The Children of the White Lions: Volume 02 - Prophecy (78 page)

“So it seems.”

Wren put his cup on the mantle of the hearth and glared at Nikalys.

“Tell me then. What would happen if the Cabal got their hands on that necklace?”

Broedi frowned, disappointed with himself. He had never considered such a possibility.

Jak said, “We would never let something like that happen.”

Wren rolled his eyes as a sudden rush of bright white Strands of Air whipped about the room. Nundle sat up straight and glanced at Broedi, looking for guidance. As a pair of white Weaves—both of them pure Air—came together into two very different patterns, Broedi held up a hand to Nundle, indicating he should relax. Broedi recognized both designs and prayed Wren was making a point.

The first Weave flew towards Nikalys, wrapping around the necklace before ripping it from his hand. The pendant flew through the air to land in Wren’s waiting hands as the second Weave draped over him.

The tijul disappeared in an instant. Broedi—along with Nundle—could clearly see the white Weave hovering around Wren, who was still standing by the hearth. Yet to anyone incapable of sensing or seeing Strands of Air, the tijul was simply gone.

A moment passed before Wren spoke, saying, “And now that I have the necklace and know what you look like, son of Aryn, I can find you whenever I like.” A heartbeat later, he dismissed the Weave and reappeared. Tossing the necklace back to a miffed Nikalys, he said, “The duchess is right. That should be destroyed immediately. I’m surprised Eliza ever made it. Motherhood must have robbed her of good sense.” Shifting his gaze to Jak, he added, “And you. Work on your secret-keeping skills. You just met me and you shared something as delicate as that? Carelessness like that gets people killed, John.”

Jak’s eyes narrowed.

“My name is Jak.”

Wren shrugged.

“John, Jak, Josephina…whatever. What your name is won’t matter when you’re dead.”

As was often the case in the past, Broedi disagreed with Wren’s methods, but the lesson itself was a valuable one.

The brothers glared at the tijul for a long moment before Jak spoke, his tone as dry as a desert wind.

“I’m ever so glad they found you.”

“You have no idea, Jak,” mumbled Nikalys. “A Soulwraith is more likable.”

Wren turned the full wrath of his stare on Nikalys.

“Bless the Gods! It took Aryn at least a turn to grate my nerves, but I am weary of you in less than a day. How is it possible you inherited
all
of his sanctimony yet none of his charm?”

Broedi shut his eyes and growled, “Can you
for once
show a bit of respect?”

Wren snapped, “Respect?!” His eyes were burning. “War is coming, Broedi! Hells, it’s here! Do you plan to hold their hands and whisper gentle words of encouragement throughout it?! You can be their blasted wet-nurse! I’m going to ensure they are ready for what is coming!”

Broedi began to stride toward Wren—wholly unsure what he meant to do—when Duchess Aleece stood up swiftly, her deep blue dress rustling.

“Enough!”

Her voice filled the room, bouncing off the walls and arresting Broedi’s ill-advised approach. Everyone—including Wren and Broedi—stared at the noblewoman.

Spinning around, the duchess glared hard at the tijul and said, “I have read every word of every history that I can find on the White Lions, Wren Aembyr. And may I say the stories do not do you justice.”

Visibly disarmed by what he must have assumed was a compliment, Wren said, “Why, thank—”

“I am
not
done speaking!” exclaimed the duchess, advancing on him. “The histories noted your tendency to be direct and a tad rude, but they apparently were much too kind. Your behavior here is boorish and wholly disrespectful. And what you did in the Provinces was despicable.” As the tijul lifted a hand as if to protest, Duchess Aleece raised her voice and said, “Oh, please. Spare me your justifications. I am quite familiar with the ‘greater good’ argument and I find it is often used by those too lazy to find a sweeter option.”

Wren dropped his hand to his side and remained—wisely—quiet as the duchess continued.

“Here you are among people who neither deserve nor will accept your pompousness. You
will
show respect to everyone in this room! In fact, I expect you to show respect to everyone associated with the Shadow Manes! For while you were hiding in the trees, playing god with others’ lives and freedom, we have been here, preparing to stop the Cabal from doing whatever in the Nine Hells they are doing.”

