It shall begin upon the waking dream of remembrance. She who slumbers and forgets shall arise whole.
Fourth Book of the Prophets
Anguish tore through the silent night. The bitter pain sank into Azrath’s bones and shuddered along his soul. The sky quivered and clouds raced along the heavens to cover the full moon and twinkling stars. The small creatures of the fields shivered and quaked from the safety of their burrows.
The air held its breath with him, mourning the demise of the last child born to the great Mother and Father of All.
But the serpent couldn’t harvest any joy from the seeds of death it planted in the babe’s heart. Though its mouth still gaped in a wide grin, its severed head lay discarded in a thick pool of congealing blood and dying grass. Its death meant less than nothing. For the Dark Lord was coming. The serpent was but the harbinger.
Sleep fled and with it the vision. Azrath jackknifed up, gulping air like a fish upon land.
“I’m in bed, safe.” His throat ached from words pushed past raw flesh. He ignored the pain. He needed the sound, a tether to reality amidst the tumble of dreams within his mind.
Flashes of light exploded behind his eyes as vision upon vision assaulted him. “Ughhh.” It felt like shards of ice had dug their way into the tender tissues inside his brain. Bent double, his fingers tunneled through his hair and pressed against the skin, massaging.
The cool brush of fabric against his sweat-soaked brow eased the ache. Old and careworn, the thirty-five year old blanket had been a gift from his mate celebrating the birth of their son and daughter. The silky threads caught on his callused fingertips.
When most of the pain had receded and his mind cleared, Azrath straightened. Wooden panels and multi-paned windows turned to hazy outlines. Rich umber bled into foggy, white mountain peeks. “Too soon, thought it was safe.”
He squeezed his lids shut. Choppy snippets of half-remembered visions tumbled about like coins in a bag: tiny lips, damp and perfect, suckled at his mother’s breast, cradled safe in her love. The serpent: frantic, jaws working, pumped death into the child’s small tender heart, as it twitched and jerked in ecstasy. Keening wails echoed across the empty plains. The father: arms bloodied from battle, tenderly holding his wife and dead child.
Grief twisted the Father’s rage into an unimaginable wrath. The children of the gods now cowered in fear of their Father, their prayers lost.
Emotions so strong and fierce overlay Azrath’s. “Sweet Mother, please ease your child’s suffering.”
Twin tracks dampened his ruddy weathered cheeks. Strong arms wrapped around and held him. Azrath comforted himself, because there was no one else to hold him.
Father, he was pathetic. What a pitiful display of weakness. Accept the life you chose. Sniffling, Azrath swiped an arm over his face. The soft fabric of his shirt gathered the tears, wicking them away.
Breathing through his mouth, Azrath attempted to settle the foreign emotions jammed into his brain by the vision the Mother of All sent to him.
His private domain consisted of a small series of rooms within the vast Council complex set in the heart of Iliani Prime’s capital city.
A table, made of glittering orange glass, was crammed next to a high-backed chair. Another made of cream-colored wood had been shoved in between a blond wood dresser and a corner. All available surfaces, including the floor, teetered with stacks of data discs and crystal storage devices. They warred for space with ancient scrolls and odd trinkets, collected over a lifetime spent in search of the truth.
“Blessed.” The word slipped out, harsh and dusty. Bile, bitter and sharp, replaced the sticky sweet taste of death.
You did ask for a true vision instead of the usual riddles. His companion Enyat’s mind-voice settled into Azrath’s head. The raptor blinked at him from his perch tucked under a series of casement windows that stretched the length of one wall in the octagonal chamber.
Azrath shoved his sweat-drenched hair off his face. When did you get back?
Long enough, you push yourself too hard. Your strength is not adequate to continue on this path.
Azrath’s hand sliced a jagged streak through the air. “I do what must be done, no more.” He reached for the data tablet resting on the shelf next to his bed. A loud clatter sounded in the silent room.
Ashamed at his clumsiness, even alone, Azrath linked his hands together. Knuckles bulged and his fingers squeezed tighter in an effort to hide the tremble. Deep grooves and discolored scars puckered the flesh, marred from a lifetime of battle and death.
Had it all been worth the loss of his soul bond? The passing over of a life filled with happiness and laughter? He pulled the dark red sleeves of his tunic over his hands. Yet another question he couldn’t afford to answer.
A frigid breeze blew in the open window next to Enyat’s perch. From the height of his sleep chamber Azrath could see the numerous spines of the sacred Weboin Mountains pierce the sky.
He loved his homeworld. Iliani prime, a gigantic globe of perpetual frost and snow, was his refuge. Huge hoarfrost beasts roamed its surface tundra and crowded along the sole unfrozen water source, a great sea that cupped halfway around the middle of the planet.
Careful of his shattered strength, Azrath picked up the data tablet.
