Grym Prophet (Song of the Aura, Book Three) (16 page)

“It was not yet the proper time to act. The agent of Blood and Shadow was still at that time nearby. It was necessary to allow him to leave first, and to let him believe himself to have escaped, before I brought you three hither.”

That didn't sound very explanatory to Gribly.

“We have a lot of things to ask you about,” he said.

“Indeed,” agreed Wanderwillow, placing his rough, large hands carefully in his sleeves like some kind of cleric or monk. “And what is it that you would like to know?”

“What it means to be a prophet! What am I supposed to do with my life?” cried Gribly, but the other two answered just as quickly and just as loud.

“Why did my family have to die?” Elia suddenly sobbed.

“How do I prove to my father that I'm not a coward?” Lauro burst at the same time.

Utter silence fell. The three young Striders looked at each other in shock, as if speaking their deepest desires and thoughts aloud had suddenly allowed them to see each other clearly for the first time.

“Well,” Wanderwillow said, nodding wisely, “I thought as much.”

Gribly held his breath, heart pounding, waiting for an answer. Elia and Lauro followed his example, but the Aura's only response was to stretch his hands out towards them.

Suddenly the luminous being was holding a book, bound with soft gray leather and very, very old. “This,” he said solemnly, “is for the one of you Destined to Lead.”

No one moved. Gribly froze stiff, enamored with the object, so intent on what it could possibly mean that he failed to notice Lauro reach for it.

“If anyone is going to lead one day,” the prince said importantly, “it will be me.”

Sitting straighter, he put his hand out for the book, but Wanderwillow shook his head and moved it out of his reach. A look of rage crossed the prince's face, but it quickly melted into a sort of pained remorse.

“I see... the world seems entirely intent on causing me to learn humility in the most painful ways. Well, then, Elia... go on. Take it. He obviously means you, since you're the last of the Treele.”

Wanderwillow raised an eyebrow. Elia sighed.

“I don't think he means me, Lauro. You don't, do you, O Nympharch? You mean Gribly, don't you?”

The thief snapped his back straight, a thrill of fear shooting up his body and out into his arms and neck. Him? A leader? What was this all about?

“You are wise before your time, Halanyad,” said the Aura.
Why did he call her that?
Gribly wondered, but he was distracted by Wanderwillow offering him the gray book.

Offering him the book!

“Th-thank you, O Wise Aura,” Gribly stammered, standing and bowing before relieving Wanderwillow of the ancient tome. His attempt to imitate Elia's refined way of speech felt like an insulting failure, but the Aura smiled nevertheless.

“You may regret thanking me when you are done with it. Now... there is little time for explaining, for your next and greatest test is almost at hand. I need you to learn what you can from this book before the sun rises in the world of men and nymphs once more.”

“He can't read,” snorted Lauro from the background, but Gribly was too caught up in the golden-yellow eyes of the Aura to notice.

“Y-yes, Master Aura,” he answered, bowing low again.

“Now go. Enter the forest once more, just the way you came. Walk on until you come to a brook that runs in the open sky. There you may open this book and gain whatever knowledge it possesses for you to glean. I make no guarantees that it is what you wish for, nor that it will make you happy. It is only what you are meant to know.”

Shaking nervously and excitedly, Gribly bowed for a third and final time, then turned and almost ran out of the clearing.

~

A quarter mile or so into the depths of the mystical forest, he came upon the stream the Wanderwillow had indicated. Seating himself at the base of a weeping willow that stretched out to dip its fronds in the happily bubbling water, he opened the aged volume on his crossed legs.

He'd expected parchment such as was used in Ymeer; yellowed and dusty, like the scrolls of lore that he had once pilfered to sell on the black market... He chuckled at that memory, but soon became serious. This book was not made of parchment, but vellum: stronger, more pliable, and softer to the touch.

The pages were covered from top to bottom, on either side, in dark black ink. Gribly sighed. He'd hoped the Aura had known what he was doing when he gave the book to him... filling it with pictures, perhaps, or something else he would understand. Lauro had been right, he could barely read at all, and these runes were completely alien to him.

Suddenly tired again, Gribly let his head sink forward until it touched the ink of the first letter of the first page.

In an instant,
EVERYTHING CHANGED.

~

There was a babe born on a cold night in a forgotten chapel on the edge of the land. He was a healthy boy, with wisps of flaxen hair on his little round head that formed a halo of youth over his plump features. His mother was a maiden most beautiful, in the prime of her womanhood, with hair as white as snow and lips as red as blood. Her eyes were blue and her skin as pale as moonlight.

