PROLOGUE

 

IT BEGINS with a BREEZE

 

Emptiness. Nothingness. A vast space with no beginning or end, as bright as pitch and as dark as the burning sun.  A chasm stretching as far as a human eye can see though taking up as little space as can fit in your hand.  An abyss full of blinding light and smothering black between the worlds of Gods, men and beasts where no time and all time begins and ends.  Silence exists like a howling roar as deafening as a screaming mute, talking of nothing and speaking no sound; as solid as air and thick like water and as impenetrable as stone.  The Void stands lifeless.            Something moves in the dark, cold empty light.  A watcher.

            It is here within this pit, this rapturous hole that the whispers begin.  Churning like a summer’s breeze and as cold as the mountains’ snow.  A hush of voices softly screaming a warning.  A warning of something that has stirred within the nothing, made into something that is still only emptiness.  A breeze stirs from the Void, piecing the thin veil between worlds and shifting time.  The wind blows and plunges through the thick nothing into the night of a sleeping world.  Down across sweeping meadows, stirring not a single blade of grass, high into the night air touching the wings of seabirds without them feeling, and over the crystal ocean, disturbing none of the sails of a mighty armada as it passes them by.  It blows across rolling waves, touching the spray from a shore-bound vessel, lifting back into the night sky to stare in wonder at a bright star shining in the east.  Across flat green plains and fields of dancing flowers, it moves, searching.  A village emerges from behind a hill, a small settlement of river-stone walls and thatched roofs, snuggled in the hills like eggs in a nest.  The breeze sweeps low, grazing the grass covered hilltop as it spirals down into a small, high-walled garden.

            Mainiry Sykt peers into the lens of her microscope, an ingenious invention she had picked up from Chamblid on a visit there with her employers, and gasps.  On the glass slide is a drop of Elvin blood.  Clean Elvin blood.  She grabs at a pile of hastily scribbled notes and rushes over to the chalk boards lining the side of her house.  She rubs part of an equation away with her cuffs, taking little care for her finely cut silk dress which she had not removed after the late King’s birthday anniversary.  Glancing at the hand-scrawled parchments, she fills in the blanks.  She steps back from the chalkboard and surveys her findings.  “Yes, it seems to fit,” she mutters to herself as she begins to recheck the work.            An illness had swept across the Elvin nation so swiftly and with many of the sick dying within days of the first symptoms presenting themselves that a team of healers had been called to the Royal House of Karalgil.  The first to fall ill were farmers and traders, spreading from the countryside into the towns and cities.  On the first day it seemed no more than an epidemic of the common cold, only affecting the Elvin race.  On the second day hundreds had died, and by the third this had risen into the thousands.  Tests had shown that it was a poison of the blood which within the turning of three moons burned the internal organs of the victim as if it were acid. Mainiry had been head of the team, leading them with her vast knowledge of science and technology.  They were all dead now, having succumbed to the sickness.  She was the only human on the team, and that fact alone had just saved the remaining Elvin nations.

            She steadies herself on the workbench and lets out a shuddering breath, smiling as she does so.  She had feared that this cure would not be found in time. “I better begin making more.” The door to the cottage creaks open and a cold draft flutters the papers on her desk.  She rubs her arms as the brisk wind sweeps across her.  For a brief moment she imagines hearing a woman’s voice float to her in the breeze.  She hurries to the door to close it, but as she does something out in the dark garden catches her eye.  She strains her eyes to see better and gasps when she realizes what she is looking at.

            A shadowy form melts from the darkness and lunges at her, bumping into her, but she shoves it back and slams the door, locking it.  Mainiry staggers into the healing room and collapses, blood flowing like a river from a knife wound in her side.  Though she glances around the room, she can only see darkness.  She screams with terror and frustration, knowing she is about to lose the fight for her life.  As her life drifts away from her she draws comfort from her surroundings.

            The medical center had been her greatest triumph in life and she is proud of everything she and her team had achieved over the many suns since she set it up.  Healing had been her passion since she was a child.  It started with helping a friend with a cut knee at the age of five and had developed into an infatuation for stopping blood.  By the time she was eighteen she had her own medical practice in her village which grew with each passing sun until she was able to move it to the city where it is based today.  Yet this isn't her medical center.  She blinks away the memories and tries to concentrate but she cannot.