A soft chirrup, followed by a shuffle of feathers preceded Enyat’s words. My friend, please slow down. There is time for rest.
Azrath ignored the raptor and continued to work.
Enyat invaded his nerves and synapses, and merged their eyesight. Stretched out under the blanket, his long legs ran the length of the sleep nook and his back was pushed against the wooden paneling that served as a headboard. His silver hair hung in limp damp strands past his shoulders and across his chest. Pained white-blue eyes stared out of a pale, hollow face. Even bowed with premature age, his seven-foot-one-inch frame was still lean and powerful.
“Enough.” Azrath separated his mind from Enyat’s. The words on the data tablet blinked at him, a reminder of his oath.
Two quick strokes of the stylus divided the screen into three sections. He highlighted and transferred bits of the Fourth Book of the Prophets, the notes jotted down during and after the vision each into their own column. A comparison of the three often exposed the message hidden within jigsaw puzzle of pictures and words sent to him by the Great Mother.
Excitement buzzed along his nerves. “Enyat, I found it.
"From the Prophet Bal’wer:
"‘When the heart of Dark turns to the light, and bows to the Blessed One, then two shall be united.
"'When the Hunter from the frozen lands stalks and catches the other half of his soul and binds them together, two shall stand as one.
"'Then she who is blessed shall stand between the Dark One and the Hunter and unite the three.
"'Together they will rend the Dreamer from the Waking.’”
By the time he finished the passage his voice shook and tremors once more wracked his body.
Accustomed to the weakening of life and limb, Azrath was soon back taking notes. Crosschecking references. Each passage confirmed his belief. The time of the Prophecy was at hand.
A single breath, in and out, calmed Azrath enough to speak. “Enyat, please contact Fanru, have her send Starke to my study.”
Time to move. The back of his legs brushed against the edge of the bed. Azrath rubbed the soles of his feet against the flower-patterned rug. Its heated silky strands tickled the soft skin between his toes.
As Tu Ba Al, head of the Council of the Seven Sects, he could have demanded a larger room, but Azrath was comfortable in the small paneled octagon. So he stayed.
Seven of the walls had been carved with a symbol. Each polished section represented a different Iliani Sect. The last wall, the one that contained his bed, had the symbol of his position carved into it. To the subtle Iliani it was a loud reminder of his responsibilities.
Their beveled edges gleamed in the dim lights set along the high crystal domed ceiling. Azrath picked his way over to an all but invisible closet door tucked into one of the walls.
He stripped out of his sleep robe and changed into a simple dove gray tunic, deep blue trousers, and warm dark gray over robe. He opened a concealed compartment and gathered the tools he would need when his student arrived.
The Iliani loved smooth lines and like all the other doors, the one connecting this room to his study was invisible to the untrained eye. A push and a softly spoken ‘open’ revealed a dimly lit corridor spanning the thick walls of the complex. Recessed lights flickered on, programmed to recognize his body’s biorhythms.
Not until Azrath completed setting up and had settled in, did he allow his simmering elation to boil up. After all the long years of waiting, his whole life came down to this one moment, fulfillment of the Fourth Prophecy of Light.
That he would live to see it was a joy he never expected.
A quarter hour later Azrath stood side by side with his favorite student. Starke was furious with him. It showed in the tense line of his shoulders and harsh clip of his voice. “By the Father, I can’t see anything. What is that?”
A small light globe formed and floated free from Starke’s hand. It shed scant illumination on the dim area above the scrying bowl that Azrath had set up on a table in the center of the octagonal study.
Strong-willed and even-tempered, Azrath had always admired his favorite student’s intelligence and loyalty. The loss of temper and foul language issuing from Starke’s lips assured Azrath that he’d been right. Starke was the Hunter foretold in the Fourth Book of the Prophets.
Starke leaned forward, his enormous tanned hands white from his grip on the edge of the waist high table. Azrath feared the clear crystal would shatter under the strain.
The skin stretched over Starke’s high cheekbones was smooth and ruddy from time spent training on the tundra and his nose settled in straight, like a blade cleanly parting his face.
A black image filled the bowl. Deeper, denser than the woods it passed, the shifting wing of dark glided through the twilight.
Starke hunched closer. His gray eyes dilated and his breathing grew shallow. His voice, a gruff half whisper. “Her?”
“Yes.”
His student pulled his gaze from the image in the scrying bowl. “What is that thing? A cloak?”
Azrath pretended to study the glimpse of the future he called. Very few outlanders had seen a living cloak of the Andalian, bringers of justice, and lived. Azrath had no only seen one but he’d owned one, a mating gift from his Olandra.
“Yes.” The cloak swept wide, whipping up into the air, edges spread. Then like a dark raptor descending on its prey, it enfolded her in its embrace. The trees blurred as the vision followed the rapid pace set by the woman, yet the cloak still hid her face.