Wren was without a doubt angry, but to Broedi’s great surprise, he also appeared a touch embarrassed. Unable to help himself, a slight smile spread over Broedi’s lips. He was enjoying Wren’s tongue-lashing. As though she could sense his mirth, the duchess whirled to face him.

“And you! Temper your emotions! I cannot have you acting like this! It is abundantly clear you do not like Wren. And after we have dealt with the Cabal, you are more than welcome to challenge him. I certainly would not begrudge you for doing so. In fact, I believe I would even encourage it. But for the time being, please remember that the God of Chaos is out there, marching this way with a horde of oligurts, razorfiends, and mongrels—all led by demon-men!
That
should be your focus now! Everything else can wait!”

Broedi remained quiet, holding Duchess Aleece’s burning gaze and waiting to see if she was done. He certainly hoped so.

Jak, Nikalys, and Nundle were all staring at the duchess with awe in their eyes. A tiny, content smile rested upon Lady Vivienne’s face.

After letting a sigh seep out, Broedi turned his gaze to Wren.

“She is correct.”

With his eyes still fixed on the duchess, Wren nodded slowly.

“As water is wet.”

Duchess Aleece stared back and forth between them, eyes still ablaze.

“So we have an understanding then?”

The tijul gave a miniscule nod.

“We do, my Lady.”

“Agreed,” rumbled Broedi.

“Wondrous,” muttered the duchess. Moving back to her chair, she sat and spent a moment arranging her dress around her. Sounding utterly calm, she said, “Now. As I have just noted, our knowledge of the Cabal’s plans or motives is negligible. Perhaps we could discuss that?” Her anger was gone like last Winter’s snow.

It took a moment before anyone could manage a response. Surprisingly, Wren spoke first.

“Perhaps he or she does not necessarily need a point? During the Demonic War, Norasim’s only motivation appeared to be causing as much chaos as possible. Why would this time be any different?”

Broedi eyed Wren and sighed. Considering the tijul’s understanding of the situation, his conclusion was a perfectly logical one. Yet Wren did not know everything. Broedi glanced around the room, studying each face carefully. Nobody here did.

His gaze inadvertently fell on Nikalys. Since finding the Progeny, Broedi had viewed himself as their teacher and they, his students. Yet while in Buhaylunsod, it had been Nikalys teaching him the lesson. The young man had shown more wisdom than a boy his age should.

Contrary to what most thought, Broedi did not enjoy keeping secrets. Mistakes in his past had scarred him, turning him into a soul that held things close. Too close, at times.

Noticing his contemplative stare, Nikalys asked, “What is it, Broedi?”

He eyed them, weighing the trustworthiness of each.

Nikalys had proven himself a dozen times in the short time since Broedi had found him backed up against those fingerprick bushes. He did not know it yet, but he was every bit the leader and tactician Aryn had been.

Jak was as steadfast as any soul Broedi had ever known and, by all accounts, his soldiering skills were coming along well. Broedi did not doubt he would do whatever he could for his brother and sister, blood or not. He had no worries about Jak. Nor did he have any about Nundle. The tomble could be a handful at times, but he had risked so much to be here, and had done so selflessly.

The two noblewomen stared at him, waiting. Duchess Aleece was sitting patiently while Lady Vivienne glared at him, her hands folded atop the desk and a scowl on her face. Despite his differences with the baroness, her dedication to the Shadow Manes was unquestioned, as was the sovereign of the Southlands herself.

That left one soul.

Broedi turned his gaze to Wren. Throughout his life, Broedi had worked with many he did not like. Wren was near the top of the list. Yet the duchess was right. Personal feelings needed to be set aside. Once he did that, the decision was easy. With a sigh and a nod, he made his decision. After taking a deep breath, he spoke.

“My time with Nelnora was…different than I previously conveyed,” rumbled Broedi. He noticed Nikalys and Nundle exchange a quick glance but ignored it. He was grateful neither said anything.

With her gaze fixed firmly on him, the duchess leaned forward in her chair and said, “I trust you have good reason for keeping this from us.” Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “From me, in particular.”

“I did what I believed was best, my Lady.”

Nodding once, Duchess Aleece said, “I would hope so.” He could tell she was miffed by his withholding information, but she managed to conceal most of her irritation. “Do you plan to tell us what truly happened, then?”

“I do.”

Her chair creaked as she leaned back in it.

