered. He held the torch, and after his statement he gazed into the flame as if confirming something.

“I think we look for miracles in the wrong place,” said the white-haired one, nodding toward the ruins of the city. “Nothing ever happens here.”

“There will be no miracles, Garrin,” said the dark-haired one, looking away from the flame. “I have seen it.”

“In your Fire,” said Garrin hesitantly. “You’ve been at the Fire again, Prettor.”

“One of us must do something!” retorted Prettor. “The Fire is knowledgeable. Your Water is unfaithful and ever changing. It is never sure.”

“The Water sees far,” said the tall one called Darmon. “The Fire only wants to consume and is too impatient for any but shallow concerns. But no matter. The future is never certain regardless of the element one uses.”

“Yet we must look to something,” said Prettor.

“I only worry about you, friend,” said Garrin. “It seems you have been using the Fire more than is wise.”

“He is right,” said Darmon. He placed a hand on Prettor’s shoulder. “Keep watch on your essence lest it be taken.”

“But tell us,” Garrin broke in. “It truly says there will be no miracles?”

“No, none wrought by the Gods,” said Prettor, shrugging away the weight of Darmon’s hand. “Only mortals. They will be the ones to set events into motion.”

“How is this possible?” gasped Garrin. “The divine nature of the prophecy . . .”

Prettor spat on the ground. “The damned prophecy!”

Garrin looked around superstitiously as the sound traveled out of the clearing and echoed around the valley. “Not so loud,” he whispered.

“Why?” said Prettor. “You have said it yourself. There is no one here to notice.”

“We notice,” said Darmon quietly. He moved closer to Prettor, bright green eyes searching. They traveled over the mane of dark hair that didn’t quite conceal the pointed ears, around the white-skinned, hairless face, and finally made contact with the sallow yellow eyes. “Tell me exactly what the Fire has said.”

“We are the ones destined to bring about the change,” said Prettor.

There was silence, and then Darmon sighed. “I do not trust that.”

“You must. There will be no second chances. If the Gods cannot make the prophecy come true, then we must!”

“I fear you are too confident,” said Darmon. “There may yet be some things we have not taken into account.” Silence filled the clearing once more as Prettor met Darmon’s gaze challengingly.

Garrin, who had been watching intently, spoke. “I’m inclined to agree with him, Darmon. The Fire can tell us no more, and it is clear he is weary from using it. If we’re meant to do this, it should be sooner rather than later!”

“We are not meant to do this,” said Darmon. “We are not Gods.”

“You are overruled,” said Prettor. He gave a sound that was half cough, half barking laugh. “I have researched this. I have identified the place. It is a human domain called Ceenta Vowei.”

“Why there?” asked Garrin.

“I have heard of a wise man there . . . perhaps similar to our Araithus. He has power, but ages quickly, and with no heir. If someone is sent . . .” He nodded and a shimmering image floated before their eyes.

“Absolutely not,” said Darmon, waving a hand. The image disappeared. “Mynlai has other uses. You are nearly consumed. She is the only one left who can see into the Fire.”

“The Fire has no knowledge left to give,” said Prettor, clenching his hands into fists. “We must end this foolish waiting! She will end it for us, and become mother to the one Farras foresaw.”

“I do not like this meddling in the affairs of Gods,” said Darmon. “Only they will determine the parent to the prophesied one. We cannot do this ourselves. Mynlai will be trained in the Fire instead.”

Garrin looked uncertain, and Prettor, desperate now, grabbed Darmon’s sleeve. “Do you not want to save our kind?” he asked, eyes wide. “Do you not want the prophecy to be realized? You have worked so hard, my friend, to discover our history. Why do you fear to bring about this link to the past? He will be the one that is strong enough to bring the bygone years back to life! Bring us back to glory and our proper place!” He gestured to the ruins. “He will bring back all we lost when this magnificent city fell!”

Darmon removed his arm from Prettor’s grip. “The past is gone,” he said quietly. “It is foolish to believe we can bring it back. I am working for the future. He will work for the future. I desire this as much as you, but we are blessed only with uncertain glimpses of what will come, and must proceed with caution.” He looked pointedly at Garrin, who stared at the ground as if chastised.

“You’re right, of course,” said Garrin. “We must always be cautious.”

“Fools,” muttered Prettor. “The opportunity will pass us by.”

“If what you say is true,” said Garrin, “we still have time. Why not begin Mynlai’s training? If something should change, we could reconsider your plan.” He looked to Darmon for reassurance, and was met with green eyes full of concern. “It’s a compromise, Prettor. We aren’t overruling you. We’re merely waiting.”

“We have waited for years,” said Prettor. “You will destroy whatever chance for redemption the salkiy race has! You will bring the second destruction down upon us, waiting for the Gods to do anything! The Gods abandoned us on the day this city burned. You are praying to empty shells!”

“Such blasphemy speaks of the power the Fire has over your essence already,” said Darmon, casting a weary glance at the torch. “The Gods are not gone. They have their reasons for waiting.”

“Then she’ll be trained,” said Garrin decisively. “She’ll be trained in the art of the Fire, so that we don’t lose any knowledge that it can give us.”

“No!” Prettor protested, but his voice was small. “I have already told you, she serves another purpose. Please, let me send her! It will be the perfect union, the child will be from both, why do you not see?”

“We will train her,” said Darmon, ignoring Prettor’s outburst. “It is clear something must be done.”

“Yes,” said Garrin. Prettor said nothing. The salkiy Fire-seer had knelt on the ground as if praying, but his eyes were fixed upon the torch he still held, and the other two knew he was not thinking of Gods. Darmon held out one hand to him.

“You can trust me,” said Prettor defiantly, looking up at Darmon.

“But I cannot trust the Fire.”

Prettor glanced at the torch again, and reluctantly handed it to Darmon, who extinguished the flame. In its place he conjured ethestras light, though a superstitious corner of his mind cried out in horror at the use of the Gifts in such a cursed place. The sanity of his friend was more important than old taboos. He looked into the sky.

“Let us not meet under the new moon again,” he said. “There are evils it brings not even these ruins can imagine.”

The three salkiys broke their little group and melted back into the forest, no wiser than before, but a good deal more frightened.

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