The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy

First and foremost, I must thank my wife for putting up with me and this unexpected dream. You are a wonderful woman, wife, and mother. To my children, Nikalys and Kennedy, who helped inspire me to write in the first place: thank you and I love you.

To Mom, Donna, Diane, Caleb, Nate, Jean, Chris, Jim, Dani, Charlotte, Mike, Lee, Caroline, Jessica, Talita, Kenneth, Simon, Rose, T.L., and Uriah: thank you for your help, support, and guidance. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it.

“R.T. teaches a master class in world-building with Progeny. Rich in characters and details, he pulls you through a breathtaking tale that surpasses good versus evil.”
~Jean Rabe, USA Today bestselling author

“R.T. Kaelin is one of those few new authors who understand both the importance of immersing the reader in the story and how to accomplish it. From the first word, he grabs you and holds you captive throughout.”
~Maxwell Alexander Drake, Author of Genesis of Oblivion Saga

“Overall, I would favorably compare his writing with Brandon Sanderson, Scott Lynch, (early) Robert Jordan and even a bit of David Eddings flavor mixed in.”
~LuxuryReading.com

“After an exciting adventure getting to know the characters and backgrounds of our promising heroes in Progeny, R.T. Kaelin does a phenomenal job developing these young heroes into the warriors they must become in Prophecy, the second installation of the White Lions series. This is a refreshingly beautiful coming-of-age story of courage, hope, and young love; something the fantasy genre has lacked in recent years.”
~T.L. Gray, Author of The Arcainian series

“R.T. Kaelin has done it again. Beautifully rich characters combine with an entrancing plot in a compelling dance certain to allure current and new fans of the White Lion series.”
~Living Peacefully with Children

The roar of the Lions will drive back the spawn,
And the lines of men, strong once again, will be redrawn.
Yet that which drives man’s soul will fray at the seams,
While the strength of the Lions will fade as do last night’s dreams.

Torn apart by deceit and distrust,
One will perish and One will be lost.
One will leave, while Another will stay.
And Two shall find each Other one day.
Against his will, one must fight,
While it falls upon the Half-man to unite.

Chaos will rise again, unraveling what has been made,
With Strife, Pain, and Deception in tow, lending aid.
Hidden, then found,
Willingly come around,
The Progeny must rise to lead the fight,
Along with new and old, seek to make it right.

– As recorded by High Priest en’Sul, First of Indrida
3rd day of the Turn of Lamoth, 4639

5
^th
of the Turn of Roden, 4751
, 248 years before Yellow Mud's destruction

Tandyr stared at the tiny village on the far side of the wooden bridge. A weary sigh worn from the ages slipped from his lips.

Mountain peaks towered over the settlement of Nentnay, the jagged, slate gray rock a stark backdrop to the lush, green valley in which he stood. Snowmelt from the white-capped range fed the river that rushed under the bridge, tumbling over the smooth rocks and filling the air with a vibrant, almost happy, gurgling sound. Silver fish the length of his hand stubbornly attempted to swim upstream, leaping into the air before falling back to the water to be swept away by the current. Birds warbled in the evergreen branches.

The idyllic setting had no effect on Tandyr. He eyed the village, a frown on his wide lips, consumed with tired skepticism. He noted the need to have a talk with Jhaell, his new researcher at Immylla. The saeljul preceptor had insisted repeatedly that his research pointed to one of the stones being in or near this village. Tandyr had had his doubts, even after reading Jhaell’s purported proof: a scrawled inscription in the back of an old Cartusian book about farming.

“This cannot possibly be the right place.”

Nentnay could not have been more out of the way. He had trekked for three days from Tutetup—the nearest town of any note—stumbling over the rocky, winding trail that ran along the river. What he sought should never have been left to rot in such obscurity.

He took a long, deep breath of mountain air and exhaled.

“Well, I am here now.”

He stepped onto the bridge, his sandaled feet scuffing the damp boards. Built of planks cut from the spruce pines that dominated the region’s thick forest, the bridge was coated with some sort of resin that had turned the grain a deep, crimson red. Tandyr found the color garish and out of place. This area of southern Cartu was mostly a palette of greens, stony grays, and fertile browns.

As Tandyr stepped from the bridge and onto the road that ran into Nentnay, he lifted the hem of his black robe several inches. His feet squished as he walked and the cold slime of mud slipped between his toes. He regretted not purchasing those boots from the street hawker in Tutetup.

The sun was fighting its way through the canopy of rain clouds left over from a mid-morning shower, but was losing its battle. The damp air of the valley was chillier than recent days, but most definitely welcome. Three days ago, he had been roasting in the plains of Yut.

Colossal, moss-covered boulders rose from a low-lying blanket of mist, looking like hunks of potatoes floating atop a thick stew. Carefree, happy voices drifted through the haze. Somewhere ahead of him, a chicken clucked.

The longhouses of Nentnay were built using the great, round pine trunks, stained the same crimson red as the bridge. At both ends of each structure two logs protruded high into the air, crossing one another and continuing for another ten feet, their sharp angles reminiscent of the sheer mountains to the north. Smoke curled from the tops of stone chimneys, drifting upward to become one with the foggy mist. The smell of charred wood smoke filled the air, swirling with the fresh, clean aroma of spruce sap.