            Blood trickles from the corner of her mouth, she coughs, speckling her fingers.  Why now?  She drags her failing body across the dusty floor, leaving a pool of dark fluid behind.  She desperately reaches a shaky hand up to the desk to grab a bottle of tonic that might slow her heart enough for her to contact her neighbors so that they can take the cure to the King. Alas! Her fingers only manage to grasp at the air.

            The window of her workroom shatters and a lantern is flung into the room.  A blaze erupts as the glass breaks and oil sprays across her notes.  All her work, the cure, the Elves.  She stops breathing and slumps down in her own blood.  The last thoughts passing through her mind are bitter ones.  She was killed so that the Elves would die.

 

            The wind lifts from the small farmhouse in the hills, from the grassy meadows all the way into the city where the simple houses are replaced by stone giants and the dirt roads are paved and candles burn in lamps like thousands of fireflies.  Across the rooftops and deep between the buildings, the dark allies and the bright streets it moves like a ghost soaring higher and higher into the night.  The veil tears, and time shifts as the land drops away and the ocean replaces it.            Angels swoop into the night sky.  Their huge white wings taking them away from a tower which rises from the waves.  One of them clutches a baby to his chest. He passes through the searching wind and glances back as if he could sense its presence.  The wind dives into a window and down a long corridor.

 

Sahwin Nu’Veli Strides down the long corridor leading from the courtyard into the main building of the palace.  She had seen small lights in the sky and mountains off the shore to the west.  They could be anything, but instinct tells her otherwise and she is heading to her chambers to prepare for a possible assault.  She is also wary of a feeling deep within her heart, a feeling she recognizes yet somehow cannot remember.  She has felt it before when she was in the company of her former partners; reason enough to feel this slight panic, for if they are close then those lights...            She shakes her head with annoyance at herself.  If they were close then her very thoughts could betray her and give them a weakness to exploit.  She passes through a set of doors and slams them shut behind her, smiling at the incredible echo which rushes ahead of her.  She quickens her pace slightly, her red gown embroidered with gold vines around the hem flowing behind her.  Today is very important and deserves her finest dress.  Stopping briefly at a stand mirror, adjusting her blond hair tied back in a net of moonstones, her favorites, she takes in her beauty.  Eyes as pale a blue as anyone has ever seen, shine dangerously.  Her mouth twitches into a giddy smile, dimpling her cheeks and wrinkling her petite nose.  Oh yes, she is very beautiful.  One last touch of her hair, pulling a curl behind her ear, and she is back to striding the hall.  The Castle of Shadov Hangul is always in the dark, and this morning is no different.  Only a few of the wall lamps are lit with small almost extinguished flames.  Since the servants had left there is no-one to do the simplest jobs.  One of her Clan has to deal with lighting the hallways and her apartments, which mostly end up being abandoned or only half-done.  She has to control her displeasure over the lack of light.  Her clan has enough to do protecting the castle to worry with tending to a few candles.  But it still angers her that she has been disobeyed, again.  That is happening too often of late.  Am I losing control of my Clan?  She shakes the thought from her mind. The east corridor has even fewer lamps burning along it, and she lessens her pace, unsure of her footing.  Many of the corridors have furniture lining the walls, which all too often get pulled out into the walkway and she will not spoil her regal walk tripping on a chair leg.  It would be simple to use her power to summons a ball of flame to light her way, though why should she have to?  Her stride becomes a stalk as she turns into the South Hall and discovers that it is complete darkness.  Anger bubbles up and she clasps her hands to her skirts, balling them into fists.  This is unacceptable.  Light blossoms from between her fingers before she realizes that she has summoned it, and she releases the power.  This is not acceptable, but lashing out is not the answer.  She takes a deep breath and settles into a sort of calm.  Her stalk continues.  The West Corridor and the North Hall also lay in complete darkness. She affects not to notice.  She could be a Queen strolling through gardens on a spring morning.  Or she could were it not for the stalk.  She stamps into the King’s Chamber, a large entertaining hall outside the Throne Room and stops.  Two large men clad in black robes stand either side of the double doors, quarterstaffs raised across the gilding on the heavy doors as if protecting them.  The sight of her makes both of them flinch.  That is what had caused her to stop.  Her Clan is fearless of everything; they would not have looked worried even for the brief moment these two men had.