“Please proceed, then. I want it all this time.”

A sigh slipped from Broedi’s lips as he dropped his head to gather his thoughts. What he was about to share could not be unsaid once spoken.

“Everything I told you truly happened,” he rumbled, lifting his gaze to those in the room. “Only there was more. As the window showing Wren faded from view, I readied my list of questions for Nelnora. Yet, before I gave voice to the first, she held up a hand, halting me before I began. She reached inside her robes, withdrew a very old scroll, and handed it to me. As I accepted it, she said, ‘Read this, please.’ Curious, I moved to one of the magical lanterns lighting the chamber, carefully unrolled the scroll, afraid it might crumble if I handled it too roughly.”

Closing his eyes, he could still picture the black-ink scrawled on the time-worn, yellow parchment.

“The very instant I could, I read the first line.”

“What did it say?” asked Nikalys.

Broedi opened his eyes, looked to the young man, and said, “The roar of the Lions will drive back the spawn.”

Confusion flashed over Nikalys’ face. He was not the only one who was bewildered.

“Hold a moment,” said Jak. “That’s the beginning of the prophecy. Why show you that?”

Nodding slowly, Broedi rumbled, “I asked the same thing. She pointed to the scroll and said, ‘Read it all, please.’ So, I did. You can imagine my surprise when I reached the third stanza…and saw that a fourth awaited me.”

At first, nobody reacted. The room was as quiet as a windless night in the Shakti Desert. It took a moment before Nundle muttered, “But there are only three.”

“No,” rumbled Broedi, shaking his head slowly. “Indrida’s prophecy—as you know it—is incomplete. I assure you, there is a fourth, very important stanza. One that I read three times before I looked back to Nelnora.” He paused a moment, remembering the numb, stomach-clenching sensation that had filled his gut. “The moment I did, she began to speak, sharing with me a story that—for a time—I refused to accept as truth.”

“What did she say?” asked Wren.

Duchess Aleece lifted a hand and said, “I would like to hear the fourth stanza first if you do not mind.”

Meeting the duchess’ gaze, Broedi nodded, took a deep breath, and then recited the words that had been running through his head nearly every moment of every day since reading them.

“In the first year when the fifth eon is done,

In the nation where ignorance and fear has won,

By the third night with two eyes shining bright,

When the tide flows east, rolling with unchecked might,

The four will hold the names of three,

And the start of the end will come to be.”

As the final word faded from the air, Lady Vivienne leaned forward, opened a desk drawer, and pulled free a fresh parchment sheet. Placing it on the desktop, she reached for one of the quill pens sitting in an ornate silver inkwell.

“Could you repeat that, please?”

Broedi took a step closer to the desk and gently placed his hand around her wrist, preventing her from fully withdrawing the quill pen.

“I will be happy to. Yet you should know, that other than Indrida and Nelnora, we seven are the only souls—mortal or immortal—who know those words exist. Should they be written down, we risk them falling into the wrong hands.”

At first, the Baroness of Argolles stared up at him, a sharp edge to her glare, but her expression quickly softened. She nodded once and dropped the quill back into the inkwell with a soft clink.

“You are quite correct.”

Releasing her wrist, Broedi peered around the room.

“We do not speak of the fourth stanza to
anyone
. Anyone at all? Agreed?”

As everyone nodded slowly, Nikalys muttered, “What about Kenders? She should know.”

“Tobias, as well, I should think” added Nundle.

Broedi glanced at them both, saying, “I
alone
will share this—and anything we speak of today—with them. Is that acceptable to all?”

Again, everyone nodded their agreement. Broedi prayed they would keep their word.

His high-pitched voice soft and restrained, Nundle asked, “What does it mean, though?” He eyed Broedi warily. “Please tell me Nelnora at least shared that? I am tired of riddles.”

With a short shake of his head, Broedi rumbled, “I am sorry. Riddles are all we have. I asked for an explanation, but Nelnora claimed not to fully understand their significance.” A slight frown graced his lips. “I did not believe her, and told her as much. But that did not help matters. She appeared unconcerned with what I thought. Then, I demanded she tell me what it meant.” His frown deepened beyond the point he liked to display. “But ordering one of the Celystiela to tell the truth is like trying to climb a waterfall.”