The Wizard's Prophecy
Part One
by JB Starre
Copyright © 2012 JB Starre
All Rights Reserved
Contents of this ebook were serialized online at The Wizard's Prophecy (https://www.thewizardsprophecy.com) starting in ________. There may be slight variations in the text from the serialized version and the ebook version.
No reproduction without permission.
License Notes
Please do not support online piracy of copyrighted works. This ebook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the purchaser only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people, even if you received it as part of a free ebook promotion. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with or direct that person to a legitimate download site. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to one of the many other online retailers and purchase your own copy.
1
The candlelight glinted sharply off the blade of her knife as she set it on the table before her. "So," she said.
"So," he returned. His chair creaked as he shifted positions, resting his massive arms on the table before him.
"We have an agreement then?"
He nodded. "Two weeks. I'll have it for you then."
She traced the edge of the knife handle with her finger gently, languidly. "Two weeks?"
"If I said two weeks, I meant two weeks. Not a day longer. I'm a man of my word. And," he said, a hard glint coming into his eye, "I don't need weapons to prove it, either."
A corner of her mouth curled up. This one had spunk. Attitude. She liked him. But she said nothing. She was not allowed to like him.
He held her eyes for just a moment longer than he should have before looking away. Ordinarily, she would have been offended, but something about his look made her breath catch in her throat. Was he—? She scrutinized him. Dark hair. Dark eyes. But the prophecy had said the man would have bright eyes, didn't it? She would swear an oath that it did. She drummed her fingers on the table, uncertain.
He looked up at her, then glanced down at her knife. He looked up again. "Well? Was there something else you wanted?"
The candlelight flickered and, for a moment, reflected off of his eyes. She gasped. Could he know? Only three others knew about her part of the prophecy, and two of those were dead. Of course he couldn't know. But she did. Suddenly everything about him interested her: his hands, large and calloused; his broad chest; his stubbled chin. Could it be?
"Yes," she breathed.
2
He looked back up, surprised. "Yes?"
She hesitated a moment. "What is your name?"
"Greyson," he answered promptly. "Retnik Greyson." He looked at her with a degree of wonder. Under no circumstances could a commoner refuse to assist or answer a warrior of the Crown, but for a warrior to ask the full name of the commoner in anything but the most dire of circumstances—well, it was unheard of. Such a breach of conduct, she knew, would not go unnoticed. She would have to face the consequences later.
"And to whom do I speak?" he asked.
She didn't answer. It was his right, of course, to know her name in return, as per the rules of the Crown. But something about this Retnik Greyson made her pause for thought. He had spoken like a noble, and he was a bit too willing to meet her gaze. Yet the calluses on his hands, the muscles in his arms: these spoke of the true art of the smithy.
Her eyes flicked to the window of the small cottage. Already the darkness outside was beginning to lift. Details of the smithy's home began to come into focus: the fire pit in the corner, the skillet hanging on the wall. She must be gone before sunrise, riding hard back to the city. She knew what she had to do.
She stood, sheathing her knife. The candle's flame guttered out for a split second before surging back to life. "Ayalah Tarall. Two weeks," she reminded him.
She stepped to the door and was gone.
3
She rode hard through the woods, stopping to rest only when she noticed the flecks of foam flying from her horse's mouth. She sat under a tree near a stream, picking at the grass irritably as her horse wearily lapped up the water. She hadn't anticipated the need for a speedy return; this was supposed to be a routine visit, a mere errand to keep her busy and out of the king's way. She made him nervous, she knew. Too dangerous, too free spirited. A troublemaker. These things and more had been said about her. But nobody ever doubted her ability to bully the commoners into giving her what she wanted. Or, more precisely, what the king wanted.
She stood and paced across the tiny clearing. What was so urgent about this new staff the king wanted? He had been particular in the details, wary of giving her any more information than she absolutely needed: solid gold, with space for a ruby in the center of the handle. What, she wondered, could that signify?
But more interesting to her was this man, this smithy. Where was he from, and why did the king choose him for this commission? What did he know? Would he tell anyone about her breach of conduct? It wasn't the punishment that worried her, of course—twenty lashes was nothing to a warrior of the Crown—but rather the curiosity it would arouse. She kicked at a tuft of grass. Foolish. There was no excuse for it. She must be more careful in the future.
Her horse seemed to be breathing easy now. They must push onward. She must get to Gavin before the week's end.
4
Just before sundown on the second day, the iron gates of Miltinoth rose before her at last. Her horse whinnied at the familiar smells, and she patted its neck somberly. "Yes," she said, "we're home."
The gates opened for her with a screech as they approached. "Hail, Warrior Tarall," one of the guards called.
"Hail, Olikai," she returned with a smile. She and Olikai had trained together, and he had earned her respect—and then her friendship—by besting her at swordfighting. To this day, he was the only warrior she'd met who could accomplish such a feat.