Azrath didn’t need to see her. He knew who the figure was. His daughter’s soul sang to his.
Sweat dripped down the center of his back and his heart squeezed in a rapid tattoo. Watching his daughter run for her life was hell. It mattered not that the vision was of a time yet to pass, Azrath wanted to open a portal and shove Starke through. Save her, his mind shouted.
Instead Azrath did what he always did. Made sure his expression was impassive, and waited for the time to be right.
Starke’s breath sent ripples through the viscous silver liquid, distorting the small figure. Azrath touched two fingers to his student’s arm. Starke shifted back, the image settled.
Starke’s face had paled and tightened and his gaze had grown tense. Like the slow running sap from the frost trees, realization was settling in. Good.
Azrath’s gut clenched when his daughter slipped. Starke made a low pained sound in the back of his throat.
“Get up.” Starke’s voice, an ache, rent the air. The sharp stench of fear filled the room.
She righted herself and continued to run.
Unable to watch, Azrath moved across the room and sat in one of the emerald velvet-covered chairs. A small sense of satisfaction trickled through, as his oh-so-controlled student lost it. The scent of fear, need, hope, and dread blended with the musky odor of the liquid in the scrying bowl.
Enyat’s thoughts intruded. Did you doubt he was the one?
Azrath answered his companion, using the silent Iliani hand language. His forearms flexed and moved, his hands wove subtle and graceful lines, and his fingers danced in a complex series of circles and symbols.
His mind skimmed into his companion’s, a supplement to the intricate movements. I suspect everything. The visions are never clear, the prophecies always obscure. But watching Starke’s reaction has satisfied my doubts. He’s one of the three. Azrath nodded. He will suit her just fine.
Enyat cocked his head. If that is so and this vision is the future, why are you not at ease?
Azrath hesitated. This time his hands lost their elegance. Angry and jerking, the once graceful lines and symbols of the Iliani hand language oozed rage, helplessness, and frustration, a perfect punctuation to Starke’s half mumbled expletives. She’s my daughter. Of course I worry for her. This is a vision of a tomorrow to come. Today she’s still in the hands of the Disciples and with all my power I can do nothing.
Wings twitched. You are not meant to do anything. This is the way the Mother and Father of All wish to bring the Triad together, you cannot interfere.
No, but I can worry.
Starke shifted closer to the scrying bowl, the movement caught Azrath’s attention.
Azrath saw the moment when the realization that she carried the other half of his torn soul, sank its fangs into Starke and shook him.
That moment, so small and precious, terrifying in its power when your bruised soul wakens, and something long asleep rouses from its slumber.
Soft whimpering pleas fill you and the dream of finally being whole seems less of a wish and more of a hope.
Teeth bared, Starke swung around. “You knew.” Betrayal, his hands slashed. “And still you showed me.”
A jagged line slashed the air, breaking the circle just formed; deceiver, it cried. Starke’s hands shaped twin forms, they linked and fell apart; friendship lost. The Iliani hand language communicated more emotion and layers of meaning than any spoken tongue could ever hope.
Starke hands continued their dance. Azrath gathered their meanings and felt the sting of every one. Anger, urgency, fear, but most of all need, poured out of the small movements.
“Where is she?” Starke demanded.
“Not yet.” Azrath stood and shuffled next to him. He trailed a long finger through the shining liquid, the haunting vision of death dissolved.
Testing his student's control, Azrath took his time and traversed the octagonal chamber. A mirror to his sleep chamber, both were crammed with various treasures, and well lived in. In one of the corners an ancient lanari hide scroll barely clung to the edge of his overfilled desk. Crammed underneath, four rare swamp bats had been preserved with care in solid crystal cases. Stacked on top of the tiny creatures were storage disks, books, and vials of smoky liquids. Azrath made a mental note to move the volatile substance before it blew up half of the fortress.
Timing, posture and control were key to manipulating Starke to take the option he least wanted. Scraps of regret tried to form a whole, Azrath stomped them. “When first I called you, you refused my summons. You said you were done, you said you were tired and wanted peace, quiet. That you’d retired from active duty.”
Azrath bowed, just a slight bend at the waist, and flared his hands out, palms down toward the floor, signifying that he held nothing over his student. “My fondest wish is for you to find the peace you seek.”
He straightened. One hand dashed through the air, his voice a razor. “But you can’t overlook responsibilities.” One hand closed, the other draped over the fist. “You are a fifteenth level Dar Balik Portaler, a warrior of the Iliani people, and as such you have obligations.” One hand relaxed, fingers stroked a soothing rhythm, the other flexed, then tightened.
When Starke would have interrupted, Azrath’s arm flashed up. Pointer extended, middle, and thumb curled, the rest lay flat against his palm; he called for obedience and silence.
“I called you for an opinion. No more.” Azrath’s arm sliced out and down. “Is Hertzal ready?" He tossed the question out and returned to the chair tucked into a shadowy corner.
