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Myranda tried to focus herself. Slowly, she felt the darkness lessen. Sensations returned to her. She opened her eyes. It was night, Myn asleep on top of her. She managed to turn her eyes to the side, where she spotted Deacon in a chair beside the bed, also asleep. Her eyes lifted in time to see a dark form vanish from the window. Lain? She tried to move, causing Myn to stir. The dragon caught a glimpse of the girl's fluttering eyes lids and sprang to her feet, still on top of her. Myn looked to the sleeping Deacon and gave a sharp lash with her tail, jerking him to wakefulness.
"What, what?" he said, before gathering his wits enough to realized that Myranda was awake. "Thank heavens."
"What is wrong?" Myranda asked.
"We lost you for two days. I was afraid we might have another Hollow on our hands," he said.
"Two days. I was asleep for two days?" she said, scratching her head and sitting up.
"Actually, two and a half. You may have given a bit more than you should have to pass that test," he said.
"But I passed?" she said.
"Flawlessly," he remarked. "Your place is secured in our records. You have gone from zero knowledge to mastery of a magic in one month. I doubt such a feat will be matched ever again."
"I am honored," she said.
"It is I who should be honored. Stay here. I will fetch you some food. When I return, I must discuss something with you that is of great importance," he said, hurrying off before she could object.
He returned to her with a bowl of the same stew and a loaf of the same bread that she had eaten every day since she arrived, save for the days that Myn would share some of her fish. He handed it to her and pulled out a book. It was not the one he usually carried. Instead, it was much older. As she ate, he spoke to her.
"When you were telling me about yourself, I was intrigued by your mark on your hand. It was familiar to me, but I couldn't place it. When I discovered that Lain had the same mark, I decided to look into it. I would like to read you a bit of this," he said.
"All right," she said.
He pulled open the cover and carefully flipped to a point near the center of the book and began to read.
"'A matter of land. Death too far south brings war. The three lands of the north join. The line is drawn. Generations fall to the blade of the enemy,'" he says.
"Why are you reading me a history of the war?" she asked.
It was a tale known to depressingly few, but the conflict that would become the Perpetual War began when, during meeting of the continent's nobility, the infirm king of Vulcrest grew ill. It was a long-held tradition that the kings of the north would be buried where they fell. Most came to rest within the catacombs beneath their palaces. On that fateful day over a century ago, the king fell on Tresson land. The resulting demands that the Tressons relinquish rights to the land beneath him would escalate into a generation-spanning war.
"A history? Yes, today this would make a fine history. But this was not written today. This was written nearly two hundred-fifty years ago, a century before the war began. It represents the life's work of our finest prophet--a man called Tober. He is the only man who ever came to this place not to prove himself, but because he knew what he would find. He spent his time here perfecting this prophecy. He believed that if he could make the development of the war clear to the finest warriors in the world, then at least we could prepare. His only fault was his completion of the prophecy so long before it was needed. By the time warriors began to enter with tales of the war, the prophecy had lapsed into legend. Upon reviewing it, many of the events he told of have come to pass already. If the rest are to be believed, then a very important time is coming. The end of an era," he said.
"The coming of the Chosen," she said.
"Precisely. I looked further, and there is a description of the Chosen. Listen to this. 'He will have the blood of a fox, a member of a creature race. His skill with all weapons will be unsurpassed in the mortal world,'" he said.
"Lain," she said, her voice an awed hush.
"Yes. And therein lies the problem," he said.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"The prophet tells of three things that will signify the Chosen when they arrive. They will be pure of soul, divine of birth, and born with 'the mark.' The prophet speaks at length about the mark, but he could never describe it," he said.
Myranda looked to her left palm. The thin white line of the scar still remained.
"He bears the mark. We do not know about the rest, but he bears the mark. And so do you. But . . . the prophecy does not speak of you. It does speak of 'a swordsman and knight, a leader among men, who will carry an enchanted sword and bear the mark upon all his armament,'" he said.
"The soldier . . . the one in the field. I took his sword. But he was dead. How can that be?" she asked.
"The prophecy does not speak of his death. The fact that you found the knight dead can mean only two things. One, that neither Lain nor the knight are the Chosen spoken of in the prophecy, and their appearance is a coincidence. The second, and far more disturbing, is that Lain is the one spoken of, which would mean that the leader of the Chosen was the one you came upon. If that is true then . . . the Chosen will not be complete and . . . the end of the war will not come," he said.
"But how can we be sure?" she asked.
"There is a way. The other three Chosen are described as well. One is an artistic prodigy, skilled in all that she puts her hands to. Another is a cunning strategist and tracker. Finally, a mystic being of unimaginable might, awaiting the day that the words of the others coax a return to the physical realm.
"Soon there will be a blue moon. On that night the mystic energies will be at their highest. That is the night that we have made it our tradition to attempt to summon this legendary being, but without the voice of a Chosen, our attempts have always been met with failure. Lain was never made a part of the ceremony in his time here, but we will see that he is this time. If he is involved . . . and we are able to summon the strength . . . the mystic creature will return. If the being appears, then we will know for certain that a Chosen is among us," Deacon said.
Myranda sat silently in the bed. She had heard the tales. The tales of the Chosen. It was a favorite bedtime story. She had pictured the Chosen as the pristine and perfect knights that populated all of the other tales. Now Lain could be one? How?
"You say if you are able to summon the strength . . . there is doubt?" Myranda said insistently.
"The night of the blue moon is a night of high magic, to be sure, and we are quite likely the greatest wizards in this world. That having been said, the mystic creature will be one of monumental strength, and we shall be tasked with creating its physical form from nothing. There is no telling if there is strength enough in the world to succeed," Deacon stated.
"This ceremony to summon the Chosen. May anyone be a part of it?" Myranda asked.
"Anyone may observe. In fact, the Elder specifically requested that you and the others do so--but participation is limited to full Masters of war or the elements. The rite is a dangerous one. A lesser level of training would leave one at great risk," he explained.
Shortly after, Deacon left her to get her rest, the revelations he'd spoken of churning in her mind.