          “Who are you?” She demands in her most cutting tone.  It has the desired effect.  Both men suddenly look uncertain of themselves, exchanging quick glances.  The tallest one on her left has dark eyes, like all of her Clan; but the one on the right has grey eyes, impossible for one of her creations.  “I said…” both staffs thrust into her stomach and she doubles over in pain.  Pain, impossible.  Before another blow can land upon her, she summons the power.  A glow of yellow light leaps from her palms, invisible to her attackers.  The air shimmers and then collapses around her. Without the protection she would have been crushed.  The startled yells of the two men end abruptly in a shower of blood that speckles her face and dress.  She rises with a muffled grunt, hands pressed into her stomach.  The bodies on the floor are unrecognizable as human, no more than two piles of crumbled bone and crumpled flesh.  She wipes at her face in disgust, smearing the blood without removing it.  Whoever planted those two at her door would pay, and whoever it was is probably inside.  She fixes her hair before using the power to open the doors.  A gust of wind meets her and she hesitates as an odd feeling creeps over her but it passes with the draft and she pulls on her power and glides into the room.

 

The wind spirals around and blasts back the way it had come, sweeping the flowing gown of the Sorceress and causing her to stagger.  The blond woman puts a hand to her hair to hold the moonstones in place at the same time as calling lightning to her other hand.  The castle twists as the world condenses and night flickers into day.  The tower, with its crashing waves and shifting shadows are replaced by a patchwork of green fields and farms.            The wind drops low and caresses a man on horseback; stirring his cloak enough for him to reach back to settle it.  As the wind pulls the veil of worlds apart she sees him topple from the mount, flailing his arms and legs as he does so. Grassy hills becomes a grand, well-lit hallway full of servants going about their daily business of dusting and replacing rugs that have been beaten, and lifting those that are next to be worked on.  The wind rises to the top of the hall so as not to disturb the insignificant stirring of these people, and rushes to find the room it desires. A serving girl with long wavy red hair to her waist looks up as she passes and frowns at the chandelier as the flames all stutter and then return.  She adjusts the weight of the tray she carries and moves in the same direction as had the sudden breeze.

 

Maddox’est watched the Dark Clan and the Angels fight Sahwin from the safety of the Death Waste, given its name by the total absence of living creatures.  Standing in that desolate place, he had witnessed the battle of an age and been disappointed with it.  Raid after raid, wave upon wave, soldiers had entered the domain of the Sorceress and had failed to bring her to her knees.  He had placed a spell upon her to reduce her shielding magic to nothing; one shot was all it would take.  But something had gone wrong, and the spell was torn from her and her power returned.  Maddox’est stayed until the sun began to rise from behind the Gruber Range, using the last of the shadows and night to travel away from that bleak place.            He stalks the halls of his palace, anger erupting now and again.  Three servants have been burned into piles of ash just because he had seen them when one of those bursts of anger had come upon him.  A waste of good help, but it had made him feel slightly better each time.  They have failed to kill her.  The thought rekindles the burning temper within his chest, and he lashes out at a vase of blue roses, reducing them to a twisted dead heap.  Six hours of endless slaughter, even with the aid of his magic, and the best they could do was freeze the entire island with her trapped on it.  She will escape and she will seek revenge for his betrayal.

            He shakes his head bitterly; she was one of his biggest mistakes.  All of his carefully laid out plans for the conquering of Atlantia had fallen to nothing upon her birth.  Oh not the birth of Sahwin Nu’Veli twenty suns ago, but the birth of the Sorceress, Sahwin’s rebirth.  He and his five followers had each given her powers.  Lorelei’addet had given the power to see the ties of destiny, to follow an action to see where it leads.  Durward’maken had given her the power of command and control: a gift he was proud of discovering.  Vilen’tyrn had implanted the knowledge of the old world and of machines, and the gift of scent.  Crul’envett had blessed her with the power to twist images and perception and to use words to plant ideas into the minds of others.  Hanger’veil had gifted her with the ability to walk upon the air and to use weapons to create mighty powers.  Maddox’est had given her the main of her powers, curse his stupidity, blessing her with the gift of summons and shadow work.  Within a few seconds of the deed, she became unstoppable and twisted.  Oh, she allied herself with him and the others, though she was never theirs as they had planned.  And when things started to go wrong and she tried to take over, they discovered that she was almost invincible.

            Fleeing from their island in the Sive Ocean to take root in the north on the Isle of Rain, she created a breed of Angel that was as twisted and cruel as herself.  But in that state they could not be controlled.  She had killed most of them herself before starting another race by mixing Angels, men, and the shadow.  The Dark Clan were born without souls—so it was said—though Maddox’est found that hard to believe.  To make something unconnected to the earth consciousness is not impossible, yet the creation is always mindless.  The Dark Clan is anything but.  That was her second mistake.  Third, He thinks to himself.  Her first mistake was not following me.  Anger rolls over him and unfortunately for the young woman with long wavy red hair down to her waist she is in the wrong place.