She led her horse through the twists and turns of the city streets, ignoring the familiar sights and smells of beggars and manure, stepping over animal droppings and around tight corners. Commoners dropped their eyes to the ground, stepping aside quickly to let her by. Her horse obediently followed her through the narrow passageways until she stopped before an unmarked wooden door. She raised her fist and pounded, once, twice, then waited a beat, then pounded three more times quickly. There was a long pause, and then the door opened a crack. "Ayalah," a voice hissed. "What are you doing here?"
"Gavin, I need to speak with you," she whispered. "It's urgent."
He grumbled something, and a child slipped past the door and grabbed hold of her horse's lead. "One hour," she said, placing a copper coin into the child's outstretched hand. The door opened, and she stepped in.
It took her a moment, as always, to adjust to the dim lighting in Gavin's home. She blinked a few times. "I'm sorry to surprise you like this," she said.
"I was with a customer," he said curtly. "You know I need the money."
This stung. Of course she knew. "I said I was sorry."
A woman in a rumpled dress came out of the adjoining room. "Well," she said, eyebrows raised. She held her head high, like nobility, and her hair was black and shiny, healthy. Could this be one of the queens, or was Gavin dallying with a lesser noblewoman?
Gavin spread his hands wide in apology. "Please—"
"Not a word of it," the woman said. She looked Ayalah up and down, then brushed past her without another word, slamming the door behind herself.
Gavin sighed. "Come in, Ayalah." He led her through an ar
ched doorway into a small eating area. Light from the waning sun flooded the room through one large window on the far side, highlighting the harsh lines on his face. "Now, what is so urgent?"
She took a deep breath. "I think I've found him. The one the prophecy spoke of."
5
Gavin stared. "How? Where? Who is he?"
She explained about the smithy, about the candlelight, about his eyes. "But I'm not sure—I'm not sure how to be sure," she admitted.
He sat down heavily at the small wooden table in the corner, bare as always. "Ayalah..." He pursed his lips. "I think that only you can know. And if you think it may be this smithy—if you think you saw the eyes—then we must act immediately. Before someone else finds him."
She nodded. "I've already thought of a way." She bit at her thumb nail. "It's sloppy, but I can't think of a better plan. This, at least, won't rouse suspicion."
"You plan to arrest him." There was no question in Gavin's voice; he'd known Ayalah so long, he knew exactly how she thought.
She nodded. "You think it's a bad idea?"
He watched her biting her nails for a few moments before responding. "I think it's unfair to him."
She dropped her hand to her side in surprise. "What?"
"You might be better off being honest with him. Tell him the truth."
"Are you mad?"
"Not entirely." He grinned. "But you're hiding something from me."
She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. She said nothing.
"Ayalah."
"I asked for his name," she blurted out. "And I told him mine in return." She waited, but Gavin didn't speak. "I was just so curious. Something about him—I don't know."
Gavin was nodding. "Even more reason to be honest with him. He's the one."
"How could you possibly—?"
"You just told me. You're biting your nails, Ayalah. You haven't done that since you were a child. And you asked his name! What were you thinking?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. What will I tell him?"
He scratched at his beard. "I think I've got an idea."
6
She pounded on the door of the smithy's cottage and then waited, tapping her foot. Gavin's plan seemed like a sound one, but if she made a wrong move here, the whole thing would fall apart.
The door opened. "Hello," said Retnik Greyson. His eyebrows were raised, and his face was covered with patches of a black residue. Soot, maybe. "You're early."
She knew it. But she didn't plan to admit it. "Is it ready?"
He stared. "I—no, I've been working on it all week. It won't be ready for another couple of days. You said two weeks."
She nodded. "I did. And it has now been two weeks."
"What—?"
She pulled him out onto his doorstep. It was twilight; a few curious neighbors watched from their windows. The red stripes decorating her leathers marked her clearly as a warrior of the Crown. "Do you call me a liar, Smithy Greyson?"
He shook his head. "Of course not."
"If you don't have the king's order ready, I'll have to take you in for questioning."
He gaped at her, but there was nothing he could say. No one had seen her the last time she was here, in the middle of the night, so he could not appeal to his neighbors. It was her word against his, and unfortunately for him, her word carried much more weight.
"Perhaps," he said in a level voice, although she could see a muscle in his jaw twitching, "you would like to come around back and see how it looks so far?"
"I'm afraid we're in a rush," she said, shaking her head. "If you can finish it on the road as we go, I'll try to ensure that you get off with just a warning."
In fact, she intended to do quite the opposite.
"How kind of you," he said. There was an edge to his voice that made Ayalah remember his massive arms, their brute strength. He beckoned toward his door. "Would you care to come in while I get my things ready to go?"
She entered warily. He wouldn't dare hurt her here, before witnesses, but what would he do once the trees sheltered them? She rested her hand on the pommel of her sword and watched him gather his supplies.
7
They traveled in tense silence through the trees for a few hours, Ayalah on her horse and Greyson on foot. Finally, he spoke up. "Are prisoners allowed to sleep?"