The seven-foot-tall warrior stood in stunned anger. Starke’s handsome face was lined with pain, his hands fisted, and eyelids were squeezed closed.
That he pushed what must be, felt like sand squeezing through Azrath’s heart. Would it matter to the fates if a few precious seconds were lost, so that this child of his heart might compose himself?
Azrath knew the effect seeing one’s mate would have on any Iliani, let alone an Iliani Dar Balik Portaler. That Starke never wanted one, shunned the looking, and now faced the sucking draw of the soul bond was enough reason to grant him these bits of time’s passing.
Sweet Mother, what fate had he unleashed upon his daughter? One man cold and bitter, the other darker than the evil that roamed the seven pits of hell.
Azrath’s bones ached. The life he’d chosen for himself rippled like a stone in a pond, and thirty-five years later his daughter and Starke would be forced to bear the brunt of the tidal wave it had become.
They will handle the path they were given. Calm and assured, Enyat’s mind voice spoke into Azrath’s head.
They’ve never been graced with the free will the Mother and Father promised us.
Enyat’s laugh stopped him cold.
I don’t see the humor. Azrath’s hands flowed. A triangle broken open; dismay. First and forefinger flat upon his open palm; free will, the other hand crushing it; lost.
In and out, up and down, his fingers wove graceful patterns. Expressing emotions he couldn’t put voice to.
Lie not to yourself, lest you forget the truth. His companion flicked his flight feathers in an imitation of the Iliani hand language, and dismissed Azrath’s untruth. You are wallowing. Pity and doubt do not become you. Shall I repeat the lessons you already know?
Azrath didn’t answer. Enyat was right. To save the worlds and restore the balance the three must unite. The sleeper must remember and the unity must dissolve.
Starke moved back to the scrying bowl. His large hands clutched the edges, thick muscular legs splayed wide. With his head bowed forward, the thick strands of his copper-colored hair that had escaped the clip now shielded his face. His chest heaved in and out, like a bellows.
Disgust swamped Azrath as he watched Starke cope with the realization that he had a mate and his teacher wished to entrust her care to another.
This man who was a son to him wouldn’t forgive or forget the deliberate manipulation. He would see it as Azrath would, a betrayal of trust.
Desires and regret were kicked into a pit filled with what might haves. The time of the Prophecy had come and Azrath had played his part. Now it was time for Starke to play his.
#####
When he felt the rage settle to a point where he wouldn’t rip his teacher’s throat out Starke straightened. Still the word pushed out. “Hertzal!"
Fanru spit her displeasure as her mind voice slipped into Starke’s head. Control yourself.
In his mind he could feel the fur rippling along her sleek feline frame. I’m trying. By the Father’s Sword, his soul felt raw, bleeding. Gone was the strict control he prided himself on, replaced the ever-growing emptiness. He needed his mate.
"He can’t go." Starke paced the room like the caged predator he was. The mere thought of another going anywhere near her sent an icy chill down his spine. “No.”
“No?” One slim silver eyebrow arched. “Did you not report that he’d completed his tenth level? What possible reason could I have for not sending him?”
Reserve and the rules that governed Iliani society toppled. Like quick frost Starke was across the room, shoving his face into his mentor’s. No more than an inch away, their breath mingled.
Azrath scowled, his voice a harsh rumble of aggression. “You know the law.”
Starke jerked up. The musk of aggression scented the air. “Don’t preach to me about the law. My father followed the law--” Hands flicked, disgust, anger and pain leapt from his fingers. “--and look what it did to him.”
Respect for his teacher had him back to the window, hands braced on the cold stone sill. Starke blanked his mind against the thoughts of the thing his father had become.
He stalked back across the room, and snarled into the face of his teacher, "I know what I said and so do you.” Once again he touched Azrath. “You made it irrelevant. So stop playing with me and tell me what I need to know.”
The elder warrior shuddered then grew still, controlling the Iliani male’s instinctive response to aggression with ease. Better than me, Starke thought.
Azrath spread his arms, palms up: peace and welcome. “Come sit next to me and I’ll give you the answers you need.”
“I don’t wish to sit.” Once more Starke paced to the window and back. “Stop delaying me. She’s in danger. I can feel it.” He touched his heart.
Hands folded in his lap, Azrath waited. Seconds turned to minutes.
Starke did not allow himself to sink back into the deep oversized padded chair next to Azrath. Rather he rested on the edge and began to toy with one of the many precious stones that cluttered the small table.
“Please know,” Azrath placed a hand on his arm. “What I’ve shown you has yet to pass. She isn’t there yet.”
Starke stopped fiddling and met Azrath’s white-blue gaze. His mentor exhaled. “Trust me, you’ll get to her in time.”
“Are you sure?”
© 2007 Tracy J. Farrell