 

The wind gusts and the serving girl staggers sideways hitting the wall, knocking the tray from her fingers.  She lifts her head and then drops it so fast at the sight of her master that she winces and begins to beg for his forgiveness.  The huge man ignores her now; his eyes follow the movement of rose petals as they drift slowly out of a nearby window and then fall as the breeze carrying them ends abruptly. 

          Heat burns across the world as the wind shifts in haste blowing the sands of the barren desert of Flambour.  It lifts and for a moment, is still, before diving down.  The dunes become tough grass and shrubs.  A small farm comes into view, no more than a single story house and a lopsided barn with a few cattle tethered outside.  A few men on horses gallop down the dirt road, but the wind rushes ahead of them.

 

Saeed Halamen ducks under the table in the kitchen, the light frilly tablecloth keeping him hidden.  Playing hide and seek has always filled him with excitement.  He holds his breath.  He had woken early and gone out to feed the cows his mother kept behind the house.  The barn had fallen down a few months before, and his father has not had time to put it back up, so they are just tied up under a tree.  He likes the cows and used to play with them when he was very young.  But not any more, not now he is a whole five suns old.  His father sometimes tells him that he is the strongest young man he has ever seen.  Saeed can believe it to.                                                                                                                                            Apart from his parents he has only seen three other people in his whole life.  The man who brings the wagon to take away the cows when they are sold to slaughter, whatever that is; the woman from the town who comes to collect their money in exchange for food and her daughter who is a skinny thing with large teeth.  The woman is also very thin, and he could push both over with just his little finger.  The slaughter man is very fat and breathes very heavily and wipes at his brow with his hanky every few seconds.  Tall as he is, he would become weak quickly and then Saeed would have no trouble with him.  He liked to think about fighting.  That is what he used to play at with the cows.

            Footsteps on the kitchen floor snap him back into the real world, and he studies the dark leather boots that circle the table.  His breath burns in his chest and he exhales loudly without thinking.  He clasps a hand to his mouth, eyes darting everywhere.  The leather boots have stopped.  He turns his head slowly, breathing in once again and holding it.            The hand snatches at his ankle before he knows what is happening.  The tablecloth comes away from his hands, the vase of wild flowers smashes on the boards.  Kicking at the man with his free leg, he lets out a cry.  His foot connects with something hard and he falls, hitting his head on the floor.  Getting up, he sees the man holding his nose, blood streams down his face.  But his eyes only stay on the man for an instant.  Beside him in the doorway is the body of his mother.  Her dark hair glued to her face with her own blood, the sword that had killed her, still in the man’s hand.

            “Problems with the boy?”  A woman’s voice slurs from behind.  Saeed cannot take his eyes away from his mother’s body, and even when two more men take his arms and start to lead him away they stay fixed. They take him outside into the warm sun.  It is still only spring in Gamblet but the sun shines as if it is a summer’s day.  In the yard he sees his father kneeling beside the slaughter man.  Both have blood on their faces.  His father’s blue eyes move in his direction. Instead of them being full of joy like he has always seen before, they are full of sorrow.  “He has to see,” again the woman’s voice.  One of the men holding him grabs the back of his neck, forcing his head to stay looking at his father.  “He cannot close his eyes.  I have forced them open with magic, but too much power will be detected so hold him well.  Do it.”

            From behind his father the man from the kitchen appears, his nose still gushing with blood.  He looks at Saeed with dead eyes.  The sword, still with his mother’s blood wet on its blade slides easily through his father’s back and out of his chest.  He had not realized he is crying until his vision blurs with the tears.  A second scream fills the air and the loud thump of the slaughter man’s body follows just behind.  Without being able to move his head or close his eyes, he just stares at the two dead bodies before him.  The man bearing the sword turns to him with his glazed eyes, still without feeling, almost unseeing.  The blade goes up.  His eyes open and head forward; he has no choice but to watch the blade slice into his flesh.

 

The wind screams as it rises and the cruel eyes of the hooded woman shift around her.  The boy slides down the blade but as the veil parts the wind sees that he still lives, as she knew he would.  These events make up more of the future and the mind behind the wind can trace them all as far as the last battle, but no farther.  Now is the time to act, now is the time to speak with her brother—now is the time of prophecy.