Over her, giving courage to her as she gave birth to her son, was that son's father and her husband: a man of proud, handsome features some years older than she, with hair as golden as the sun itself, long and straight. He wore no beard, but his strength and ferocity were unquestioned by all who knew him.

It was he who helped his wife give birth to her child; it was he who delivered the boy and gave him to his mother to cradle in her arms.

“Gramling,” she whispered sweetly, rocking the babe and cooing to it softly. Then the pains wracked her again, and more violent than before. Her husband quickly took the child and handed it to a man in a gray cloak who stood behind him.

It was Traveller. He glanced up, aware of the one who witnessed his story so far in the future, and his eyes spoke words his mouth had never said.

Watch, Prophet, they said, And learn from whence you came.

The prophet watched.

The woman cried out in pain, clutching at the rough sheets around her as if she would tear them with her bare hands. Her husband put his hand in hers and squeezed it tight, whispering words of comfort and strength to her as best he knew how.

Then, after an agony unimaginable, she gave birth for a second time.

“Gramlen,” she said. A chill wind seemed to blow at the prophet's face...

...As he realized that he was witnessing his own birth.

Gramlen, he thought to himself. My name is not Gribly. It is Gramlen. And the other child is Gram... the Pit Strider... my brother.

“Gram,” whispered the woman, stronger now, “Let the Aura bless our children.” Her husband smiled, nodded, and beckoned Traveller over.

By the Creator, the prophet realized... Gram. Captain Berne's pirate lord is my father!

The woman's husband managed to help her sit up in the worn but clean bed, and in a few minutes she held both babies swaddled in her arms. Traveller stood by the bedside, his staff in one hand while the other touched one child, then the other on the forehead. Both twins stopped their crying when he came near, and dropped into a dreamless, innocent sleep.

His palm was laid on Gramlen first.

“W
hen the king grows old and the world bleeds gold,

When all our hopes have come to grief,

Doubt not that we a savior need,

A prophet and a thief.”

“What do your verses mean?” asked the woman, but her husband, the man called Gram, urged her to stay quiet. Traveller's hand had moved on. His fingers brushed the brow of the elder twin, the one the woman had named Gramling. The babe shuddered involuntarily at the touch, and the gray-clad Aura shut his eyes, lips moving soundlessly. “Why do you hesitate? Will you not bless him, too?”

“Silence,” hushed her husband, but Traveller's words were audible now.

“Though kingdoms clash and lightning flash,

Though demons break the deep,

A spark is laid against the day,

When shadows souls shall reap.”

The babe's mother gasped at the grim proclamation. Even the father seemed taken aback.

“Traveller?” he questioned hesitantly.

Then all Blazes broke loose on the little stone chapel. The mother screamed.

The vision changed.

The chapel was in flames, far away so that it remained nothing more than a small glow on the edge of the night. Death had visited where no death was meant to walk.

Over a rocky hill came two figures: a thin man in gray, holding a child, and a weeping man with flaxen hair and a long, bloody sword.

“Come, Gram!” called Traveller. “My mount is close by! We can still save your son!”

“No, no, no! Blast you, damn you, give him back to me! I want nothing more to do with you!” screamed the man, stumbling along, reaching for the baby he had delivered not an hour ago, crying its heart out in the Aura's arms. “Because of you, Alwene is dead, and so is my firstborn!”

Alwene, the prophet thought. My mother. The firstborn... my brother.

“If only it were so,” said Traveller, sadly. “I fear that your son will be kept alive. The Emperor of Darkness requires him for his terrible purposes, just as badly as he requires this second child. Will you take him yourself, and have him given up to the same fate as his brother?”

“No! I will hide him where no blasted half-god can reach him! Give him back! You've torn my life apart already, and I'll have no more to do with ANY of your kind! Give... him... back!”

At the last word, Gram leaped forward to smite the Aura with his sword, heedless of the helpless babe clutched under Traveller's arm.

There was a flash of light as the gray-cloaked guardian swept out his staff. Gramling flew backwards, landing hard on his back, head lolling unconsciously to one side.

“I am truly sorry,” murmured the Aura, shaking his head. Bending down at his fallen friend's side, he breathed on him, and a mist woven of watery light descended from his lips to pour into the man.”Be healed, be concealed, be delivered,” whispered Traveller.

Then he was up again, his staff was nowhere to be seen, and he was clutching Gramlen- Me, the prophet remembered- in both arms.

Howls of fury and shrieks of pursuit sounded from the burning chapel, miles away.

Then the vision changed for a second time.