A pang of guilt registered, but Ayalah knew they were still too close to his town for her to speak openly. "Yes, of course," she said. "Let's stop here for the night."
The spot was nothing special, but it seemed safe enough. She tied her horse to a tree and began to gather branches.
"Let me," said the smithy, taking the branches from her. She hadn't tied his hands together, against her better judgment: he'd needed them to carry his supplies, so she'd kept him on a rope, close enough so he couldn't run away, far enough so he couldn't cause any mischief without giving her enough time to draw her sword. Now he squatted down and began to build up a fire. She had brought two blankets in expectation, and he took the one proffered to him without a word. It was still spring, and the nights were warm, so he kept the blanket balled up, stretched onto his back, and tucked the bundle of fabric behind his head. "Don't you sleep?"
"No." She shrugged and sat by the fire. "I'll keep watch."
He raised an eyebrow but did not comment. Soon his mouth hung slack, faint snores blending with the chirps of the crickets around her.
Ayalah didn't take her hand from her sword pommel for many hours.
She woke him early and they continued onward, deeper into the trees as quickly as the smithy could go. He was plainly a tough man, accustomed to hard labor and lifting heavy objects, but not, it seemed, to wandering through the woods for over a day on foot. He began to wince when he walked, and then to limp, and finally Ayalah stopped altogether. It was dinnertime; the sun was beginning to set.
"What's the problem?"
"Nothing."
"Are you injured?"
He shook his head. "I'm fine. We can keep going."
She nodded. They were near the stream she had stopped at the week before. She led the way to it and dismounted. "Let me see your injury."
"I'm not injured."
With one smooth movement, she drew her sword and leveled it at his throat. "Your injury," she repeated.
"Ah," he said, "so you've resorted to your weapons again." He didn't smile, but Ayalah couldn't help but think he was somehow mocking her. He set down his tools, sat on a fluffy patch of grass, and removed his shoes obediently. His feet were covered in blisters and blood.
She nodded, sheathing her sword. She'd experienced something similar during warrior training. "Cool your feet in the water," she instructed. She turned to root through her saddlebags. She must have some bandages and med—
She felt the cold of steel at her throat and froze.
8
"Step away from the horse," the smithy said. She obeyed, careful not to move too quickly and nick her throat on the blade he held to her neck.
"I was trying to help you," she said through gritted teeth.
"I want to know what's going on, and I want to know now," he said. He was speaking into her ear in a soft, deadly voice, and she shivered.
"I'll tell you," she said, "but you don't need to threaten me to hear it." Something about the way her words echoed his bothered her, but she pushed it from her mind.
He spun her around, his face inches from hers, blade still leveled against her throat. He searched her eyes for a moment.
"I was going to tell you anyway," she said. It was the truth. All at once, he nodded and stepped back, the tension broken. She released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her instinct at seeing his guard lowered was to immediately counterattack; her fingers twitched in the direction of her sword, but she controlled herself.
He sat down next to the stream and eased his feet into the water, grimacing as the water lapped over his cuts. She forced her muscles to relax. He wasn't attacking her,
merely defending himself: she knew this. She took a deep breath. "If I try to find some bandages for you now, are you going to assault me again?"
He grinned. "No."
She found the bandages and medicated cream and handed them over. "You should get better boots," she observed.
They looked at each other in silence for a few minutes. "Ayalah," he began.
"Warrior Tarall," she corrected him sternly. Just because he knew her name didn't mean he could use it freely. And besides, she was a warrior; he was only a commoner.
He nodded. "Warrior Tarall, then. You know as well as I that it hasn't yet been two weeks."
She was sure nobody was following them. There was no point delaying the inevitable any longer, she decided; may as well be as blunt as possible. "I plan to bring you to the king under false charges of refusing to serve him," she said. "And, what's more, to allege that you attacked me along the road and deserve to be sentenced to the dungeons."
"The—!"
She held up a hand for silence. "But I intend to secure an alternate punishment. That you travel with me and learn to carry out the king's punishments."
At this he made no sound. His mouth hung open; his hand hovered somewhere between an appeal and an accusation, palm up to the sky but finger pointing at her. "Why?" he finally asked.
"I believe you're in danger."
"You believe..."
"That you're in danger, yes." She squatted before him and whispered. "What is your part of the prophecy?"
"My what?"
"The prophecy," she hissed. This smithy certainly didn't seem to catch on quickly. "I think you're in danger because you have a piece of the prophecy."
"Me?" He stared at her. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Fine." She stood up again. "Keep your secrets—for now. But if that part dies with you—well, I'll just have to make sure it doesn't."
"And what makes you qualified to protect me?"
She shrugged. "I have secrets of my own."
9
They took turns riding the horse each day, and each night Greyson built up the fire and worked on the king's staff while Ayalah hunted and cooked their dinner. On the third such night, she interrupted the smithy's work.